Rapids (2 page)

Speech! Keith announces as soon as the van has stopped. Men and women, kids and kayakers, lend me your lobes! So here we are in Wopland at last. Okay, it’s been a long journey, I know, we’ve had a couple of sense-of-humour breakdowns, it’s only natch, but what we need now is maximum co-op-er-ay-shun! It’s nearly dark. We’re going to have to move fast. From this moment on nobody thinks of themselves until the kitchen tent is up, the van unpacked, the water canisters filled and supper under way. Is that clear? We before me, okay? Thine before mine. Then you can put up your own tents and get yourselves sorted. Remember: this is not, repeat
not
a holiday; it’s a
community experience, right!
As soon as we’re all done and we’ve eaten we’ll have the evening meeting and plan out tomorrow’s activities. Oh, and don’t forget to prepare your nominations for Wally of the Day!

As he finished speaking — and an Indian boy was already on top of the van furiously undoing tie-ropes — Michela saw Clive emerge from their chalet. His face more than ever expressed a contained, manly perplexity, a faint smile at the corner of the bearded mouth. Long time no see, he said, shaking hands with his old teacher. Wonderful place you found for us, Keith enthused. As the last light shrank behind the peaks, the valley was suddenly chill. How’s the river? High, Clive said. The glaciers are melting. Mallet please! someone was shouting. Mall-et!

Sorry to be so silent, Vince told his daughter. Once again the autostrada had come to a standstill. These are his first words of the drive. The air-conditioning hummed. The girl was changing CDs. Head down, lips pursed she looked at him sidelong, half smiled. What’s there to say? she asked. He felt ashamed. You’ve put up with Florence, he said. Now you get your fun, see some friends. Louise laughed: I
liked
Florence!

Then the car was shaken with an urgent rhythm. May I? She turned it up even louder. He nodded. He hated the music. It was shameful that he had nothing to say to her. Nothing has been said about Gloria. His daughter was staring intently, tapping on her knees. The landscape trembled with heat. For at least a mile ahead the cars glittered stationary, as if a great river sweeping down from the Apennines had solidified in the summer haze. The planet is burning up, he thought. An asset long since amortised. He felt quite untouched, shivery.

Swaying her head, his daughter smiled, still with a faint hint of compassion. She is thinking of her mother, he decided. How can a holiday like this do anything but make us think of her? Yet it isn’t really Gloria I am thinking of. He knew that. It was to do with Gloria, but it wasn’t her. I don’t
see
Gloria. He was suddenly anxious. I don’t
hear
Gloria’s voice when I remember the things she said. You think of nothing at all, he told himself. But so intensely. Life had not prepared him for this.

The pulse of the music became an obsessive repetition, a hectic running on the spot. The car throbbed. The song went on long beyond the point where you’d heard enough. The traffic stewed. Abruptly Louise turned the volume down: There is one thing though: if we’re camping, how am I supposed to recharge my phone? Vince was gripping the steering wheel, willing the cars to move. Dad? Sorry, what was that? How am I supposed to recharge my phone? In what sense? We’re camping, there won’t be plugs.

He looked at her. No idea, he said. He managed a smile. Do without it for a week. Live free. Dad! She shook her head and turned up the volume again. Only now did he notice she was cradling her mobile in one hand, as if expecting some vital call. She has been fondling her mobile all week, he thought. I haven’t even made fun of her. All at once the fierce drumming of the car stereo was challenged by the sound of a distant siren speeding along the emergency lane. Somebody has died, he decided. Someone won’t be going home.

Michela felt keenly how different tonight’s meeting was. Still, she had no presentiment of what was about to happen. Last week she and Clive had slept in the squalor of a
centro sociale
in Milan; more than two hundred people were spread across the floor of an abandoned warehouse. Many were smoking dope. There were angry speeches and chants, which she translated more or less for Clive. Sometimes someone stood up and spoke in English, or French, or German. They were speeches punctuated with slogans that everybody could repeat, whatever their language. Michela wasn’t sure if she was enjoying it, but felt keenly that they were right to be here. They shared a cause. Everything precious was under threat. Some final barrier was about to come down, some crucial dam would burst releasing the final great wave of destruction. They must be strong to resist. They must protest. She joined in the chants. There were people of all colours and nations, mainly young, all scandalised. Our world is a scandal, somebody stood to say. Quite probably it will end in our lifetime.

Clive rolled his cigarettes. Despite the crowding, the intense heat, they had managed to make love every night, a slow, strong, silent love. We are two torrents flowing together in the dark, she whispered. During the meetings she sat between his legs. She had never felt more protected. Her man was solid, solemn. Free trade is just the free transfer of wealth from the poor to the rich, a young man explained. Loans are theft! It is criminal to ask for interest payments from the starving! It is lunatic to cut down the forests and burn more and more oil!

People clapped and cheered. Everywhere they went throughout the week they were met by the same impenetrable line of riot shields and truncheons. Police vans blocked the entrance to a square. Helmeted men with tear-gas launchers sprouted from hatches above. The heat was oppressive. Thirty-eight degrees. On the Thursday they tried to force the cordon round Palazzo Marino as President Bush arrived. They assumed it was President Bush. Usually so calm, Clive heaved wildly behind a thick Plexiglas screen they had made to push against the police. He was beside himself.
Issa!
the Italians shouted. Heave!
Issa! Issa!
Scores of photographers were crammed into a specially protected paddock. Heave!

The crowd surged. Some of the men had balaclavas, or motorcycle helmets. When the police counter-charged, two demonstrators were killed. That is: a barrier collapsed alongside the road and a dozen or so people were forced under the wheels of an oncoming tram. There was a chaos of sirens and scuffles. They had a policeman on the ground. That could easily have been us, Clive shouted. It could have been you! He was angry beyond anything she had seen before. They’ve fucked everything up, he kept repeating, everything. A rump re-formed across the street by La Scala. Multinational murderers! they chanted. No surrender!

For perhaps twenty minutes the situation was out of control. Michela felt proud of her man. We shall not be moved, he sang. She pulled him away from the truncheons. Dozens were being dragged to police vans. That evening the dormitory was alive with angry debate till three or four in the morning. Thunder rumbled across the city. A teenager with a guitar sang a song: You can’t bomb your way to peace, Mr President. His amplifier was faulty. Clive bought some dope. To forget, he said. It was expensive in the strict economy of their lives. They still had equipment to purchase before heading back to the mountains. The jeep needed new tyres. Michela’s mother had offered no help. They were poor and in debt. Michela stroked his high forehead, his straggly hair. I am living intensely, she told herself. Let me stroke you, she said as he lay on his back, smoking in the dark. His body was rigid. He is crying, she thought.

But this evening in the South Tyrol, Keith, the English group leader with the glassy eyes, the paunch, invited all the kayakers to say who they were and why they’d come on this trip and what they expected to get out of it. They were sitting in a circle on the hard dusty ground between pine trees and guy-ropes. Only one or two had seats. The others shifted on their hams. Starting on my left, Keith said. He was warm and avuncular. I know most of you know each other, but some don’t. He had a fold-up canvas chair with wooden arms. Come on, don’t be shy.

I’m Amelia. This was a wiry girl with bony white legs. I live just outside Maidenhead. The accent was moneyed. I did my three-star paddler with Waterworld last month. I love kayaking and can’t wait to get some experience on white water. She seemed to have finished, then as if some explanation were required added. Oh, I’m fifteen. All right! someone cheered. Amelia forgot to say, Keith intervened, that she won the Girl Scouts Southern Counties Speed Kayaking competition last year. The girl looked at the ground. Aren’t we modest, Mandy shouted. Then her camera flashed.

In a deadpan voice, rolling gum in her mouth, the fat, freckled girl beside Amelia said very quickly: Caroline, fifteen, from Gillingham, hoping to have a good holiday because I love the water and all.

Name’s Phil, announced the gormless boy beside Caroline. His eyelids drooped. He too was chewing. Love playing on the water, like, but I’ve only done weirs n’all so I’m hoping I’ll get on something well fast and dangerous. Never been to Italy before. I’ve done some surf, though. Like off Broadstairs. Wicked. That’s it. In the sudden silence, everybody tittered. Phil seemed puzzled. He has a thick lower lip over a broad chin. Then he raised a fist and shouted: Chuck me in the rapids and I’ll go for it! Again someone yelled, All-righty, sir! Respect! said Amelia solemnly.

Keith had to intervene: Fun aside, kids, this trip is not about playing. White water is serious. Okay Phil? The first skill we have to develop is looking out for each other. Making sure no one gets hurt. Too true, Mandy said. I want people constantly watching to see that someone else is not in trouble. Constantly, is that clear? You’re always checking that everyone else is okay. That’s how a group survives when things get dangerous. Never forget that your personal safety depends on other people looking out for you. We don’t want to lose anyone.

It was dark now. A small gas lamp was hung on the lower branch of a pine. The next voice to speak came from a lean, chinless man in his late thirties. He was fingering a mobile. My name’s Adam. As you probably all know, I’m a level-two instructor at Waterworld. I’m hoping to improve my skills here and move up to level three, though obviously my main job is to instruct those of you who haven’t been on white water before. Anyway, I hope I’ll be part of giving you all a good and useful time, so that you have something to take home with you. He turned the mobile round and round in his hand.

Thanks Adam.

Already a sort of embarrassed routine was creeping into these introductions, but Keith seemed to savour this, as if the very embarrassment had a social function. Mint anyone? offered the Indian boy. All the youngsters reached. I’m Mark, said one of them, sitting back. The voice was barely loud enough to be heard. Adam’s me dad. There was a silence. You could say a bit more than that, suggested the father. I’m, like, seventeen, you know? And I’ve come to do my best. Is that all? Adam asked again. What am I supposed to say? the boy wanted to know. Even sitting, he was lanky and awkward. His long hair fell on his face. I’m here, like. He seemed belligerent. And I’ll do my best. Oh, I love camping, he added.

Tom? Keith put in quickly.

Yes, I’m Tom. I’m twenty-one. This voice was deeper, the face immediately handsome in the dim light. Every feature was even and warm and strongly moulded, the teeth sharp and white, the hair polished, eyes bright. I study at the LSE. Haven’t had a paddle in my hands for a few years now, but some other folks let me down for the holiday we were going to take, so at the last minute I signed up for this. Now I’m here I can’t wait to get on the water.

Tom didn’t say, but he rows for his university, Keith announced.

You all know me, Mandy said. She was opposite Keith. They exchanged glances. This must be the twentieth trip I’ve been on, and I’m telling you, after you’ve done all the admin you feel you deserve to be here. I’m the first-aid person and the menu planner, so any complaints, cuts or bruises or special requests this way. I’m also the trip photographer. She held up the camera, pointed it Keith’s way, and set off the flash. So if you have to do anything idiotic, do it in front of me so you can look stupid on the website. And here’s hoping this trip will be as exciting as all the others.

Three boys spoke now in quick succession. I’m Maximilian, but you’re allowed to call me Max. Come to develop my skills and have a shot at my four-star and it’s not true I’ll be trying to avoid the washing-up. Oddly, this boy was wearing a proper shirt. Emerald green. And proper grey flannel trousers. He sat on his own camp stool. If anybody’s heard snoring, folks, it’s not me!

No one laughed.

I’m Brian. Same as Max really. Oh, I’m sixteen. So’s Max. Come for the obvious reasons: drink, drugs, sex and underwater swimming. The boy stopped and blushed.

Be just like being at home then, Keith said generously.

Sex! Gormless Phil sniggered. Our Brian, sex!

Quiet kids, Adam protested.

I’m Amal. The Indian’s voice was embarrassingly high-pitched. I love Waterworld. It’s like a family for me. I’m seventeen. I’ve done plenty of white water in an open canoe — I did the Canadian trip — but this is my first time in a kayak. I’m sure it’ll be a doddle.

Bloody open-canoeists, Max said.

Then in the straining light with the sound of low drums still beating in the fresh alpine air and the moths circling the gas lamp, attention shifted to Michela. There was a short pause; it was the first time perhaps that people had had a chance to see what a beautiful creature she is. Her black hair is cropped tight around a white, perfect oval face where the eyes are steady and dark. I’m Michela, but please call me Micky. Me and Clive here have been setting up this trip for you. We’ve scouted the rivers which are not traditionally much used for kayaking, so we won’t have any problems with traffic. We’ve sorted out what level is what and who can go where. Or Clive has. He’s also selected and bought fifteen good Pyranhas and all the equipment, so this is quite a big moment for us. I’ve mainly been doing things like booking the campsite, accounts, paperwork and so on. We really care about your having a good experience in a beautiful environment, leaving it as you found it and hoping it will change you for the better.