Rivers
Page 1
PRAISE FOR RIVERS
Winner of the ECI Literature Prize 2016
Longlisted for the Fintro Literature Prize (Belgium)
Nominated for the Halewijn Prijs
“This is a book of controlled greatness, with sparklingly vivid sentences and an omnipresent threat, and at the same time it has a soothing timelessness.”
—ECI jury chair Louise O. Fresco
“Writing well is not so hard, but sometimes a writer shows you what great writing is. The rivers here are not gentle: the waters are cruel and unpredictable. Water gives and takes. With Driessen, that which seems unchanging is unreliable. That is most prominent in the final story, where the dispute between two families on opposite sides of a Brittany stream a half a century ago is being fought with a persistence that makes the Israeli-Palestinian conflict seem like a café quarrel. Anti-Semitism plays a role in the background of all the stories, but so do sexuality, death, nature, and love. And above all, the river is a metaphor for Martin Michael Driessen’s writing: fast-flowing, unpredictable, and at times stunningly beautiful.”
—Arjen Fortuin, NRC Handelsblad (4 stars)
“Three remarkable story pearls. Driessen gives water a dramatic, almost apocalyptic meaning in the outstanding Rivers.”
—De Morgen
“If there is justice in the world, then Rivers will bring Driessen the fame he deserves.”
—Haarlems Dagblad (5 stars)
“Water continually plays the main role in this high-class book. Martin Michael Driessen is an original and unbridled storyteller. The best Driessen to date . . . Driessen’s vivid narrative power achieves true perfection.”
—De Volkskrant (4 stars)
“Staggering beauty.”
—Het Parool
“It is rare, unfortunately, to read a story with every sentence perfect. But here, they are perfect.”
—Trouw
“Rivers is the best thing I have read in years.”
—De Standaard (5 stars)
“Each of the novellas feel much longer—like complete novels. Pierre and Adèle, my favorite, works so well because Driessen leaves a lot unsaid—a clear, epic story in supple, confident prose that leaves the reader space to dream. What more do you want?”
—De Groene Amsterdammer
“Three stories. Three times a world with a river as lifeline, as unbridgeable distance, as fodder for catharsis. Three times a small world mirrors the big one. Perhaps what they have most in common is the human desire to really reach one another. And all that in a language that grabs you with sentences you want to reread. The stories have a power you cannot escape from and language and images of great beauty.”
—Literair Nederland
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2016 by Martin Michael Driessen
Translation copyright © 2018 by Jonathan Reeder
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Rivieren in Holland by Uitgeverij G.A. van Oorschot B.V. in 2016. Translated from Dutch by Jonathan Reeder. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2018.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503901261 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1503901262 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781503901278 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1503901270 (paperback)
Cover design by Joan Wong
First edition
CONTENTS
Fleuve Sauvage
1
2
3
4
5
6
Voyage to The Moon
Durlacher’s house was . . .
Pierre and Adèle
The deer stumbled . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Fleuve Sauvage
All Comes to Naught
1
“If you have to drink, then do it someplace where it won’t bother anyone,” his wife had said.
“If you have to drink, then do it now,” his agent had said. “Your Banquo rehearsals don’t start until September.”
“Sure, you can borrow my canoe and tent,” his son had said, “but I’m not going out on that river with you. Is the point of this trip to drink yourself to death?”
It had rained nonstop the past few days, and the water level in Sainte-Menehould was uncommonly high for July. At dinner in Le Cheval Rouge, he drank wine; on his hotel bed, whiskey from the bottle he’d cracked open on the drive down from Brussels. He’d go alone, then. He knew that alcohol made him aggressive, and that others steered clear of him. In that regard, by now he had the forbearance of a leper. What held him back, he considered as he topped up the plastic bathroom cup with whiskey, was his rock-solid resolve. If he were to swear never to drink another drop, he would stick to it. Otherwise he would lose all self-respect, and it would be his downfall. He’d never be able to look himself in the mirror again if he broke a vow like that. So he had to weigh things up carefully before committing himself, because he’d be stuck with it for the rest of his life.
“You are an alcoholic,” the doctor had said. “In your case, moderate drinking is not an option. You’ll have to give it up altogether.”
I’ll think about that on the river, he thought. The bottle in my backpack might be the last one I’ll ever drink. Say I make that decision. Marriage saved. Filial respect restored. Career at the National Theater stabilized. For ten years you’ll look ten years younger, you might still have a shot at playing Hamlet. The bottle on the nightstand was nearly empty, but the one in his backpack was for the river. That, and a sedative and a half, should just about do it.
Do you really want to quit drinking? he thought as he lit a cigarette. It’s not happiness, but it sure does feel like it. More than anything else you know.
2
The quay was flooded, and there was barely enough room to float under the first bridge. He pushed off. Sainte-Menehould was as sleepy as he was, this Sunday morning. The town was deserted. He paddled the canoe to the middle of the stream and crouched under the bridge’s middle arch. When on the other side, he glided into the light and righted himself, and the rusty shutters of a house on the left bank opened. Three dark, wiry-haired girls appeared and waved excitedly. He waved back.
The canoe maneuvered well, only the bow stuck up too much, even though he’d stowed all the baggage up front. It was a long, aluminum one—too big, actually, for a man on his own. It had been a present for his son on his sixteenth birthday. That summer they traveled down the Loire together, a big chunk of it at least, past Chambord and the other famous château. That was after the promising first rehearsals for Don Carlos. Later, he’d lost his part for punching the assistant director, which even to this day he did not regret. A person without respect understands nothing of the theater.
Now the river flowed through overhanging trees and bushes, as it would for another few dozen kilometers, at least according to the prewar canoeing guide he had consulted the previous evening. The Aisne, he had read, is an amiable river, which winds its way in countless meanders through the charming northern French countryside. Except for incidental tree blockages, one should encounter no major difficulti
es whatsoever until the large barrage at Autry. All the better, he thought, I’ve got major difficulties enough.
It was still. The trees, with their balls of mistletoe, stood out against the pearl-gray morning sky. Muskrats splashed into the stream and dove underwater, as though startled by the appearance of the canoe. Swallows scattered from their nest-holes in the high, crumbling loam shores of the stream’s outer banks in search of safety. La France profonde, he thought as he kept his course with gentle strokes. What more do you want?
After this morning’s coffee, he couldn’t imagine ever needing alcohol again. He couldn’t even recall why he had needed it in the first place. He paddled around islands of lily pads, occasionally choosing to pass a gravel bank on either the left side or the right, but in fact the water did all the work. In the distance a church steeple came into view, but the name of the village didn’t really interest him. It was getting warm; he took off his sweater. Another few kilometers and he’d stop for a rest. He would leave the whiskey in the backpack, but there was always that wine. The spot where he decided to pull ashore early that afternoon was an unfortunate choice: he sank up to his calves in mire and had to drag the canoe by its painter line through muck and cow dung. But he was suddenly tired and thirsty. It was a screw-cap bottle. The wine was lukewarm. He stretched out on the grass. He heard the rumble of traffic, and when he turned onto his side, he could see cars driving along a road at the foot of a row of hills. The spot was poorly chosen indeed, especially considering he had spent hours drifting through virtually pristine landscape. But he was thirsty, and put the bottle back to his lips. Just some supermarket Merlot, low alcohol, surely.
“Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none,” he mumbled as he returned to the canoe half an hour later, and was sucked so deep into the mud that his sandals got stuck and he had to bend down to pull them out. Banquo was not a big role. He’d carry it off impressively, even if the young Polish director turned out to be an idiot. That they didn’t dare cast him as Macbeth, he could understand. Even though that would have been the role of his life. He rinsed off the sandals, climbed into his canoe, and pushed off.
He was relieved to feel the current once again carry him along, around the next bend, into the shade of another patch of woods. The traffic noise soon died out. The slender Aisne flowed evenly and gracefully, bend by bend, under low-hanging branches that he occasionally parried with his paddle, like in an onstage swordfight. A kingfisher darted from shrub to shrub. As the day wore on, he became drowsier and drank the rest of the Merlot as a pick-me-up. He felt that canoeing came easy to him; some things, like swimming, horseback riding, and lovemaking, you never forget. Even though he hadn’t done these things in years. He did not stay midstream, but rather followed the current’s swiftest course, which usually hugged the outside curves. He watched the sun: now to his left, now to his right, such were the river’s wild meanders.
A fallen tree blocked his way. He tried back-paddling, but by then he was too close. The right bank, where the uprooted tree had once stood, was not an option, as the trunk lay too low above the water’s surface to pass underneath it. The smashed crown rested on the opposite bank, but that still looked like his best chance.
“In the great hand of God I stand!” he shouted, gathering as much speed as he could and steering straight into the mass of branches and leaves. He got snagged, the canoe turned sideways at right angles to the current, an unexpectedly strong current, now that his upper half was stuck in the leaves; he leaned over, the canoe tipped to the larboard, and water gushed into the boat. He threw down the paddle, grasped at branches and twigs, and pulled himself with all his might deeper into the foliage.
“Damn’d be him that first cries: ‘Hold, enough!’” he bellowed, although that wasn’t one of Banquo’s lines, but Macbeth’s. Branches scraped his face, his anorak tore, and the front of the canoe was completely out of view, but he had regained control. The bow now pointed straight ahead again. He leaned forward and took hold of a large branch so as to pull himself farther downstream, but the canoe was still stuck. He stood halfway up and began rocking back and forth. Creaking and squeaking, the boat inched forward. When he felt he was nearly there, he sat back down. He made one, two more rocking motions, and the canoe broke loose and glided into the sunlight. He noticed blood on his hand, and wiped his face. A scar might well suit Banquo. He picked up the paddle and resumed his course. Torn-off leaves and twigs were strewn around his feet and the tarpaulin covering his gear.
The woods had passed, the Aisne now meandered through a landscape of open meadows, and an escort of exuberant heifers galloped along the high-lying banks with him. An unseen lark warbled jubilantly. The world seemed to him far more beautiful and rich on this side of the barrier than behind it.
Goddam, he thought. Goddam, my son couldn’t have pulled this off.
3
After a couple of hours, he felt the need for a nip, but the one bottle was empty and the other was up at the front of the canoe. Unable to find a suitable place to stop, he put down the paddle and crept forward. The canoe wobbled, now floating sideways with the languid current, but he reached the bow without much effort.
When the day came to a close, he had no idea how many kilometers he had traveled. As the crow flies he was probably no more than ten kilometers from Sainte-Menehould, but no matter. He began scanning the banks for a suitable place to set up camp. A grassy patch above a low-lying riverbank, with no buildings in sight. It was dusk by the time he found what he was looking for.
He leaned the bottle of Merlot against the cooler—he’d lost the screw cap—and set up his tent. Stars appeared. That big one above the willows on the far side, that must be Venus. How far was it at most from the sun again? Forty-eight degrees, he seemed to remember.
The shadows of the night sped toward him from the east. France was quieter than ever. It was still warm, and he hung his damp towels, trousers, and socks over the branches of the huge willow under which he had left the canoe. Yet more stars came out. The creatures of the night were asserting their rights.
“I must become a borrower of the night for a dark hour or twain.” He wondered which translation the hotshot Polish director would choose. If it turned out to be Claus or Komrij, he’d give them back the role. He wanted Burgersdijk. He knew the Banquo role inside out, at least in the original language.
He sat on the cooler; in it, the pâté and the salad he’d bought in Sainte-Menehould would have become suspiciously warm by now. He was not hungry. The tent flap was invitingly folded back, his sleeping bag unrolled, and his flashlight and cigarettes at hand. He was tired, but nothing more needed doing today. He drank and reflected. The night was now as dark as it would get at this time of year. Swallows—no, they were bats, surely—skimmed through the darkness. The Merlot was far from finished, but its vapid taste began to turn him off. As the screw cap was missing, he decided to hurl the bottle into the river. Whimsy was, after all, the best part about free will. That is what distinguishes us from animals, he mused. He simply felt like throwing the bottle into the river. He stood up and flung it, but heard no splash. Damn it, probably didn’t throw it far enough, he thought, and walked down the riverbank to see where the bottle had landed, and also because he needed to piss.
“Freedom means being able to just chuck my beer cans into the woods,” Hermann Scheidleder, a totally insane Austrian colleague, had once said. After he peed, without having found the bottle, he climbed back up the bank and got the Famous Grouse out of his backpack. The sharpness of the whiskey burned in his mouth, and he had the feeling of being cleansed, of once more becoming, for the moment, the person he really was. He swallowed, and the undisputable purity and strength of the alcohol filled him with deep satisfaction. Whoever does not know this feeling, he thought, doesn’t know what they’re missing.
That to-do with the assistant director had happened in Graz, during rehearsals for Don Carlos. He was Posa, because the director—who was it again, some stale old circu
s horse or other—had got it into his head that the marquis had to speak German with a Flemish accent. That had been his sole guest role abroad. Scheidleder was a flamboyantly mad Carlos, and everybody worshipped him during rehearsals, while he himself hardly got any notice at all, let alone recognition. In the canteen he had sought the support of the assistant director—who had, nota bene, studied dramaturgy—and suggested that his delivery of the line “Grant us liberty of thought, sire!” at that morning’s run-through was really something quite unique.
She had cut her knödel into quarters and replied amiably: “Oh yes, compared to that, perfection is nothing.”
Then he hit her. He was not sorry she had to be taken to the hospital, but did regret having let himself be provoked.
He held the whiskey bottle up against the moon. Still filled to just above the label.
Why don’t I just sit here until I’ve figured out what I want to do with my life, he thought. Sleep can wait. It can’t go on like this. I have to make choices.
Constellations he had earlier seen high in the heavens performed their somersault and fell downward to the dark tree line on the far side, like gymnasts having completed their jumps. Another three hours or so, and it would become light again. It was getting chilly. He took his sleeping bag from the tent, unzipped it, draped it over his shoulders, and sat back down on the cooler.
If I keep this up, I know how it will go and how it will end.
“If you don’t stop drinking now,” his doctor had said, “it will be too late. You’re on the verge of cirrhosis. It’s now or never.”
“The only good thing about cirrhosis,” he had said to his worried impresario, “is that I don’t have to talk to you about it.”
If I were to quit drinking today, everything will be different. Do I want that? Do I want things to be different? Even his wife, Minou, had landed in the hospital on occasion, but she had never pressed charges.
Say I decide here and now to swear off booze for good. Let’s say when this bottle of Famous Grouse is empty. That would mean that on the very first day of this trip, I’ve made a decision I’ve got four more days to make. It’ll take at least that long to reach Vouziers. And besides, I’ve been drinking, so how do I know if I am in my right mind when I make this decision? It’s like looking through blue glasses. What an idiotic expression. But I’ve still got time to think it over.