Rapids (23 page)

Suddenly, Vince realised he was crying. The tears are flowing as he shifts the bed and sweeps the big dust—balls from under it. He doesn’t stop. There are two old Durex foils. I should have done this before wiping the floor, he realises. Nobody has swept here for a month and more. I’m doing what Gloria always did, he mutters: tidying up. He shifted the bed back into position, turned up a photocopied pamphlet: ‘The Bomb in the Garage: How To!’ He shook his head. It used to infuriate him, having got home late Friday night, that Gloria would then spend Saturday morning cleaning. I never protested. He crouched down with the dustpan, collected up the dust and the foils and tobacco shreds and sweet wrappers. Should I wipe again? These are tears of shame, he decided. He didn’t stop. He tipped the mess into a Despar plastic bag, wrung out the cloth again. Could that have been what she meant? He got on his knees. That she was sorry for the Saturday morning cleaning sessions. The wet wood had a musty smell. We could have loved each other better, Vince thought.

He had nearly finished now. Adam was a detail, he decided. He wiped the table and counter and moved the chairs back. In six months, nothing has brought him so close to his dead wife. So close to the edge. He sat on the stool by the counter. There was still the sink to sort out. Deep trouble, he muttered, thinking of Clive and Michela again, their books, their bad investments, their aggressive concern about the world. Was there any bleach about? he wondered. They need an accountant. Then a vibration in his pocket told him a text had arrived. Let us know your news. How is M? Mandy. M awake, he replied. All well. Safe journey.

Vince stood at the open door of the chalet. The campsite was busy with new arrivals organising their gear. The evening was moist and warm and beyond Sand in Taufers the profile of the mountains rose quiet and clear into a pale sky. Did that girl commit suicide? he wondered. Katrin Hofstetter. The name came to him. It hadn’t seemed an obvious place to fall from. The path was easy. He gazed up above the castle to the glacier. They hadn’t visited the castle. The landscape is patient, he thought, staring at the high slopes. It waits patiently. But perhaps memorials aren’t always put exactly in the place where an accident happens. That might be dangerous. Perhaps she had died a hundred yards away, on some tricky bit. I left no memorial for Gloria, he thought. They’re not the fashion these days. He imagined a plaque on some boulder up in the mountains, his wife’s photograph and a date. Perhaps that way you could restrict remembering to a place, a routine, an anniversary visit. Jingling the car keys in his pocket, Vince walked through the campsite towards the village. Even after shedding the ring, she won’t let me go. Unless it was just a question, he thought, dropping the Despar bag in a bin, of not being used to having nothing to do. I arranged a holiday, Vince realised, that would be all action. I did that on purpose so as not to think. I am always so busy. And how strange that through all those years, in the office, in the flat, at home, these mountains had been waiting here. They always will. Even after the glaciers have melted. The world waits for you to be tired of your life. To save himself having to choose, he went to the same restaurant they had eaten in yesterday evening.

As soon as he sat down, Vince knew he was touching bottom. The place was not the same without the group. This is it, he realised. They hurried him to a corner, a small table for two. The waitress spoke no English. She was in a hurry with all the other clients, the holidaymakers. Trying to get a grip, Vince looked around. The room assailed him. Without the others, he has no resistance. This schlock is horrible, he realised, these dangling hearts that aren’t hearts, these fake trophies, these dead animals, this awful international music with its sugary electronic rhythms. How could I have loved it so much yesterday? Why did I find it so wonderful?

The same ageing musician presented the same impassive face above his keyboards. A mahogany face. The tune was ‘Smoke Gets In Your Eyes’. He must have grown up with the accordion and folk dances, Vince thought, or with the organ in church, with festivities and solemnities. How can he play this stuff? The music suddenly seemed very loud. It’s a betrayal, Vince thought. The man was not incompetent. He’s betraying his past. And the voices were swelling too. There was a huge buzz of voices. The international clients aren’t listening to the entertainment that has been laid on for them. They bring their money, Vince thought, but not their attention. The musician’s eyes stared across the heads of the holidaymakers. Into nothingness. He pays attention to nothing. Like a photo on a grave. And knows no one is paying attention to him.

Suddenly, Vince was covering his face with his hands. I miss them. His head was shaking. I miss Brian and Max and Amelia and Tom. People I’ve only known a few days. Gloria is dead, a voice said. Oh then please,
be dead!
Vince wailed.
Die!
He had spoken aloud. Don’t come back please, Michela said. Don’t come back.

Entschuldigung?
The waitress is at his side. She wants to take his order. I am about to make a scene, Vince thought. He forced back his chair. I’m sorry. The waitress had seen his tears. Her face didn’t soften. I’ll have to go. He turned and made quickly for the door.

There is no question of thinking now. He walked swiftly along the lamp—lit street. This is a complete impasse. I don’t want to see you. What had he expected? How lightly he had scorned Mandy’s sensible interest. Abruptly he turned into a bar. Whisky, he said. They would understand that. He pulled out his wallet at once. Behind the counter a young man was moving quickly between the beer—taps and now Vince noticed kids playing at screens around the walls and others sitting at keyboards typing out e—mails. This must be where Louise and the others had come most evenings. It was smoky. I still haven’t said anything to the bank, Vince remembered. Where Phil had downloaded pornography. The barman was showing him an ice—bucket, eyebrows raised enquiringly. Vince shook his head. Louise scorned Phil and his dirty pictures, but in the space of a couple of days she had slept with a boy she hardly knew. Why did I let her do that? She’s far too young. Vince sipped the whisky. He doesn’t like whisky. Then downed it. I should have said something, about relationships, about commitment. I’m nervous about calling the office, he realised, like an adolescent afraid of parental reproach. Yet he only has to inform them of an emergency, a forced absence. For God’s sake, I’m one of the most important people in the bank.

The whisky burned outward from his stomach. It was satisfying to do something out of character, something destructive. He feels nauseous. He feels better. I constantly feared Gloria’s reproach, he thought. He put the glass down. Why? He had shed her ring, but not the sharp reproachful voice that runs in his head. You never take a holiday. You’ve given your whole life to that bank. If we moved to London, though, he told her, we’d have more time together. That was always how the conversation went. But she wouldn’t give up her job. Gloria was secretly happy I didn’t take holidays, he realised now. Without modulating his normal voice at all, he asked: Is there a bottle I can have.
Was
? A bottle. Can I buy a bottle of whisky? To take away. The young man smiles. He can see I’m in trouble.
Haben wir eine Flasche Whisky?
he calls to a sour—looking girl making up sandwiches. That’s his wife, Vince thought. He stepped out into the street with a bottle of something called Highland Dew.

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.