“How long is the ferry ride?”
“Oh, we’ll be there tomorrow morning. Very early I think. Maybe seven.”
“You mean we’ll be on this overnight?”
“Sure. And we go past my ancestral home. But far away at night. You can’t see. But I would like to show you. Sometime.”
He looked a little sad. Ancestral home is not a phrase you hear in America. I told him so.
“No?” He looked surprised. “But don’t your people come from somewhere in America?”
How could I explain that there was nothing ancestral about coming from Akron?
“Where do we sleep?” I asked. It was getting on into the late afternoon. We had eaten at the ferry restaurant. There were bathrooms and a bar and lounge. Had he rented us an overnight room I hadn’t seen?
“Over there.” He pointed next to the Lambretta, between two large shell shaped vents.
I followed his finger and pointed also. “There? On the deck?”
He took my hand and turned it palm down and touched my ring.
“You are engaged?” he asked.
I didn’t pull my hand away. “Not technically.”
“But practically?”
“We are,” how to characterize our arrangement, “committed.”
“And this means you are,” he hesitated, looking for the right word it seemed. “Lonely for him?”
“Well yes. I am,” I said. “But I’m not sure what I want for the rest of my life.”
“Ahhh,” he nodded and dropped my hand. “I wish we could be on the fast ferry, the one with nice rooms. The other passengers will sleep in the lounge I think. Or in their cars. We have the sleeping bags. It will be all right.”
Later, in the dark, under the phosphorescent sky like a sea above us, we lay side by side zipped into our cocoons, with the soft rumble of the ferry motor and the rhythmic slap slapping of waves against the hull. I slid my arms up and out from the sleeping bag to feel the cool night air on my skin.
“Later, after we have returned to Roma,” Petru was awake. He must have been watching me. “Then I can take you on the fast ferry to Campomoro in Corsica where my family has a home. You would like that?” The air was so fine, the night sky so close, the sound of the sea so soothing, I would have liked anything. I even liked sleeping on deck behind the big clamshell of a vent.
When I said, “That sounds wonderful,” nothing else seemed to exist but that moment and I did not think past where we were and what happened next did not seem at the time to be out of place or wrong in any way.
I felt his fingers on my arm, soft, gentle. He slid the zipper of my sleeping bag down slowly until my leg was exposed and his hand moved down to my ankle where he cupped the arch of my foot. He held it like that, as if it was an apple in his palm and then his hand moved slowly up my leg.
He must have unzipped his own bag, or maybe he had never closed it at all. Maybe he had planned all this. I never asked. I don’t think I wanted to know. There were other mysteries about Petru. How such an innocent looking young man could have become so practiced in the art of love making? How he could know that a woman would say yes without actually asking her?
He moved slowly. First next to me. Then on top of me. Then inside me. Slowly, with the rhythm of the ship, the rumble of the engines. I had no idea of time and when it was over, and we lay there staring up at the night sky, he twined his fingers between mine and said in a soft voice, “You bring me luck. I feel it.”
We arrived in Tangiers by taking another ferry, a short trip from Algeciras this time, and once off the boat, Petru gunned the little one cylinder motor and off we went. I had no idea where or why. I was drunk with him by then. He could have taken me anywhere.
At the house of an American poet and his Russian mistress, contacts from Petru’s friends at the theatre troupe, we were taken inside and fed. The poet and his mistress and their three kids were living on about twenty cents a week which included a Moroccan nanny. The poet took Petru off into the country where they met a farmer who sold him a donkey load of marijuana for twenty dollars, probably more money than that man would see in a year. Maybe two. The poet even took a cut. We spent the next two days hunched over weed in the poet’s back garden rubbing the dried leaves and flowers off the branches and sifting them down into a huge hammered copper bowl. After this grueling handwork was done, we had five pounds of freshly dried pot and nowhere to put it.
“Where can we hide it?” Petru mused. He stared at our meager belongings, at the Lambretta, at me. I certainly hadn’t come prepared for this.
“Maybe we could stuff it in something” I suggested. “How about we stuff it in a pair of your socks.”
After we did that, we had two tubes of socks stuffed with crinkly fresh pungent pot.
“Okay, now what to do with the socks?” Petru asked.
We looked around at our sleeping bags, our Lambretta, our few paltry pieces of clothing and our food bag.
“There’s nowhere to hide anything really.” I was glum. Then I started to examine the Lambretta.
“What about the spare tire?”
“Perfecto.” He went to work unscrewing it from its housing. He took it off of its metal ring and inserted the socks on the inside, neatly following the curve of the tire. Then he put it back on its metal housing and screwed it back onto the Lambretta.
We said our good-byes to the poet, the Russian, the nanny and the kids, and climbed aboard a Yugoslavian freighter to cross the Mediterranean back to Italy. Genoa, Italy to be precise. This was less romantic than the ferry. No sleeping on deck. Sleeping in bunks with twelve other people.
You have to be very patient if you’re planning to travel by freighter. You spend a lot of time waiting at the dock for the ship to fill up with cargo. There’s no telling how long it will take. This freighter had two family style cabins for passengers all of whom were American. Some of them had traveled on this barge from Newark five weeks before. It must have been the longest crossing since the Pinta, Nina and Santa Maria left Spain looking for the spice route and found Hoboken. The crew all spoke Yugoslavian exclusively. The ship had a small library. Most of the books were in English. A lot of Dickens. There was also a chess board. Captain Slobishslanovanovisk – or Capt. Slob as the passengers called him – liked to play chess with the Americans when he wasn’t at the helm or otherwise occupied with captain type duties. Chess is a universal game that breaks the language barrier nicely but it’s a pretty deadly spectator sport.
After a week of waiting I wanted to ask, “By the way, when do we actually take off from this port? Should I enroll in Moroccan social security?”
After a two day crossing which followed a five day dock wait, we landed in Genoa, Italy. In the middle of a garbage strike. That was three weeks old. It was about a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. We drove our Lambretta up to the customs gate and waited for the guards to finish their Chianti before waving us through. Petru told me to wear my little sundress that stretched very tight across my bust. It worked. No one looked at the tire. They waved us on and we putt putted through the city holding our noses and dodging chicken bones and headed north toward Roma at twenty-two kilometers an hour. Petru seemed determined to push straight through and we arrived in Rome just before midnight, tired, dusty, smelly and with those socks still intact in the spare tire. He dropped me at my apartment and I practically fell up the stairs, exhausted and bewildered. Had I been taken for a trip or taken for a ride?
A week later Petru showed up at my door early one morning. He rang my bell and called me downstairs.
“Will you come to the play this tonight?” he asked, softly with that intoxicating smile. He leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. “I pick you up at eight.” He was off with a wave and a grin, his kiss damp on my lips.
We sat midway between the lowest seats around the old stone stage and the highest ones in the nosebleed section. Everyone else seemed to have brought cushions. Petru had neglected to mention how hard the marble seats wer
e. The whole amphitheater was carved out of a marble quarry.
Music played. The crowd hushed. Petru took my hand. He kissed my fingertips. I began to melt all over and then a voice called out a kind of song and one by one the actors came onstage. Naked. Every one of them. Just like they had been the other day in the garden. I even recognized a few of them.
There wasn’t much dialogue. There was a lot of – how shall I put it – behavior modeling? I suddenly understood quite a lot of what I had experienced over the past few weeks. No, it was not necessary for this performance to be in English or any other language. And Petru? Well now I understood how he knew so much about so many things. When it was over, and I personally considered that a blessing, and he told me he now had enough money to take me to Corsica on the expensive ferry, I told him I had to work and that I did very much miss my music man back home.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE WOMEN
A river is a living thing. It has character, moods, a personality. Under average conditions the Trout River is rather lazy, like a hunting dog asleep under a tree. Its curves and pools have a gentle rhythm. Its flat water moves a canoe along at a slow, steady pace; its quick water is easily navigated. It is friendly, even tempered, altogether hospitable. Sometimes, especially during the spring thaw, it becomes quirky and spirited, burbling and jumping over rocks and fallen tree limbs, rushing toward the falls like a galloping herd.
The Trout curves around, at times deep with clear pools, at times wide with pebbled banks, at times running over boulders and between ledges. When it runs over rocks large enough to disturb the water, it forms rapids. Its gentle rippling turns into a rush; it shouts, sings, warbles, burbles, at times flattens out to no more than a rumbly current until it finally reaches Trout River Falls.
It is also remote. Only two bridges cross the Trout River; the Water Street Bridge at Trout River Falls some 250 miles from the Trout’s headwaters and an old wood and steel railroad trestle far to the north of town, an area so remote no one but the train engineers ever see it. Passenger trains used to cross with a clacking sound that echoed through the forest for miles, but train travel fell out of favor and now the north south line is used most frequently by freight trains. Above this trestle and between it and the falls, a canoe can travel the Trout undisturbed by man, machine, or cell towers. No roads run alongside the river; no towns are situated near it; only a few farms border marshes and springs near its northernmost run. Along most stretches of the Trout River, forests stretch for miles on both sides.
Maze and I arrived at the put in first. Located at a break in the forest it ran along a pebbled stretch of beach that made a perfect place for vehicles to park and unload passengers and gear. Pale orange, buff and brown stones like speckled granite sparkled in the river bed beneath the clear meandering water.
We had paddled the Trout below the falls where the banks widen and the water runs deep and smooth, but had never started this far north in the narrow, shallow part. He dragged the canoe off the car rack. Together we carried it to the edge of the water. I had packed two changes of underwear, some personal toiletries, a sweatshirt, sleeping bag, small tent, cooking gear, six camping mess kits, one for each woman. I brought food – cereals, noodles, freeze dried vegetables, dried fruits, nuts, granola bars, transferred them all from their packaging to zip lock bags and packed them into a duffel. Erica and I had agreed on a long list divided among the women. Others were to bring the rest of the packaged food, gallons of drinking water, two more small tents, the other two canoes and paddles, and the rest of the gear we would need for three days alone on the river and two nights of camping. All together, it came to eight or nine meals, a couple of changes of clothes, cooking and eating utensils, washing supplies, lighters and fire accelerant in case it was damp, flashlights, a hatchet, Swiss Army knife, and tents, towels, soap, shampoo, and whatever personal items each of us needed. Along with the essentials, I had packed one bag with something I hadn’t discussed with the others. Just in case. I loaded this into the canoe with my other duffels and laid the paddles against the canoe’s gunwale. Maze leaned against the car with his arms folded, his face a dark cloud.
“So you’ll meet me at the town put in above the falls in three days.”
Before he could answer Erica’s minivan pulled up with two canoes tied to the roof racks. Erica waved to me. She was wearing balloony overalls and red sneakers. Her hair was braided back around her head. A burly man with an ample gut got out of the driver’s side. He looked out at the river and then turned and walked toward Maze, as if he couldn’t get away from a car with five women in it fast enough.
“Hi,” he stuck out his right hand, “Will Marston.”
They pumped each other’s hands and immediately started talking about fishing on the river. They walked over to the water’s edge. Will pointed at an eddy in the middle of the water. Maze gestured as if to show a fish swimming into and out of the eddy. They nodded and wandered along the bank.
It surprised me, as it always did, how Maze could so completely mask his feelings the moment another man showed up.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Erica came to my side. “All the way here in the car all he could do was complain about me going away for three whole days. You’d think he didn’t know how to open a can of tuna by himself.”
***
After we loaded the canoes, said goodbye to the men, and watched the cars pull away, it was like we had been released from boarding school. The six of us gathered around a large flat rock where I spread out a chart of the Trout River. I can only describe the atmosphere as giddy. Like we were young girls again.
“Here’s where we are.”
I pointed to a spot on the chart.
“And here’s where we’re going to end up.”
I looked from face to face.
Erica. Big, friendly, outspoken, hard-working Erica. Who would always tell you exactly what she thought. Who would always be there for anyone who needed help. Self effacing, funny, with a big heart that matched her body.
Roz. Curt & to the point. A bit tomboyish, she had short, curly black hair, wore khaki shorts, a tight-fitting tank top, and Teva’s. A small ankh hung on a silver chain around her neck. Her body looked athletic so I assumed she worked out or perhaps was a runner. She had a small tattoo on her left shoulder. It looked like a bat or maybe a moth but I hadn’t gotten a close look at it. “If the river stays like this and we paddle leisurely what do you think we could cover in a day – about twenty miles?”
“I think that’s about right. If we don’t want to push it.”
I went back to the map.
“What if one of the canoes can’t keep up with the others?”
Timid, cautious Hope. She was slender, fragile looking, no muscle on her at all and pale, as if she’d spent her life indoors. She wore her straight, mousy, brown hair hanging to her shoulders. Her green khaki pants didn’t fit her body. She had on a faded logo T-shirt with the name of some lobster restaurant in Bangor, Maine.
“Don’t be scared, little girl, we won’t leave you behind.”
Roz patted her on the arm.
Hope blinked and shrugged a little. I wasn’t sure if this meant she was nervous about keeping up a steady pace or just rattled by Roz.
“Who cares how fast we can go. Let’s just get started.”
Charlene the executive type. Charlene was a lawyer. When we were unloading the car with all the gear, Charlene took over, telling the others how to pack the canoes, whose bags to put where, how to position the canoes at the river’s edge. She made a face when Will Marston pushed one of the canoes too far past the water’s edge and told him to lash it to a tree branch so it wouldn’t float away.
“It’s a good idea to have a general plan.” I told her. “So we all know what to expect. You can never be sure of what might happen on the water.”
“It’s gorgeous.” Charlene looked up at the sky and waved her arms around as if to say nothing could possibly happen.
“Let’s see the map,” said Valerie. Tall, slender, the facial bone structure of a model, fair, wavy reddish hair, large gray eyes, wearing stylish navy blue khakis, a long-sleeved pale blue cotton blouse, new blue and gray sneakers with an intricate stitch pattern of alternating bands of color and fabric. To shade her from the sun, she had on a wide brimmed straw hat with a ribbon tie. I also noted the Rolex, diamond stud earrings and wedding ring with matching diamond solitaire. No one else was wearing jewelry, except for my own battered Tag, a present from my father when I went on my first scuba dive at fifteen. And that ankh around Roz’s neck.
Valerie wore make up. She looked like she was going to a lawn party. I wondered what would happen to those sneakers the minute they hit the water and if the rings would hurt her hands after paddling for five hours.
Downriver to the falls was fifty to sixty miles of curves, pools, and, at certain points, I suspected class one rapids, which we could easily negotiate. The chart showed water depths from less than a foot to over twenty feet in some places. If the water became too choppy, I told them, we could hug the shore to avoid anything too difficult to paddle. Portaging, I said, would be hard with so much weight from gear in the canoes, but not impossible, if we had to do it. Although I couldn’t see that being necessary.
“I think in these areas, we might have to wear the life vests.”
Had anybody thought to bring helmets? I shrugged. I didn’t think we’d need them.
They gathered around the chart. I had made little red X marks where I thought we would be staying overnight and blue ones for meal and pit stops. The second red X marked an island in the middle of the river. I suggested we might stay there the second night.
The Naked Gardener Page 6