Dying to Know You (5 page)

“Good nosh,” he said when he’d taken the edge off his appetite. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Have as much as you want. By the way, I’ve read your letter.”

“Pretty bad, isn’t it?” he said, biting into a ham-and-cheese sandwich. “Rammed it down and didn’t read it afterwards.”

“It’s not that bad. I like its honesty. Just needs a bit of tidying up. Shall I do it for you?”

“Please.”

“One point, as you mention points.”

“What?”

“Do you think you’re in love with Fiorella or not?”

“Like I said, I don’t know.”

“But would you say you’ve felt stronger and stronger about her since you first met?”

He stopped chewing and thought a moment.

“Yes, I have,” he said, took an egg sandwich and started eating again.

“So you could honestly say you love her, and love her more and more?”

He nodded. “I suppose so, yes.”

“Maybe you should tell her that? It would help her understand what you feel about her, and it seems to me that’s really what she wants to know.”

More thinking without chewing.

“That would be OK, yes.”

“Would it help if I added a couple of sentences saying that?”

“OK.”

He finished off the sandwiches and drank a can of Coke.

I knew him well enough already to sense when he’d had enough of a topic that cut too close to the bone.

I asked, to change the subject, “Caught much?”

“Not too bad. Five.”

“Taking them home to eat?”

“See what there is at the end of the day. Pick a couple of the best and put the rest back.”

“They’re in a keep net?”

“Would you like some?”

“One would be nice, thanks. Very fond of trout.”

“How d’you do it?”

“Filleted. White wine. Seasoning. Twenty minutes in the oven.”

“Never done it like that.”

“Very easy. Very tasty.”

“I’ll give it a go.”

“You certainly have plenty of gear.”

He nodded and launched into a mini lecture, showing me each piece as he talked about it. He was, he told me, a Hardy fan—which meant nothing to me. An old firm, I gathered, much admired for their quality. His rod was a Hardy Demon, thirteen foot long, three sections that pulled
apart. He described what he liked about it and one or two features he didn’t like. His reel was a Cascapedia. (I thought he’d meant Cassiopeia, but on repeating it, as you do when someone uses a word new to you, like a child learning to speak, I was firmly corrected, the syllables of the word clearly enunciated—Cas-ca-pe-di-a.) Its characteristics were itemised and demonstrated. I asked about the flies he used. He opened a little metal box full of them, each fly resting in its own compartment on a bed of cotton wool. They were beautiful little works of representational art, each one different in shape and colours. They had names as alluring as their appearance. I remember March Brown, Morning Glory, Wickham’s Fancy, Red Tag and Pheasant Tail. Karl talked about when he’d use them, in which conditions. He handled them with the delicacy of a lepidopterist holding a live and fragile butterfly.

What struck me most as he talked was how fluent he was. Not a hint of hesitation, no stumbling over words or thoughts, his explanations clear and the information well ordered. Just as when fishing he was so absorbed in what he was saying, and in showing me the gear was so full of quiet unselfconscious enthusiasm, that he infected me with his fascination and pleasure. This was a mature and confident Karl, different from the uneasy and sometimes awkward boy who balked at saying anything about himself, who tripped and stumbled when he did, and who couldn’t write a reasonably competent sentence.

I watched and listened with admiration. Had Fiorella
seen him like this? If she had, it was obvious why she wanted him, despite his hang-ups and his difference from herself.

Finally he paused and, re-collecting himself, gave me a smile, shrugged and said, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to go on like that.”

“Not a bit. I enjoyed it,” I said. “I can see you like your fishing.”

“I do,” he said.

“What’s the best thing about it?”

He replied without a second’s thought, “I forget myself.”

“You mean, all your worries, that sort of thing?”

“No. I mean me. Myself.”

“Why do you like forgetting yourself?”

“Dunno. Just do.”

His shifty look gave him away. He knew all right, but didn’t want to explain.

Time to change the subject again.

I thought a moment before saying, “Fiorella wants to know what you believe. Quite a few of her questions are on that topic, aren’t they?”

“Yes. But I don’t know.”

“Well, for a start, do you believe in God? Any god?”

“No.”

“What, then? I’m sure you’ve thought about it.”

“I have. And if I hadn’t, Fiorella would have made me.”

“Does she believe in God?”

“Yes.”

“She’s Christian and goes to church?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“She says she’s working it out for herself.”

“And wants you to do it with her?”

“Yes.”

“So what did you tell her?”

He looked towards the river, wanting, I think, to get back to his fishing, and said with strained tolerance, “What is, is.”

“What is, is?”

“What is, is.”

“Meaning?”

He glanced at me warily. He really wasn’t comfortable with this kind of talk.

“What is there, is there. The river is there. The trees are there. You are there.”

I thought for a moment.

I said, “You remind me of a saying by an old Chinese or Japanese philosopher, I forget which. He said, ‘When I was young, I thought a river was a river and a mountain was a mountain. When I grew up, I thought a river wasn’t a river and a mountain wasn’t a mountain. Now I am old, I think a river is a river and a mountain is a mountain.’”

Karl laughed. “I like that. I wish I’d said it.”

Laughing too, I said, “You will, Karl, you will.”

He laughed again, and took another sandwich and started eating hungrily again.

I was beginning to know him. That movement meant
Enough of this.

“Well, anyway,” I said, “I’m no expert, but it seems to me you’re a pretty good fisherman.”

“Except when I’m catching trees instead of fish.”

Again we laughed.

“How did you get to be so good?” I said. “Did you teach yourself?”

He looked away.

“No … My dad.”

There was a sudden brittle silence.

Why? Something to do with his father, obviously, but what?

Everything about him at that moment warned me not to ask.

I got out the flask of coffee. Asked him if he’d like some. He said nothing. Head still turned away. No movement.

I filled two mugs and held one out to him.

He took it without looking at me and drank.

Nothing more was said.

When he’d finished his coffee, he stood up and gathered his gear, still avoiding me.

“Thanks,” he said and paused on the brink of saying something more, but all that came out was, “See you later.”

And he strode off to the river.

A raw nerve touched and no recovery.

IV

Dear Fiorella [or whatever],

You asked me to tell you about love and what I think about it. The trouble is, I don’t know quite what I think about it, because I don’t know a lot about it. Or at least not like I think you mean.

Don’t laugh, but I Googled it. There’re pages about it. A lot about different kinds of love. I won’t bore you by reporting on all of it.

I think what you mean and want me to tell you about is what people call true love. I don’t actually think “true love” is such a good term because love can only be true. If it isn’t true it can’t be love.

Am I in “true love” with you? All I can tell you is I want to be with you more than I want to be with anyone else. You interest me more than anyone else. You make me laugh and you say things I haven’t thought before. These are important points about love, I think, don’t you?

Other important points are respect and admiration. I respect and admire you.

But what I think you want me to say more than anything is that I am in love with you, which you say you are with me. But I have to be honest and say I don’t know. Well, not yet, even if I think I am, which I do. What makes it difficult for me is that I don’t have any previous experience to go on. I
have nothing to compare what I feel for you with what I’ve felt for anyone.

I know some people talk about love at first sight. But I’ve heard other people say they fell in love gradually. I can tell you that my feelings for you have grown stronger the more I’ve got to know you. And I want to go on getting to know you more and more. I would call what I feel for you love.

This is the best I can say at present.

With love [?], Karl

V

For the next hour or so I rewrote Karl’s letter, and took another stroll along the river.

When I got back, Karl was sitting on the bank, his rod by his side, hunched over, his head in his hands.

For a moment I thought he was resting. But no. Instinctively, I felt he was brooding on whatever had upset him earlier.

I debated whether to leave him alone or to make sure he was all right and sit with him for a while. I decided it was better to make sure he was all right, even if it proved a wrong move.

Karl didn’t stir when I sat down beside him.

We were silent for some minutes before he raised his
head and clasped his hands in front of him, his elbows resting on his knees.

A few more minutes went by in silence.

Then he took a deep breath, let it out.

“My dad died when I was twelve.”

He didn’t wait for me to say anything.

“I know it’s a long time ago,” he went on. “You’d think I’d be over it by now.”

I heard him swallow hard.

“I lied to you,” he continued when he had gained control again. “I have been here before. Quite a few times … It was my dad’s favourite place …”

Another stumble. Another swallow before he could go on.

“I wanted to prove to myself it was OK, I’d be able to fish here again … Remember him … Us fishing together.”

This time he stopped because he wanted to, not because of a surge of emotion.

“I was all right this morning. It was good. I felt he was with me. Like he always was, standing beside me, telling me where to cast and how to do it better … But when you asked about learning …”

A long silence.

A flash of shining blue along the river in front of us.

Karl pointed.

“See it?”

“Yes.”

“Kingfisher.”

“Oh yes! I’ve never seen one before. Beautiful.”

He smiled his pleasure.

I said, “Why come back today especially?”

The smile vanished but he kept my eyes, and with self-defensive sharpness said, “Because today is the sixth anniversary.”

“I see. So it’s a commemoration as well as a challenge?”

He nodded and turned away.

I needed to move. Sciatica and old man’s bones didn’t like squatting on the damp, cold ground for long. But something else. Something worse. Jane.

I stood up.

“Maybe you should do something.”

“What d’you mean?”

I could tell from the way he said it that he knew what I was getting at.

It seems to me there are two kinds of people. There are those who prefer everything to be spelt out, clear and direct, nothing left to doubt. The others are people who prefer to read between the lines, who don’t want every
i
to be dotted, every
t
to be crossed. They need room to decide for themselves what you mean.

I have to confess that by nature I belong to the spellers-out. But I was learning that Karl belonged to the understaters, the ambiguists.

Sometimes the spellers-out need to restrain themselves, and sometimes the understaters need to be given a hint, a clue to help them.

I said, “Maybe you should do something to mark the day.”

Karl stood up. We faced the river, side by side.

“Like what?” he said.

“I don’t know. Something that would mean something to you. Something that would have meant something to your father.”

He thought for a moment before saying with that defensive sharpness of tone again, “You mean something that will help me say good-bye?”

I didn’t reply.

“That’s what my mother keeps telling me. Let him go, she says.”

“Maybe she’s right.”

“She’s always right. That’s the trouble.”

“And you’d rather she wasn’t.”

He chuckled. “No.” Looked serious again and said, “But I don’t want to say good-bye. My dad was the best person in my life.”

And he walked away.

Just as well. We were getting into deep water for him and for me, and I knew I’d be out of my depth.

Also I needed to visit a convenient clump of bushes.

VI

When I came back, I said, “Had enough? Ready for home?”

“You said about doing something.”

“Yes?”

“Dad always did something. When he’d finished for the day. He always did the same thing.”

“Yes?”

“He’d find a bit of stick. He’d cut notches on it, one for each of the fish he’d caught. Then he’d pack up to go. And the last thing he’d do was stand on the bank, say some words, always the same words, then throw the stick into the river.”

“He did that every time?”

“Every time.”

“A kind of ritual. Did you ask him about it?”

“My dad didn’t talk much.”

“Like father, like son,” I said, smiling.

Karl returned the smile. “I’m a chatterbox compared to him.”

“So you never asked?”

“I did once.”

“What did he say?”

“‘Never take anything for granted.’”

“‘Never take anything for granted’? That was all?”

“Yes.”

I thought for a bit.