Nicola Griffith - Slow River

Lore feels her need boiling up inside her like lava in a bore. “Now,” she says, “now,” and pulls Anne to her, not knowing whether to laugh or cry with wonder when soft breasts touch hers and that beautiful mouth, soft as plums, fastens on her neck. She comes as soon as Anne touches her through her clothes, and feels a string of orgasms waiting to be told off, one after another like beads.

“Again,” she says into Anne’s neck. “Oh, again and again and again.”

Lore is fifteen. It is summer once more, and she has been at Ratnapida for nearly five weeks. She is being driven, demented by the constant push-pull of her parents. She wishes Tok were coming—but he is on a project on some island chain or other and will not be there for three or four days.

She digs out her camera again.

She has gone beyond putting her parents in fantasies, and now that she has the real thing, library sex is not much fun. So she uses the camera to make herself real. She takes it into the garden and films trails of ants moving endlessly as a stream between a fallen mushroom and their nest. At night, she plays the sequence to herself: only she has seen this. It is her vision, unique. No one else has seen these particular ants in this particular lighting. It is something to hang on to.

Something to hang on to becomes a genuine interest. She takes the camera down to the most secret of the carp ponds and finds that seeing through its lens makes her a more disciplined observer. She sees a frog, and films it carefully. Later that afternoon, she goes back, gets the frog in her viewfinder, and realizes it is a different frog. It is a revelation: frogs are not all the same. This one has a dull patch under its throat where shadows gather as it waits patiently for a fly to pass by close enough to hook with its tongue. She is fascinated by its eyes, the nictitating blink.

Hours later, when she turns the camera off and stands, her knees are stiff, but she is happy. She has discovered a whole new world: frogs and mosquito fish, caddis flies and damselflies, cattails and duckweed and the slow, stately open and close of water lilies. She smiles as she falls asleep that night.

One evening Stella and a horde of her friends descend upon the island, glittering with jewels, their clothes and hair shimmering like peacock feathers. As far as Lore can see, they do nothing but change clothes, party, and boast of who has given how much to what charity. They watch the net, and when charity commercials run, they transfer money via PIDA to the charity accounts. And they do it fast. Seconds count—microseconds, even. They have asked the charities to provide official lists of who has given what to whom and when, and the charities, being practical about money matters, have obliged. It is now chic to appear as the first donor to any charity, even more so if the unknown fledgling organization grows into an international institution or becomes popular with average people. Stella and her friends call themselves the Almsgivers. Although no doubt various of the agencies are glad of the largesse, Lore finds it mildly disgusting that it is nothing but a game to these people. Sometimes it is hard to believe that Stella is Tok’s twin, her sister.

She is glad when Stella leaves and takes her crowd with her, but then there is nothing to come between Lore and the rest of her family.

Six of them sit down to dinner: Lore, her parents, Greta, and Willem and Marley. No one speaks while they shake out napkins and servants bring bowls of cold consomme. Fans turn slowly over their heads. Lore feels like an alien.

The others all seem to be in their own private worlds. Greta as usual is almost Zen-like in her invisibility. Lore often thinks of her as being gray and somehow shriveled, but her skin is fine and close-pored, soft, like a honey glaze. Her eyes are deep brown. Lore wonders if she gets that color from Katerine, or from her father, the man Katerine divorced ten years before Lore was born. Willem too, has dark eyes. Lore decides that Katerine’s eyes must be brown, but brown, she decides, is not enough. She is Katerine’s daughter, she has a right to know.

Just as she opens her mouth to ask, the butler appears at her mother’s elbow with a silver tray. “A letter from Mr. Tok,” he says.

“He always did like to do things the old-fashioned way,” Oster says as Katerine opens it. Across the table Willem picks up his spoon and sips at the soup. The others follow suit.

Katerine folds the letter carefully and tucks it under her plate. She picks up her spoon. “He’s not coming.” Her voice is steady, but Lore hears something, the slightly faulty note of a cracked bell, and is immediately alert.

Willem must have heard it, too. He leans and slides the letter free. He scans it quickly, then reads aloud. “Dear Everyone, I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it to Ratnapida as promised, but I’ve taken an opportunity I wish I had taken years ago. Mother, I’m sorry, but I’ve resigned my job as project manager and don’t intend to take it up again. Sahla is competent until you find a replacement. I’ll be in touch soon.” Willem puts it down. “It’s just signed, Tok.”

Everyone is looking at Katerine. She seems calm, but Lore understands that she is devastated. It means the world to her that her children work in the family business. For the first time in years, Lore feels something for her mother apart from the urge to please. She feels the need to protect her. Katerine looks so fragile.

Oster sighs. “He’s probably decided to go study the flute, like he was always threatening to do.”

“What?” Katerine looks dazed.

“The flute,” Oster says again. “He has always loved music.”

Lore is staring at the table, watching dozens of tiny fans turn the wrong way in the spoons, trying to understand. Music. Her brother, Tok, has always loved music. How had she not known this? She looks at her father. And how had he known? She looks at the family, at Greta and Katerine, Willem and Marley, and wonders what else she does not know.

Why did Tok say nothing? Why did Oster not tell her? Something inside her twists just a little.

“…working on the phosphorus problem in the Lau Group islands,” Greta was saying.

Katerine seems to have moved out of her daze. “Is Sahla up to that?” she asks Marley.

Marley shakes his head thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. No.”

Katerine wipes her mouth decisively and drops her napkin on the table. “Then I’ll fly out there tonight.”

“Katerine,” Oster says. “For god’s sake. You can call him instead. And he knows how to ask for help. He—”

“Who knows when Tok wrote that letter—”

“It’s dated three days ago,” Willem says.

“—how long Sahla’s been out there alone, making who knows what kind of errors. Costly errors.” She pushes her chair away from the table.

“It’s not a big project. Not that important—”

But Katerine is already standing. “I’ll fly tonight.”

Lore finds herself standing, too. “I’ll come with you.” She tries not to see the hurt in Oster’s eyes.

Magyar was not around when the shift started, and Paolo was as eager as ever to learn. We were scheduled to check the leachate barriers under and around our troughs, a tedious, time-consuming job. It seemed like a good time to start him at the beginning.

“There are all kinds of different ways to classify bacteria. There’s temperature: thermophilic bugs prefer hot water, fifty-five to seventy-five Celsius; mesophiles like it medium; psychrophiles a bit cooler. They can be grouped by how they do or don’t use oxygen. Aerobic bacteria only work in oxygen, anaerobic only work without it, and facultative bacteria work with or without. Beyond that, there’s what the bugs eat. Heterotrophic bacteria feed on organic carbon sources, and autotrophic bacteria utilize carbon dioxide. Lots of those categories can be further divided into gram-positive and gram-negative, which is to do with the difference in the cell-wall structure.” Paolo looked confused.