Tim Parks: Rapids

Now he was behind the rock with the boat on the other side. Without the pressure of the water against him, he could move. He had time. He tied the rope to the bow — handle. Now all he had to do was dislodge the canoe. He kicked and pushed and shoved. It won’t budge. It needs to be pulled away sideways, he realised, slipped between the opposing pressures of current and rock. Whereas I am behind it.

Vince is almost screaming with frustration now. Then he understood. Once again, he launched into the flood, let himself be flushed through the rapid, swam to the bank, climbed back, very slowly, to the tree, the rope. He sat on the bank a while, just gazing at the yellow rope sinking into the white water, attached to the red hull. Then he began to pull. The rope came taut. At the third tug he felt the boat shift, it definitely shifted, and with a couple more yanks it was free. It went tumbling away through the rapid. Vince lifted the rope as high as he could to keep it clear of the rocks. Good. Inevitably rope and boat were swinging in to the near bank. Vince scrambled back downstream. When he arrived, the canoe was already there, banging against the bank, the yellow rope taut.

He pulled the canoe ashore, felt inside with shaking hands, found and released the buckle, retrieved the keys. Then leaving canoe and kit in the trees, he began the long walk back. There was no way along the bank this side. He had to strike away from the river till he reached the road. Then it was a good half mile. He kept stopping to sit. Have I ever been so tired? But his mind was full of pride. I did it! I screwed up, then I put things right. This is infantile, he thought. He felt wonderful. Towards Geiss he was aware that the sun had fallen behind the peaks. Already! The wetsuit was chafing him, under the arms, behind the knees. How late is it? he wondered. The boat will have to wait till tomorrow.

When he reached the car, he didn’t even have the energy to undress and change clothes. Seven o’clock. He turned on the radio. I should have put some food in here. I need sugar. Checking his mobile for messages, he was vaguely aware that the German newscaster he was listening to had used the word Mord in the headlines. Selbstmord. When are you coming back, Dad? Louise had written. Miss you. Things to talk about. An hour later, in bed in the chalet, he thought again, it won’t be Clive. The American Forces radio station said that the protestors were as yet nameless. They had blown themselves up before the deadline when an armoured car had approached them.

Vince already had the boat loaded in the back of the car when he reached the hospital. His left shoulder and right knee were aching. When Clive returns, he can tell her about it, he thought. But if Clive didn’t return? Surely if Clive were one of the three, the police would know, they would already have come to the chalet. Vince had thought of hiding the laptop; but then someone might imagine I was stealing. Michela was already waiting for him on the steps at the main entrance, wearing dark glasses. Suddenly she looks like some kind of celebrity. She has a bright blue mini — dress. They let me go into town yesterday afternoon, she smiled. She seemed cheerful. I spent Clive’s money. Then she added: I’ve decided to live, by the way. Her tone was deliberately casual. Glad to hear it, Vince told her. He was awed by her easy elegance, a sort of natural disdain she has.

Throwing her bag in the back, Michela asked, how come the canoe? He had had to lower the back seats. I went out on my own. This morning? She raised her eyebrows. The bruise on her cheek was almost gone. He explained. He had had to drag the thing through brambles. You’re mad, she told him. You could have drowned. Against all his plans, this prompted Vince to say: Did you hear what happened in Germany? She was opening the passenger door. They were in the hospital car park. The pause she left was so long, settling herself now in the seat, wriggling a little to be out of the way of the nose of the kayak propped between the headrests, that he wondered if she had heard. This afternoon, she said firmly, I must check through all the kit. There’s some administrative stuff to do as well. And tomorrow morning I’ll have to shop, because the deal is that we have to provide the food for the first meal. They’re supposed to arrive after lunch. She turned and looked straight at him, smiling falsely. I’m not to mention it, he understood. She knows. As soon as Clive gets back, he said, I’ll hit the road.

When she opened the chalet door, she hardly seemed to notice the transformation that had taken place, the clean floor, clean sink, tidy table. She put her bag down. To work! Vince drove her to the post office, the bank, the internet café. She and Clive had a business e — mail. She made notes of one or two messages. At the post office there were brochures from equipment manufacturers. Invoices and cheques. Heads turned as she stepped out into the street. The blue of the dress was dazzling in the sunshine. She is conscious of those looks, Vince saw. She is enjoying them. But there is still something brittle about her. She is tensed for Clive’s return. Take me to lunch, taxi — man, she told him. She is warm and mocking. The Schloss Café is good, she said.

This was at the end of a dirt road two or three hairpins above the castle that dominates the village. An ample terrace was packed with tables. What time did he say he’d be back? she asked. To Vince’s surprise she has ordered steak and wine. They are sitting under a red and white sunshade looking down over pine trees into the warm green hum of the valley. Yesterday’s river is a harmless brown ribbon flecked with white. Early evening, I think, Vince said. He didn’t give a specific time. Vince has never bothered with sunglasses, but feels the need for them now. The slopes and mountains are pulsing with light. The very air is too bright. I should be back Thursday. He remembered Clive’s voice. The man hadn’t said when.

Good! She was rubbing her hands. Just a few hours, then.

He is struck by her cheerfulness. Her hair is glossy from a morning wash. Perhaps she’s had it trimmed. She’s eating and ordering without any concern for the price, as though this were some special celebration.

I was wondering … he began.

Ye — e—e — es? she laughed, raised her sunglasses for a moment. Her eyes are playful.

Wouldn’t it be better, maybe, to come to some agreement with Clive, about the, er, money side of things, then for you to go and live elsewhere, perhaps, with friends. I mean, with the situation as it is, you risk getting upset. Or getting more attached, without solving anything.

She put down her knife and fork, patted her breast. I was wondering, she mimicked, head cocked on one side, voice pompous. Wouldn’t it be better if Mr Banker minded his own business? She burst out laughing.

Please call me Vince, he said.

Anyhow, I don’t have any friends, she said.

Vince found this hard to believe.

Not in Italy. And anyway I don’t want to speak Italian. But we’ve been through that. I don’t even want to think it.

Go to England.

Are you inviting me? she asked.

Vince was taken aback. Actually, I wasn’t.

She smiled brilliantly. Please, Mr Ba— No, sorry, Vince, please, stop worrying about me. Okay? Come to think of it, after lunch, you might want to get going right away. If Clive is late you risk falling asleep at the wheel.

Vince told her he enjoyed starting a long drive in the evening, then stopping at a hotel as soon as he felt drowsy. She refilled her glass. She is drinking steadily. Behind her sunglasses he senses the eyes are searching him. She said: You think he might not come back, am I right?