Rivers

by Martin Michael Driessen

  But he could no longer ignore what he knew deep down: it was indeed now or never. This was the first time in years he’d spent the night under the open sky. Within sight of the canoe he had bought for his son, and in which, in happier times, they had paddled down the Loire together.

  It’s now or never, he thought. Now or never. Damn it all, why can’t saintliness be deferred? If I get up right now and throw this nearly full bottle into the Aisne, I’ll be losing a hell of a lot. And forever, mind you, because there’s no turning back. I owe that to myself. I’ll have to pick up where I left off at age eighteen. As though I haven’t lived. As though everything up till now has been worthless.

  He stood up. I’m going to do it, he thought, and shuddered. Wrestling with the angel is wrestling with yourself. And one of us will lose. But I’m going to do it, then there’s no turning back. I won’t even take one last swig. He climbed to the highest point of the bank, braced himself, and flung the whiskey bottle into the middle of the river. This time there was a massive splash, a nocturnal bird flew up and screeched, and he felt like the knight who had thrown the sword Excalibur into the water.

  He pulled the canoe further up the bank, just to be sure, because it appeared that the river had swollen. He dragged the sleeping bag behind him into the tent and zipped the flap shut.

  4

  The following morning he made Nescafé on the portable camp stove, and shaved in a small mirror he had hung on a branch with a piece of wire. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and as he had no blow-dryer, his hair was draped over his head like soggy palm fronds. So this is how a man looks who no longer drinks, he thought. When you were young, you thought your mug would be at its best after forty, but now you’re pushing sixty, and you haven’t made a whole lot of progress. “Damned actors!” the old director in Graz used to remark. He was regularly quoted in the theater’s canteen: “First they booze it up until their noggin’s finally got a bit of character, and then they can’t remember any of their lines.”

  It must have rained heavily upstream, for the river had risen even more. Low-lying meadows had turned into lakes.

  The Aisne continued to wind through open land, and according to his guide, there wouldn’t be any more wooded banks before the weir at Autry.

  This high water made canoeing easy; he could pass tree obstacles either to the left or the right. A swan took off when he approached, and then swept forward past him, just above the water’s surface. It was overcast and less warm than yesterday. No longer used to physical exertion, he raised and lowered his shoulders every so often to relieve his muscles. After the next bend in the river, he spotted the swan again, about a hundred meters up ahead. And so the game continued: as soon as he approached, the swan would take off and swoop past him downstream. “Mein lieber Schwan,” he tried to sing, but he could only remember a few notes from Lohengrin, and no more lyrics than these.

  He had covered, he thought, quite some river kilometers without taking a single break. If the river keeps on swelling and the water keeps rising, he thought as the banks raced past him with the speed of a cyclist, I’ll be in Vouziers before I know it. As afternoon approached, he noticed the same swan accompanying him again, as though acting as an escort; each time the canoe drew near, it flew a few hundred meters further, landing with outstretched wings. Then it drifted for a while in the middle of the river, seemingly uninterested in anything else, until he nearly caught up with it. It did not do as most other waterbirds did—timidly taking cover at the riverside and then, once you’ve almost passed them, fleeing panic-stricken in the opposite direction. But it did not do what you might expect from an ostensibly superior animal like the swan: take off, circle halfway, and land far behind the intruder. Again and again it swam out ahead of the canoe, a bit concerned, it seemed, then took off and waited for him a ways further downstream.

  “Du blö-der Schwan,” he sang, “you stupid swan,” improvising to his four-note Lohengrin motive. He paddled more energetically than really necessary: he felt strong, as if he were already beginning to feel the effect of his total abstinence.

  When the sun eventually touched the tops of the willows, he realized he hadn’t a drop of alcohol on board. But that was irrelevant. He had, after all, decided never again to touch another drop. Over and done with. At a certain point, the swan, too, was gone. Night was falling, but he paddled on, partly because he did not know what to do with the rest of his evening once he’d set up his tent. And this was magical, floating into the darkness. It was almost noiseless now. All he heard were the sounds of the wide, flowing river, the call of an owl. The cows that he could still make out on the riverbank stood or lay chewing their cud, and they showed, for their part, scant interest in a man in a canoe. The stars elbowed their way above the black silhouette of the treetops. And he moved on effortlessly, meeting no further obstacles.

  I’ve never set up a tent in the dark, he thought, but luckily I’ve got that lamp to strap to my forehead, like the eye of a cyclops.

  It would be just the ticket in a confrontation, should anyone harass him. He would blind his assailant while keeping his own hands free. He had vast experience in dispensing with troublemakers. To the police officers who tried to make him sign a drunk driving report after he got behind the wheel of his Jaguar thoroughly inebriated, following the premiere of The Caucasian Chalk Circle, he had said, “If you claim that I am too drunk to drive a car, how then do you expect me, in my condition, to sign a statement?”

  And then that forest ranger. He was walking in the woods somewhere in Brabant; his dog was unleashed and chasing deer, and the man asked, “You are a nature lover, aren’t you, sir?”

  He had countered with, “Do you know what a rhetorical question is?”

  That was superb; this riposte belonged to his opening repertoire ever since, and as far as he was concerned, it was as classic as the Sicilian or King’s Indian in chess. Equally brilliant was his next move, when he had allowed the case to come to court and explained why he refused to sign that police report: “Your Honor, I do not wear reading glasses in the wilds.”

  And his endgame was likewise masterly, when the judge imposed a fine of two thousand francs.

  “Stupidity has its price,” he had said.

  “I’m glad you realize that,” the judge responded.

  To which he benignly replied, “I didn’t mean mine, Your Honor.”

  By now he had a great variety of retorts up his sleeve, should anyone bedevil him, under any circumstances, and he rehearsed them as regularly as a chess master does his theory. He did not consider himself at all pugnacious, but it was best not to cross him.

  He went ashore at a sort of mud-banked peninsula enclosed in barbed wire on iron staves, presumably placed to keep the cows from straying at low water. By now it was pitch-dark, too late to be choosy, so he headed for the spot where the barbed wire was lowest; the aluminum hull scraped over it with an awful screech, and to keep his sandals clean, he took them off before stepping into the mire, holding his canoe by the painter. The bank was high, not hopelessly steep but enough so that he thought, What the hell, the boat can stay in the water tonight. Before tying it up he collected the most essential gear—tent, sleeping bag, mat. It started to rain. Time to call it a day.

  As he fastened the canoe to one of the iron staves, a bottle drifted past. He bent over, scooped it out of the water, and held it up.

  Famous Grouse. The bottle he had thrown into the river had caught up with him.

  5

  He managed to get the tent set up in the pouring rain, although he was unable to keep his things from getting wet until they could be stowed under the fly. He had attached just three guylines instead of the sixteen that, along with the stakes, were in the oblong bag, and he’d tripped over those three lines repeatedly before he could take refuge inside the tent with just the essentials. This meant leaving the rest of his gear down below, and that the canoe would fill with rainwater during the night, but there was nothing to be done. H
e did not have the strength to go back down again, empty out the canoe, and flip it over.

  This is back to basics, he told himself. This is what life in the great outdoors is all about. He would manage to sit out the rest of this short summer night with what little he had at hand. He undressed and stuffed his wet things in a corner of the foretent. Without giving it any further thought, he put the whiskey bottle to his mouth and drank. A gift from the river gods, he thought. It was meant to be. Wisdom is knowing when not to think. He felt more contented than he had in ages, lying there in his clammy sleeping bag, listening to the rain, and every so often, putting the bottle to his lips.

  He had almost dozed off when he heard the sounds. Heavy footsteps. Panting and snorting. The tent fabric above his head was being pressed in. Cows. Now all he needed was for them to get snagged on the guylines, fly into a panic, and trample the tent. He strapped the lamp to his forehead, unzipped the sleeping bag, buckled on his sandals, and climbed outside.

  There were a good twenty of them. They stood in a semicircle around the tent in the starlight, and at the sight of him, they retreated slowly, their heads hanging low. The boldest and most inquisitive promptly took a step forward.

  “Go away, you!” he shouted, and walked toward them, waving his arms. They withdrew hastily, like a regiment in panic, and when he took a few more brisk steps in their direction, the battle line broke; they turned and scattered in all directions, colliding with one another, and trotted and galloped off, chaotic and ridiculous.

  “Go away!” he yelled again.

  They came to a halt a safe distance away and looked back at him. He saw the silhouettes of twenty-some pairs of ears against the firmament.

  “Leave me be,” he warned as he climbed back into his tent. He removed his wet sandals and dried himself off, took a swig of whiskey, and inspected the bottle in the light of his headlamp. There wasn’t much left, but it was enough to put him to sleep.

  When he settled down and switched off his lamp, it started anew. The heavy footsteps, the snorting. It sounded more agitated and wary than before. Maybe they’ll go away on their own, he thought. But after ten minutes this was not the case. He heard something scrape against the tent fabric and switched the lamp back on.

  The bright beam revealed a large black tongue rasping against the thin nylon. Furious, he put on his sandals and bolted out of the tent. They really had to leave him in peace, these animals. He gathered branches and stones and began pelting the herd, which had retreated a bit when he emerged. They sluggishly turned their heads toward where his projectiles landed. Even when he did hit one of them, it had little effect on the others. They were like aliens who did not understand why they were not welcome on Earth.

  It’s impossible to sow panic among an enemy this stupid, he thought. No field marshal would be a match for them. One animal in particular, almost solid white but with a black head, proved unflappable, and after every sortie took another inquisitive step closer. Goddammit, he thought, I’ll light a torch. That’ll teach you.

  Just then a car approached. The headlight beams lengthened and shortened, in keeping with the contours of the rough terrain. He had just enough time to pull on his jogging pants, because apart from his sandals he was naked, before confronting the blinding double sun of the headlights and the two sun dogs that detached themselves on either side, in the form of powerful flashlights, with a truculent “You are the owner, monsieur?”

  “Oui,” came the answer from behind the barrage of light. “What are you doing here?”

  He explained that he was only camping. The voice, which sounded very peculiar, as though it belonged to someone who had had throat cancer and now relied on an electronic speech apparatus, said that he should have asked for permission in advance and that he had to leave immediately. He said that this was not realistic, but that he would be gone in a couple of hours. The propriétaire said he would notify the gendarmerie.

  He thanked him for his hospitality and said he would be gone before dawn, without leaving behind so much as a trace of his sojourn. Eventually the sun dogs melted back into the double sun of the headlights, and doors slammed shut. He caught a glimpse of the second person, who only got in once the car had turned to leave. It was a young woman, still a girl, in a dark skirt and gumboots. As the car withdrew he could see the cows following the red taillights in an elongated caravan, most likely in the direction of the farm.

  He was relieved, his adrenaline dropped, he nipped from what was still in the bottle.

  But an hour or so later, just as he was about to fall asleep, it started again. The snorting. The licking of the tent roof. Livid, he crawled back out into the rain, this time barefoot, determined to put an end to it once and for all. Someone had once explained to him that a problem with livestock farming was that herds are not naturally structured. Normally you’d have a bull, cows of various ages, and calves. But if you put a whole slew of young animals of the same age and sex together, like yearlings and heifers, you’re asking for trouble. It becomes a gang of juvenile delinquents. An ensemble should consist of all age groups, too, not only young Romeos, like in his company.

  By the time he had pulled the cyclops lamp onto his head and switched it on, he found himself face-to-face with the white heifer with the black head. They were intolerably large and profound female eyes—the last thing he was in the mood for right now. Each ear sported a yellow clip with the number 234. The animal stood, legs apart, in front of the tent and gazed at him. He scrambled upright, cursing. The heifer lifted her tail and spewed shit over his cooler.

  He took three quick steps forward, and with all his might smacked her head with the whiskey bottle. It made a heavy thump, like a sledgehammer striking an anvil. The bottle did not break. The cow took a few steps back, the horns low, as if preparing for a counterattack. He heard the rest of the herd beat a retreat. But the white heifer with the black head stayed put, as though determined to do anything to salvage their relationship. He ran at her, the bottle raised. Eventually she made a clumsy sort of pirouette and attempted to flee. He did not know what possessed him, but he cut her off and forced her onto the neck of land above where his canoe was moored. The animal was cornered.

  “Avaunt, and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!” he bellowed and swung the bottle again.

  She dodged skittishly to one side and lost her balance. Her hind leg slipped over the edge of riverbank, and for a moment he saw half a cow. That, too, disappeared from view, and he heard the animal, panting and gargling, roll down the steep bank. There was a dull thud, like a heavy projectile hitting sludge, and immediately thereafter the plaintive lowing began. He went over to the edge. The heifer lay next to his canoe. One foreleg was outstretched in an unpromising position, and the other was buckled underneath the body. The hind legs, conversely, lay serenely alongside one another. But one of the iron staves to which the barbed wire was attached stuck out of her flank. The beast had impaled itself.

  Goddammit, he thought, what now? The heifer bellowed nonstop between rasping breaths. It wouldn’t be long before the farmer heard it. He had no idea how to put an animal this size out of its misery. Chalk it up to experience, he thought. Never commit a crime while canoeing down a river. You’ve been spotted, and you can’t run.

  For the second time, he flung the cursed bottle, which was not yet completely empty, into the Aisne, and returned to his tent. Get dressed, he thought. Money, papers, car keys. You never know what will happen next, but you have to be prepared. As he was doing this, the green nylon roof of his tent lit up. Car headlights. How much would a heifer like that be worth? He would pay, if necessary. On an impulse he tucked his Opinel pocketknife into his pants pocket.

  The floodlights glided off the tent, a car door opened and shut, and while he hastily tied the laces of his hiking boots, he heard a girl’s voice scream: “Oh, non. Non, non. Non! Tétine!”

  So number 234 had a name too.

  She thrashed at the tent with such a fury that it nearly col
lapsed. If there had been a door, she’d have kicked it in.

  He unzipped the fly and stuck out his head. Before him stood the same girl as before, the one with the dark skirt and the gumboots.

  “The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,” he mumbled sardonically. This is what Banquo says after having seen the witches.

  “Quoi?” she shrieked, and pointed to the river. “Come and help me!”

  She ran to the bank, sat down, and slid over the edge. The unseen heifer wailed unrelentingly. He climbed down the steep bank. She was crouched alongside the animal, one hand clamped on the iron stave that had pierced its flank.

  “Oh, ma pauvre Tétine . . . wait, wait.”

  When he reached her, she looked up. A nondescript, lanky farm girl. A Joan of Arc type, only not pretty enough. She stood up surprisingly fast.

  “What have you done?” she bawled. “You’ll pay for this. My father has already called the gendarmerie. Bastard! Help me!”

  He tried to help. They attempted to pull out the rod upward, but the animal lay on top of the barbed wire attached to it.

  “We have to roll her over . . . cut the barbed wire . . . quick!” They bundled their strength in an effort to get Tétine rolled onto her other flank, she tugging on the forelegs and he on the far heavier hindquarters. He felt like a hero in one of those action films, where an older but strong and experienced man comes to the aid of a young woman, for instance if they became stranded on a desert island. That was his kind of movie. He leaned back with his full weight, the cow’s surprisingly thin ankles in his fists, but there was no budging her. Maybe the barbed wire had dug deep into her flesh. The girl stood with her gumbooted feet in the mud, legs apart. Her woolen cap had glided off her head.