Tim Parks - Rapids

He tried to sort out the clean clothes from the dirty and put the latter in a bin — bag. Why am I doing this? he wondered. The girl’s underclothes in one drawer, sweaters in another. These two people are in grave trouble, he thought. He gathered stray books together on a shelf— Strategies of Subversion, Carbon War, Stupid White Men. Why will people never give up anything? someone had scrawled inside a cover. We must give up things! Clive, he thought. He stacked papers, invoices, brochures, printouts of e — mails. Some were signed ‘Red Wolves’, with an indication of a website. There was an IBM Thinkpad, but he didn’t turn it on. Did Michela have a mobile phone? he wondered. If so, where? He opened and closed various drawers. They are asking too little for these holidays, he reflected, considering a paper quoting the price of the canoes. It would take for ever to recover the outlay.

Suddenly, Vince realised he was crying. The tears are flowing as he shifts the bed and sweeps the big dust — balls from under it. He doesn’t stop. There are two old Durex foils. I should have done this before wiping the floor, he realises. Nobody has swept here for a month and more. I’m doing what Gloria always did, he mutters: tidying up. He shifted the bed back into position, turned up a photocopied pamphlet: ‘The Bomb in the Garage: How To!’ He shook his head. It used to infuriate him, having got home late Friday night, that Gloria would then spend Saturday morning cleaning. I never protested. He crouched down with the dustpan, collected up the dust and the foils and tobacco shreds and sweet wrappers. Should I wipe again? These are tears of shame, he decided. He didn’t stop. He tipped the mess into a Despar plastic bag, wrung out the cloth again. Could that have been what she meant? He got on his knees. That she was sorry for the Saturday morning cleaning sessions. The wet wood had a musty smell. We could have loved each other better, Vince thought.

He had nearly finished now. Adam was a detail, he decided. He wiped the table and counter and moved the chairs back. In six months, nothing has brought him so close to his dead wife. So close to the edge. He sat on the stool by the counter. There was still the sink to sort out. Deep trouble, he muttered, thinking of Clive and Michela again, their books, their bad investments, their aggressive concern about the world. Was there any bleach about? he wondered. They need an accountant. Then a vibration in his pocket told him a text had arrived. Let us know your news. How is M? Mandy. M awake, he replied. All well. Safe journey.

Vince stood at the open door of the chalet. The campsite was busy with new arrivals organising their gear. The evening was moist and warm and beyond Sand in Taufers the profile of the mountains rose quiet and clear into a pale sky. Did that girl commit suicide? he wondered. Katrin Hofstetter. The name came to him. It hadn’t seemed an obvious place to fall from. The path was easy. He gazed up above the castle to the glacier. They hadn’t visited the castle. The landscape is patient, he thought, staring at the high slopes. It waits patiently. But perhaps memorials aren’t always put exactly in the place where an accident happens. That might be dangerous. Perhaps she had died a hundred yards away, on some tricky bit. I left no memorial for Gloria, he thought. They’re not the fashion these days. He imagined a plaque on some boulder up in the mountains, his wife’s photograph and a date. Perhaps that way you could restrict remembering to a place, a routine, an anniversary visit. Jingling the car keys in his pocket, Vince walked through the campsite towards the village. Even after shedding the ring, she won’t let me go. Unless it was just a question, he thought, dropping the Despar bag in a bin, of not being used to having nothing to do. I arranged a holiday, Vince realised, that would be all action. I did that on purpose so as not to think. I am always so busy. And how strange that through all those years, in the office, in the flat, at home, these mountains had been waiting here. They always will. Even after the glaciers have melted. The world waits for you to be tired of your life. To save himself having to choose, he went to the same restaurant they had eaten in yesterday evening.

As soon as he sat down, Vince knew he was touching bottom. The place was not the same without the group. This is it, he realised. They hurried him to a corner, a small table for two. The waitress spoke no English. She was in a hurry with all the other clients, the holidaymakers. Trying to get a grip, Vince looked around. The room assailed him. Without the others, he has no resistance. This schlock is horrible, he realised, these dangling hearts that aren’t hearts, these fake trophies, these dead animals, this awful international music with its sugary electronic rhythms. How could I have loved it so much yesterday? Why did I find it so wonderful?

The same ageing musician presented the same impassive face above his keyboards. A mahogany face. The tune was ‘Smoke Gets In Your Eyes’. He must have grown up with the accordion and folk dances, Vince thought, or with the organ in church, with festivities and solemnities. How can he play this stuff? The music suddenly seemed very loud. It’s a betrayal, Vince thought. The man was not incompetent. He’s betraying his past. And the voices were swelling too. There was a huge buzz of voices. The international clients aren’t listening to the entertainment that has been laid on for them. They bring their money, Vince thought, but not their attention. The musician’s eyes stared across the heads of the holidaymakers. Into nothingness. He pays attention to nothing. Like a photo on a grave. And knows no one is paying attention to him.

Suddenly, Vince was covering his face with his hands. I miss them. His head was shaking. I miss Brian and Max and Amelia and Tom. People I’ve only known a few days. Gloria is dead, a voice said. Oh then please, be dead! Vince wailed. Die! He had spoken aloud. Don’t come back please, Michela said. Don’t come back.

Entschuldigung? The waitress is at his side. She wants to take his order. I am about to make a scene, Vince thought. He forced back his chair. I’m sorry. The waitress had seen his tears. Her face didn’t soften. I’ll have to go. He turned and made quickly for the door.

There is no question of thinking now. He walked swiftly along the lamp — lit street. This is a complete impasse. I don’t want to see you. What had he expected? How lightly he had scorned Mandy’s sensible interest. Abruptly he turned into a bar. Whisky, he said. They would understand that. He pulled out his wallet at once. Behind the counter a young man was moving quickly between the beer — taps and now Vince noticed kids playing at screens around the walls and others sitting at keyboards typing out e — mails. This must be where Louise and the others had come most evenings. It was smoky. I still haven’t said anything to the bank, Vince remembered. Where Phil had downloaded pornography. The barman was showing him an ice — bucket, eyebrows raised enquiringly. Vince shook his head. Louise scorned Phil and his dirty pictures, but in the space of a couple of days she had slept with a boy she hardly knew. Why did I let her do that? She’s far too young. Vince sipped the whisky. He doesn’t like whisky. Then downed it. I should have said something, about relationships, about commitment. I’m nervous about calling the office, he realised, like an adolescent afraid of parental reproach. Yet he only has to inform them of an emergency, a forced absence. For God’s sake, I’m one of the most important people in the bank.

The whisky burned outward from his stomach. It was satisfying to do something out of character, something destructive. He feels nauseous. He feels better. I constantly feared Gloria’s reproach, he thought. He put the glass down. Why? He had shed her ring, but not the sharp reproachful voice that runs in his head. You never take a holiday. You’ve given your whole life to that bank. If we moved to London, though, he told her, we’d have more time together. That was always how the conversation went. But she wouldn’t give up her job. Gloria was secretly happy I didn’t take holidays, he realised now. Without modulating his normal voice at all, he asked: Is there a bottle I can have. Was ? A bottle. Can I buy a bottle of whisky? To take away. The young man smiles. He can see I’m in trouble. Haben wir eine Flasche Whisky? he calls to a sour — looking girl making up sandwiches. That’s his wife, Vince thought. He stepped out into the street with a bottle of something called Highland Dew.