Tim Parks - Rapids

Where was he going? He hadn’t crossed the bridge that led back to the campsite. He was walking along the road down the valley to Geiss and Bruneck. As soon as he was beyond the village lamps, the pavement disappeared. To the left was a thin strip of woodland between road and river; all around, the quiet mass of the mountains. He was exposed to oncoming headlights, swerving as they saw him. Three, four, five together. The glare is blinding. He had to stop. Then there was a break and the darkness and silence flooded back. He could walk again, until the next car arrived, speeding, glaring. Two worlds that alternated. The landscape, the traffic. We ignored each other, Vince thought. That was the simple truth. That’s why it is impossible to be alone now. For years you ignored each other and now she won’t leave you alone, now you must pay attention. I am talking to myself, Vince stumbled. I am lost.

But at that very moment he found the path. The bushes opened to the left, down towards the river. He trod slowly in the dark. The old man will have a lamp, he thought. Sure enough, he met the river at exactly the point where they had tackled the wave the first day. Got it right! He stopped a moment at the river bank. The black water was fast but unhurried. The foam of the stopper glowed a little, as though phosphorescent. He looked across. I know the call of it now, he told himself, the water’s invitation. He could understand the gesture of the limp arms, the girl’s neck bent like a swan’s towards the current.

Through the bushes a few yards on, the tramp’s shack was in complete darkness. For some reason, Vince moved very quietly, stealthily even. He trod on tip — toe with his whisky bottle in one hand. The dwelling is made of old plywood panels anchored with nylon cord, draped with tarpaulin and corrugated iron. Vince bent to move aside a blanket. 1st jemand da? He had prepared the words. He didn’t know if they were right. He poked his head in, but saw only three or four small grey chinks where light leaked from outside. The smell was powerful. 1st jemand da? Vince repeated softly. Suddenly the whisky bottle was wrenched from his fingers. Ow! As he turned, a torch shone in his face. He had a vague impression of an arm raised, of the whisky bottle attached to it. No, he yelled. Für Sie! He tried to protect his head. Trinken. Geschenk. Don’t you understand? Roland! Finally he remembered the man’s name.

There was an old mattress laid across two loading pallets and an assortment of filthy cushions and blankets, fruit boxes with plates, tools, fishing gear. Roland lit a gas lamp that hung from the sagging roof. He must have some money, then, Vince thought. Some relationship with the world. It was hard to get accustomed to the smell. Rauchst du? Unlike Clive, Roland smoked regular cigarettes. I’ve accepted a cigarette! Vince hates smoking. Roland was talking excitedly all the time. They sat at each end of the mattress. The cigarette trembled in his fingers. Roland drank straight from the bottle and handed it to him. Occasionally the flow of words was interrupted at what seemed to be a question. But this was not the German Vince had learned for O level. Ja, he filled a gap at random. He knew it wasn’t necessary. Ja, ja.

He handed the bottle back. Roland cocked his head to one side. The face was gaunt and in the white light of the gas it was as if the skull were somehow outside the skin, had risen through the broken veins and blemishes, the loose lips, long sparse hair. He’s younger than me, Vince realised. Roland’s eyes were young and glassily blue in bloodshot rings. The Adam’s apple jerked sharply when he drank. Nein, Vince said into the next pause. The bottle came back. Then he said. Ich bin allein. It wasn’t clear whether Roland had understood this. Talking fast in a German that was strangely liquid, singsong almost, he fumbled in a pile of paper bags, brought out a roll of bread, made to break it. It wouldn’t break. He started smiling, then laughing, making a comedy of his failure to break the bread, then at last handed half to Vince.

Meine Frau, Vince said, ist … He couldn’t remember the word. My wife is dead, he said. Roland began to speak again. Drinking from the bottle, Vince was vaguely aware of hot ash falling on his trousers. T>d, he remembered. Gloria ist tod. Roland shouted something quite raucously, then lowered his voice to a muttered monotone. Vince watched. The man was fumbling in the pile of paper at the head of the mattress again, but this time found nothing. He shook his head theatrically. The air was heavy with smoke. At some point Vince heard the shout, Draussen! Draussen! Roland was yelling. His voice was suddenly clear and he was making a throwing gesture towards the blanket across the door. Ja, Sie ist tod ,Vince repeated. He felt a sharp pain burn into his fingertips.

When he woke it was broad daylight. His bladder was aching. He had been in a board — meeting, pissing under the big polished table. Almost at once the shame was swamped by a pounding head. His hand went between his legs. He hadn’t. Hadn’t heard the bells either. Roland must have stretched him out on the mattress. Vince stumbled out of the shack and had to lean both hands on a tree while he relieved himself. What time is it? I’m late. Ten — thirty. The phone was still in his pocket. He had slept in all his clothes. He felt suddenly for his wallet, then was ashamed of doubting the man. Why wouldn’t the phone turn on? Why was it taking so long? Vince realised he had never turned it off. It was dead. It’s Monday. Tod ,he thought. He shook his head and began to shamble back to Sand in Taufers under a blistering sun. Amazingly, it was getting hotter.

Hello, is that Colin? There was no electricity in the chalet. He had bought a car charger, but there was no shade in the campsite to park in while he phoned. All the places under the trees were taken. When he opened the car doors, the air swirled with heat. The seats and steering wheel were too hot for bare skin.

Vince, old chap! Welcome back. Not before time. Are you coming up for coffee?

No, actually, I’m still here, Col, I’m still in Italy. There’s been a bit of an emergency I’m afraid. Accident.

Colin Dyers began the inevitable mix of concern and cautious questioning. Not Louise?

Vince hasn’t had a hangover for more than a decade. Explaining the situation, he was aware that he didn’t sound his normal self. Thank God for that, Dyers said. Though actually we were rather counting on your being here. The older man’s voice was rich with catarrh. He was conventional and astute. That was very kind of you to, er, stay on for the young woman. I was the only one with my own car, Vince said. There was a slight, significant pause. Paul has been collating the figures from the States, Dyers said. There are a couple of urgent questions to be addressed.

Then Vince was aware of how absolutely unlike himself this behaviour must seem from the point of view of his colleague. Not so much the staying behind, but he could easily have phoned Dyers or one of the other directors on Sunday. He had their numbers. He could have warned them at once. He could have presented himself as extremely concerned about this delayed return, about all the many problems one had to deal with at this time of year. I should be asking who is handling what, sounding worried that I’m not personally in charge. Listen, Col, I can make it to an internet point, he said, if you want to send me some stuff to look at. And I’ll have the phone on twenty — four hours a day now. I had trouble finding a car charger.

When do you think you’ll actually be back, Dyers asked. There were strict rules of course about what could be committed to e — mail and phone conversations. Vince hesitated. He had stretched his sleeping bag on the car seat so as not to have to sit on the scorching material. The charger was plugged in. The heat trembled round his head. A fly was buzzing against the windscreen. Next Monday, he said. At the latest. You are well yourself, though, aren’t you? Dyers asked. I’ve had a wonderful holiday, Colin. Wonderful. Just the break I needed. That’s great, Dyers said. He would be sitting at a desk stacked with tasks and reports. At least one other person would be in the room awaiting his attention, one other phone — line is on hold and as he speaks the man’s eye will be ranging constantly over the constantly incoming e — mail. Vince said: Listen, Colin, just give me this week. Trust me, okay. I won’t let you down. Dyers immediately responded. We’ll expect you next Monday, Vince. Back with us.