Obstacles to Young Love

by David Nobbs

  They meet thatched boats coming upstream, heavily laden, mainly with bananas. People in canoes are hauling in their nets. And all the while there is the rainforest on both banks, punctuated by small villages of thatched houses on stilts. One village looks very much like another. One house looks very much like another. One stilt looks very much like another.

  ‘I told you,’ says the travel agent. ‘It is a very boring river.’

  ‘And how very brown it is. How very, very brown,’ says Naomi in a Noel Coward voice.

  There is a question she has to ask of the German.

  ‘You say Iquitos is boring. You say the Amazon’s boring. You say the first jungle lodge is boring. Why are you here?’

  He snorts like a horse approaching a jump which frightens it.

  ‘For research for my clients. My clients demand these places. They are cowards.’

  They see two large kingfishers. How beautiful they are. Simon, give him credit, loves birds. She points to them, and he smiles and squeezes her arm. Maybe things will still be all right. She certainly doesn’t want Julian to be proved right. It’s his hobby.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he murmurs.

  Yes. Beautiful. But Maggie is so ugly. How can Timothy possibly fancy somebody so ugly?

  A lady with a bright pink parasol rides in a canoe towards the green grass and well-tended fields of yet another thatched village. She carries more of an aura of Henley than of the jungle.

  Ugly is putting it far too strongly. She has to admit that. The nose is a little too wide, but not horrendously so. The lips, though on the thick side, are reasonably shapely. Some people probably find bushy eyebrows attractive.

  Maggie’s skin, though white and lifeless, is not much marked. Except for the mole on the right cheek, of course. But the mole is really quite small and it’s only when the sun strikes it that you can see the two thin hairs that are attached to it. Naomi turns now, and sees them in the sunshine. No, to her regret, they aren’t horrendous.

  She is appalled by her feelings. What sort of woman is she?

  A big diving bird with a white head and a long, forked tail is hunting for food. Vultures and large hawks wheel slowly overhead. They see a small tern with a black head, birds like sand martins, birds like sooty chubby swallows.

  Simon shakes his head. ‘If only we’d brought a bird book.’

  ‘Never mind. They’re lovely.’

  They kiss. It becomes quite a long kiss. Their tongues are two snakes mating.

  Naomi turns round, hoping that Timothy and Maggie will have seen, but they are busy looking out over the water and Maggie is making notes. Only the travel agent has noticed, and he looks very wistful.

  ‘Maggie?’ asks Naomi, feeling strange to be actually talking to her and addressing her by name.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can you identify any of these birds?’

  ‘Sorry? What birds?’

  How could a taxidermist fall for a girl who didn’t like birds? Maybe taxidermists only like dead birds. Naomi is comforted by this thought.

  No, Simon is great. What does it matter if he isn’t interested in the registrations of ships? They will watch birds together, jog together, do yoga together, do Pilates together, ride bicycles together, use rowing machines together, make babies together. Life will be good.

  Babies? Where did that thought come from? How would that square up with her career?

  They swing round to nose upstream to a little landing stage. They step out into a Turkish bath, and walk slowly to the thatched lodge.

  The five of them go for lunch in the large, thatched dining room, which seats a hundred. They had assumed that they would be joining other visitors, but they are the only five.

  ‘I suppose…er…maybe the four of us should share a table,’ suggests Timothy.

  ‘It would be awfully British not to,’ says Naomi.

  ‘I think we have to, really,’ says Maggie.

  What a charming way of putting things she has, thinks Naomi.

  The travel agent has gone straight to another table and is already sitting down. He is immaculate in shorts and sneakers.

  ‘What about the Kraut?’ hisses Simon.

  Naomi glares at him.

  ‘He looks happy enough,’ she whispers.

  ‘I suspect he’s a bit of a bore,’ whispers Timothy.

  That’s rich from someone married to Maggie, thinks Naomi.

  The German is aware of what they are hissing and whispering. They might just as well have talked normally.

  ‘No, I am fine,’ he says. ‘I am used to my own company. You will have much to catch up on.’

  It’s a buffet lunch, with fried fish, fried rice, spicy kidney beans, French beans, tomato and avocado.

  ‘So, how are things, Naomi?’ asks Timothy.

  ‘Yes, fine. Really good, thanks. Yes, really good. Simon and I got married eight months ago. He runs the gym where I go.’

  ‘Oh. So you’ll both be pretty fit.’

  Naomi reminds herself that Timothy was never known for his sparkling repartee.

  ‘Things didn’t work out with Steven then?’

  ‘No. You were right. He isn’t very nice.’

  ‘And how about work?’

  ‘Well, I’ve only just left drama school, but I’ve got my first job.’

  ‘Great!’

  She realises that his enthusiasm is utterly genuine.

  ‘We go into rehearsal the first day back.’

  ‘Oh, I’m thrilled for you.’ The sullen look leaves his face and he smiles with boyish excitement. Naomi had forgotten how handsome he was.

  ‘Yes, that’s really good news,’ says Maggie, and Naomi has to admit to herself that she sounds pretty genuine too.

  ‘So what’s the part?’ asks Timothy. ‘Not Juliet?’

  ‘No. Sadly I have to learn my lines. It’s an Ayckbourn play.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘You must have heard of Alan Ayckbourn, Timothy. He writes comedies. He’s very famous and very good.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him, of course,’ says Maggie. Naomi puts the ‘of course’ into the debit column of her newly opened mental ‘Is Maggie nice?’ ledger. ‘But I’m afraid we’re really rather serious in our theatrical tastes.’ Debit. ‘I wish I’d seen your Juliet. People still talk about it.’ Credit. No, double credit.

  ‘This food’s good, isn’t it?’ says Simon, just so as not to be left out really.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ says Maggie. ‘I’m afraid I’m one of those people who get talking and thinking and forget to taste what they’ve eaten and suddenly find it’s all gone and wish they’d concentrated on it a bit more.’ Debit. ‘But it’s difficult. I have a lot of responsibilities in my life.’ Debit. They’re piling up.

  ‘Maggie teaches RE at Coningsfield Grammar.’ Debit. Massive debit. Oh, Timothy, you should have gone for somebody who brings light into your shady life. No. Don’t think like that. He’s happy. He’s in love. It’s touching to see. Fucking irritating as well, though.

  ‘Food’s good, isn’t it,’ Simon calls out to the travel agent, in the hope that he won’t feel left out. Naomi is pleased. It reminds her that there are pleasant sides to his personality.

  ‘Very palatable. Did you know that until fifteen years ago, Peru was a net exporter of rice. Now it imports. Why? Because the Velasques government broke up the haciendas and gave the land to the peasants. When it’s theirs, they don’t expect to get their fingers dirty any more.’

  They are glad they didn’t invite him to join them, on the whole.

  ‘So, how about you, Timothy? How’s the taxidermy going?’ asks Naomi.

  ‘Oh, very well. Very well. Dad’s leaving it to me more and more.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Oh, he’s very well, but his eyesight’s failing.’

  ‘Give him my best wishes.’

  ‘I will. He’ll be pleased. He really liked you. He was…’ Timothy stops. Naomi knows he was going to say that his father
was upset they split up. So does Maggie. ‘He really likes you too, of course, Maggie,’ continues Timothy unwisely. He turns to Naomi. ‘The first day back will be exciting for both of us. You’ll be meeting all the other actors and rehearsing for your play. I’ll be going to Kilmarnock Zoo to collect a tiger that lost its will to live.’

  ‘I’d lose my will to live if I was in Kilmarnock Zoo,’ says Simon.

  ‘I hate zoos,’ says Maggie. Credit. ‘And if you think that puts me in a difficult position over taxidermy, it doesn’t. Timothy’s the most ethical person I know. He would never have anything healthy and happy killed to further his business.’ Easy to mock, but, actually, rather reluctantly, credit.

  After lunch, they have a walk in the jungle. Their guide, Basilio, is young, even boyish, and quite small. He takes his terrier with him, which gives it the feel of a Sunday walk in the park rather than an intrepid voyage of discovery. He shows them an achiote tree, picks a fruit from it and opens it up to demonstrate how the Indians paint their faces red. He thinks he hears rain.

  ‘We are not having the jungle walk cancelled,’ hisses the German. ‘I will not accept short measure.’

  The rain holds off. They see many kinds of trees, and some ants, but no animals. Basilio apologises for the lack of animal life. There are too many people here. Clearly, to see the animals of the jungle you have to go where you aren’t.

  The skies darken. The trees murmur their indignation at the increasing wind, and begin to shake anxiously. The walk ends forty minutes early.

  ‘Short measure,’ whispers the travel agent.

  The next item on the agenda is a nocturnal canoe trip. It gets dark early here.

  ‘They will try to cancel it because of the rain,’ says their new friend. ‘We must insist. I will not accept short measure.’

  But the rain stops. They go to the creek and climb into a canoe. Their guide for the trip is Basilio. They drift down the creek beneath the mudbanks, in the dark. They hear the noises of the jungle – crickets, more crickets, and then…Can it be? It is. More crickets. They also see the tail of a young anaconda. Well, they’re told that it’s the tail of a young anaconda, and choose to believe it. They hear a bullfrog. And more crickets. Suddenly the moon shines brightly. Basilio explains that it is now too light for alligators. Presumably, you can only see them when it’s too dark to see them. They are beginning to get the hang of this jungle travel.

  The trip is abandoned.

  ‘Short measure,’ whispers the travel agent.

  They invite him to join their table for the candlelit dinner. He is delighted.

  They sit right in the middle of the huge, empty, candlelit room. Dinner is served by Basilio. It begins with a beetroot salad.

  Their German friend asks Naomi and Simon where they have been since he last met them.

  ‘We went to Chiclayo,’ says Naomi.

  ‘Ah! What did you think of the Bruning Museum?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Bruning Museum at Lambayeque.’

  ‘We didn’t go there.’

  ‘But it’s a marvellous museum, and the wacas between there and Chiclayo are also very interesting.’

  ‘We missed the wacas.’

  ‘But there is nothing else to see around Chiclayo.’

  ‘We went with Simon’s uncle, who is a parish priest, for him to say farewell to some Canadian nuns. We liked Chiclayo, its stubby cathedral covered in vultures, its friendliness, names like the Bang Bang Amusement Arcade. We spent a lovely evening in the nuns’ Parish House. They didn’t know how to mix gin and tonics, though. Either that, or there’s a great shortage of tonic in Peru.’

  Naomi is trying to get a reaction from Timothy and Maggie. Even a slight sniff of disapproval would do. But they are impervious. So very disappointing.

  The beetroot salad is followed by soup with a fried egg in it, tasty highly spiced chicken with poor fried rice, and a fruit salad. With so few people there the meal is finished in under an hour. Never mind. That will give them all the more time to enjoy the promised traditional local cabaret in the bar.

  The cabaret is an embarrassed Basilio with a guitar. He plays quite nicely. Timothy holds Maggie’s hand. Not to be outdone, Naomi holds Simon’s hand as if they are walking down the Ramblas in Barcelona and it’s her wallet. The poor travel agent tries to look as if he is delighted to have no hand to hold.

  Basilio doesn’t play all that long, to be honest, and the four English visitors can’t blame him, but the German whispers, ‘Short measure. Always short measure.’

  Basilio now has a few words to say to them.

  ‘Tomorrow we will visit an Indian village. They do not use money. They have nice things to buy, and you will need to barter. The best thing to use is cigarettes. They like cigarettes. If you want to buy things tomorrow, get some cigarettes at the bar tonight.’

  Simon fetches more drinks – beer for him and the German, red wine for Naomi, bottled water for Timothy and Maggie. He also buys cigarettes.

  ‘I will not spread this noxious weed,’ says the German. ‘I have fish hooks with me. Many fish hooks. I will barter with fish hooks.’

  Timothy and Maggie also refuse to buy cigarettes. The travel agent offers to sell them some of his fish hooks.

  ‘I don’t think so, thank you very much,’ says Timothy loftily. ‘I don’t honestly anticipate that there’ll be anything we want to buy.’

  By the time they have finished their drinks, the barman is asleep. It’s almost ten o’clock.

  Naomi has been wondering about Timothy’s sex life. Maggie doesn’t look sexy. Not that they will be likely to be having sex tonight. The chalets have single beds underneath mosquito nets. It’s not conducive.

  ‘I love your breasts,’ whispers Simon from his single bed. ‘I wish I was fondling and kissing them now. Imagine kissing hers. He’s got a job on. They’re enormous.’

  ‘I must say they did remind me of some old English burial mounds I saw once in Dorset,’ says Naomi.

  ‘You’re a terrible woman,’ says Simon affectionately.

  In the morning they’re scheduled to walk to a village of the Yagua Indians. Basilio meets them outside the lodge. He bangs a big drum five times with a gong, explaining that this is an Indian method of communicating.

  Their walk takes them about an hour. Animals seen amount to a slightly disappointing total of one iguana.

  The German astounds them by saying, ‘I know a German joke about the British.’

  ‘Oh, do tell us,’ says Naomi.

  ‘There were two Englishmen who met at work.’

  They wait to enjoy the rest of his joke, then realise, to their horror, that he has finished. They don’t get it.

  ‘They work at the same place, but they have never met, because one or the other of them was always on strike,’ he explains. ‘German jokes are subtle.’

  After about three-quarters of an hour the little party cross a creek on a high bridge. They find themselves in a small village of thatched houses on stilts. There are two houses filled with people hiding. They can dimly see that they are wearing jeans and T-shirts. Basilio hurries them past these houses.

  Waiting for them on a bench are four Yagua Indians, three men in grass skirts and a woman in a large green kerchief that doesn’t quite hide her breasts, which look two decades past their suck-by date. It’s difficult to say which group seems the more embarrassed by this travesty of tourism.

  In front of them, on a wire, are rows of beads, necklaces adorned with alligator heads, and other delights.

  The German decides to buy something, and the bartering begins, translated by Basilio.

  ‘I give you two fish hooks.’

  ‘Packet of cigarettes.’

  ‘Four fish hooks.’

  ‘Packet of cigarettes.’

  It’s the only currency they want, and they only want whole packets so they can sell them in town. Of course they use money. The German buys a packet off Simon, says, ‘I can’t think why
they want this noxious weed,’ and with the packet settles on a bracelet of alligator teeth. Who is it for? wonders Naomi.

  Nobody else buys anything.

  Naomi wonders if bartering with cigarettes is the derivation of the phrase, ‘It costs a packet.’ She must remember to find out when she gets home.

  Home. Why does the word send a shiver through her? Is she no longer looking forward to home life with Simon?

  There’s some embarrassing fooling around with blow darts, and the charade is over. The travel agent, in generous mood, offers the villagers all his fish hooks. They don’t want them. They use nets. He shows for the first time a softer side. He seems genuinely disappointed. Not hurt, just sad. Naomi wonders if there is a woman in his life, or if the alligator teeth are for his mother.

  The walk back is slow, as the heat and humidity rise. Naomi and Timothy find themselves walking side by side. Whether they have planned this or whether it’s chance is not obvious even to them.

  ‘I want to thank you for having the courage to come and tell me that dreadful day,’ says Timothy. ‘I think it really made a difference. Left me with a bit of self-respect.’

  ‘I hope you got over it quickly.’ But not too quickly, perhaps.

  ‘I didn’t. It took months.’

  ‘How long after…me, did you meet Maggie?’

  ‘Best part of two years.’

  ‘And how are you now? Really happy? You seem it.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Maggie’s lovely. You? Everything all right?’

  ‘Absolutely. Can’t you tell?’

  ‘Er…yes.’ He hesitates. He wants to confess something. Naomi isn’t sure if she wants to hear it. ‘The…er…not everything is…I mean, it’s different from you and me. It’s…’ His dark face colours slightly, and seems to swell with embarrassment. ‘I mean, we do have sex. I mean, it is our honeymoon. But not…’

  ‘Everything we did?’

  ‘No. That was actually a bit special, Naomi.’