Tim Parks: Rapids

Michela waited. Clive continued to potter about the room. Now he was sorting out clothes. This isn’t the right world, Micky, he eventually told her. Not for us. He had found his sleeping bag in the big cupboard. Be strong, he said. Squatting, he unrolled it on the floor. She sat on the bed and stared. They had been lovers for two years. What are you doing? she demanded. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, he said. His voice was low and tired. We can’t sleep together anymore.

She sat still. He was fiddling with the zip on the bag. Bastard thing! It had snagged. He wouldn’t look up. What did I do? she asked. Her voice quavered. What’s happening? Clive wouldn’t speak. He had coaxed the zip past its snag. Slowly, as if he were squeezing into a new kayak, he sat down on the floor and put one leg after another into the sleeping bag. You hit the light, he said. The switch was just above the bedside table. Michela threw back the bedclothes and stood to grab a dressing gown hanging from the door. She pulled the waistband tight. What ‘ave I done? There was an edge of disbelief in her voice. She felt sick. What in the name of God ‘ave I done? She was standing over him. He lay face up, but his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Nothing, he said. It’s me. You haven’t done anything. Look, don’t worry, Micky. Everything will be just the same, the kayaking and the camp and the money and so on. But this isn’t the world for us.

Don’t slam the door! Vince stopped the car. It would wake people, he said. The need to respect others seemed to have snapped the driver out of his unhappy reverie. He let the car roll along the dirt track, passenger door still open. Louise trotted beside, making little forays among the pitches to check the vans for the Waterworld logo. It was almost two a. m. The autostrada had been jammed for hours. The sleeping campsite was illuminated only by the neon glow from the bathroom block. Everything was tied down and zipped up. Where are they? Louise rushed off between two tents again. Sweeping slowly round the corner at the bottom of the site, the car’s headlights picked out a slim figure in silhouette sitting beneath a pine, back bent, face in hands. Vince touched the brake and the passenger door swung forward.

If he leaned back a little, he saw a head of dark hair framed against bushes. Mi scusi, he began. Dad! Louise came running, then tripped and fell heavily. Vince climbed out. Don’t yell! They’re over there! The girl was dusting herself off.

Are you looking for the English kayak group? The seated figure had got to her feet now. A young woman offered a wan smile of welcome. I’ll show you to your pitch.

Vince parked beside a screen of trees that sloped steeply down to darkness. The night was quiet, but you had a distinct impression of the proximity of moving water, of a strong pull beneath the stillness of the branches. They haven’t left you much room, Michela apologised. Heaving out their camping stuff, Louise tripped again. A torch shone out through orange nylon beside them: If this tent collapses, a posh voice announced, you’ll hear from my lawyer!

Vince was surprised that the young woman appeared to be staying to help. You weren’t waiting up for us, I hope? he said in a whisper. But Louise had the giggles now, trying to sort out tangled guy — ropes. Maximilian, or perhaps it was Brian, was making an obscene shadow play with torch and fingers on the tent wall.

Kids! Don’t wake everyone up, Vince hissed.

I’m Michela, the woman said. I’m responsible for arranging things this end. But please call me Micky.

Oh come on Dad! Louise was laughing helplessly. We’re on holiday! The girl’s solid body had turned to jelly. We’re supposed to be having fun. She laughed madly.

Michela took the guy — ropes from the younger girl’s hand and untangled them. She seemed to know exactly how their tent was to be put up. The ground’s too hard to push the pegs in with your foot, she warned. Go to the kitchen tent, there’s a mallet just inside on the left.

The kitchen tent was a big, hut — shaped canvas structure open at both ends. Inside, between a dozen cardboard boxes with provisions, Vince’s torch flashed over two figures asleep on the floor, in separate bags but face to face. Vaguely, he took in the sharp fine features of the one girl, the dull heavy jowl of the other. When he returned, Michela already had the tent up. Louise was complaining she had put the door at the wrong end. Don’t look, Dad, she said some time later when they were undressing. It was cramped inside. They were lying on their backs, barely a foot apart. What? Don’t look! Of course, sorry. That Max is so stupid, Louise complained. She huffed and puffed, turning this way and that for a comfortable position. Vince lay still.

Half an hour later he had to get up to pee. This was what he always hated about camping. Two zips to undo, shoes to find, struggling to your feet in damp grass to pick through the guy — ropes. Gloria loved it, he remembered. I always refused. In Florence, he had taken Louise to an air — conditioned, four — star hotel. The weather had been torrid. Here instead the night was chill and smelt strongly of pine resin; the sky was solemn with stars. But he didn’t raise his head. As he arrived at the bathrooms, the urinals all flushed of their own accord under ghostly neon. I hate campsites, he thought. Why had he come?

Then walking back— it must be three a. m. at least— he saw that the young woman was still sitting where they had found her earlier. He hesitated. He had forgotten her name. She was hunched among the pine roots, face in hands. Somewhere nearby a clock chimed. Perhaps she was expecting another late arrival. There was a church tower just outside the entrance to the site. What if I’m not up to it, Vince worried, crawling back into his sleeping bag. He was a weak kayaker. Before the most ordinary outing he felt a shiver of fear. Maybe that was why he had come.

Then four hours later everybody was woken by a wild clanging of bells. For this is how the day always begins in Sand in Taufers. Christ Almighty, Louise yelled.

The first thing is padding up. Michela stands beside Clive while he gives his little lesson. The course that they have been advertising in canoe clubs all over England is called An Introduction to White Water: Five Days in the South Tyrol. A year ago, Vince Marshall would never have dreamed of coming.

You have to be tight in the cockpit. Okay? This isn’t the Thames Estuary. Tight tight tight. The perfect fit.

Like sex? ventures a voice. Brian has a fuzz of red hair, a small snubbed nose, droll expression.

Actually no, not like sex at all, says Clive patiently. He is wearing a khaki cap. The girls are giggling. As somebody might know, if he had a minimum of experience.

Cru — el!

With sex, Clive continues in his measured sensible voice, two entities move constantly in relation to each other, n’est — ce pas?

Two what? Phil demands.

Michela’s hand is just touching Clive’s as he speaks. Vince, who hadn’t been paying attention, is suddenly caught by this. He stares.

There is a certain amount of lubricant, Clive insists, with only a faint smile beneath his beard. Of give.

I do beg your pardon, Mr Riley, but what time of day is it? Mandy asks.

Two what! Phil whispers to Amal now.

Whereas if you’re properly padded up in your kayak, kids, there should be absolutely no movement at all. Got that. None. You and the boat move welded together in the water.

May I venture to say, then— Max’s facetious voice pipes up— that this is more like the male member’s relationship with a condom.

Oh do shut up! Adam complains.

Only hazarding an ay — nalogy, smirks Max.