‘Sonja became embarrassed, what with the other customers and staff now looking up. She took the correct change out of Harry’s palm and began serving a group of loud GIs. When she next looked up, Harry had gone.
‘Katharina, the manageress, was one of three hundred thousand Italians who had abandoned their homes and villages and memories in Fiume, Istria, and Dalmatia to live in old capitalist Italy, rather than the new socialist Yugoslavia. She had a traditional and hearty contempt for Slovenians that was reinforced by the knowledge that they now lived in her old family home, and this contempt rose like fresh gnocchi in boiling water whenever her temper flared, which was frequently. She stage-whispered to another waitress in Italian, “Stupid vlacuga - as if she’ll ever see him again,” giving particular emphasis to the Slovenian word for whore.
‘Days passed, then a week, then another week. The manageress made jokes about how she should keep all Sonja’s pay, and use it to give coffee and cakes to every dopey half-starved southern Italian who wandered in. Late one afternoon Harry returned. He no longer wore the old threadbare coat. He no longer carried a sewing machine and he no longer smelt of hunger.
‘He walked up to the counter and, in front of the manageress, opened up a wallet bulging with money and gave Sonja a thousand lira. She refused the money but accepted the carnations he had brought. The manageress watched with interest. Harry ordered an expresso and two cakes and when he came to pay, passed an envelope along with the correct change to Sonja.
‘In the envelope were two 500-lira notes, a dried edelweiss, and a note written in bad Italian asking her if she would meet him some evening. He would be in the café at the railway station between seven and nine each evening for the next week.
‘When Sonja read the note by the yellow light of the electric bulb in the grimy toilet of her café, she was not to know that Harry went to the railway café not only for warmth but also because it was an ideal place from which to conduct his new business activities.
‘Not wishing to appear hasty in her interest, Sonja waited four days before deigning to visit the railway station café. At her work she mixed up orders, gave out the wrong change and generally found it difficult to concentrate. The manageress abused her and said it was only because of the manageress’s good heart that she kept Sonja on, stupid and useless Slovene that she was, whereas both Sonja and the manageress knew that Sonja was there because no Italian would work for as low a wage as a Slovene without papers would.
‘On the fourth day Sonja lit the brass petrol stove that her mother had found among the gear of a dead German soldier, put a dented aluminium mug on top and proceeded to melt a cake of soap. When the soap became molten she beat an egg into it using the fork with which she ate and cooked. With the mixture still warm and frothy, she took the dented aluminium mug off the stove. She placed the mug on the floor in the centre of her room, next to a jug of water and an enamel dish that had red roses painted on its side and a blue-edged rim. She knelt in front of the dish and there, with the soap-and-egg mixture and the water, she washed her wiry hair then rinsed it with cider vinegar she had stolen from the café. She filled the basin a second time and washed her body with a coarse pumice stone, then looked at her flesh glowing red from the scouring and the cold. She paused before dressing, and went over to the broken mirror that leant against the plywood wardrobe in the corner.
‘She looked at her reflection with interest, ran her hands round the glory of her pot belly, strong and round, defined on the sides by her hips, and from below by her public hair. She looked at her breasts with their still-girlish nipples, and ran her hands from her breasts down to the small of her back where she rested them, then turned her hands outwards so that her knuckles pressed inwards and her elbows stuck out. She threw her chin back and laughed at what she saw.
‘Il Duce stared back at her from the glass in the guise of a naked woman.
‘“The Slovenian people must realise that they have a destiny only in so far as and for as long as they merge their identity with that of the great Italian people,” she said, imitating the bombastic tones of Mussolini. Then, taking a step back, she lifted her right hand off her buttock and used it to placate an imaginary Roman crowd. “Until they have learnt this fundamental lesson of history, until they understand this fundamental lesson of history, they cannot complain if, because of their own arrogance, they suffer,” she continued. Her left hand rose from her other buttock to join her right hand in quelling the tumultuous applause that greeted this profound announcement. “And until then, and not before then, stupid vlacugi must realise that strange men offered kindness will simply take it and never return.”
‘A knock at the bedroom door. It is Maria Magadalena Svevo with the dress she has borrowed from a friend and just ironed for Sonja.
‘“A man that would lead you to go to so much trouble over yourself can only lead to trouble,” she admonished Sonja. But before she left she sprinkled the inside of the top and the waist of the dress with ground cloves. And cackled, “Fruit is best eaten seasoned.” Never again would Harry be able to eat apple strudel without feeling the most terrible desire.
‘The dress was made of cotton and printed with a floral design. It had two broad shoulder straps, was gathered at the waist, and fell to mid-calf. Sonja tried it on and her small, muscular body slipped easily into the scented fabric. She looked at herself again in the mirror and wiped the brown clove dust off her face with a towel. The dress was a size too big, but standing in front of the mirror, Sonja felt good in it.
‘At the railway café she saw Harry engaged in deep conversation with another, considerably older, man with a large moustache and heavy black bristles. She knew him from the past. She became nervous and decided to leave, but just as she went to depart, Harry spied her and jumped up from his table with a large grin.
‘“Hello,” he said, then faltered, because he still did not know her name. His eyes fell but he quickly recovered, saying, “Harry Lewis. I am so glad you came.” His grin returned.
‘“Hello,” she said. “My name is Sonja Cosini.”
‘The man with black pig bristles stared at Sonja’s breasts and his nostrils twitched. He looked worried. Then he made excuses that he must leave, saying in a somewhat forced manner that he would meet Harry tomorrow at the post office, placing particular emphasis on the final two words. After he had left, both Sonja and Harry relaxed.
‘“Business associate,” said Harry, just in case she should think he may have been a friend.
‘“Sewing machines?” asked Sonja.
‘“No,” laughed Harry, lighting two cigarettes in his mouth and passing one to her. “Well, yes,” he added. For the first time she noticed that he had no thumb on his right hand. Then he said, “Not exactly sewing machines.” And again he grinned. “Actually, I am trying to give them up. Trieste seems as good a place to do it as anywhere.”
‘“Sewing machines?”
‘Harry laughed. “Yeah. Them too.”
‘For a while neither spoke. Then Sonja went to say something just as Harry began to speak. Both stopped, then nervously laughed.
‘“I am not Italian,” Sonja said.
‘“Nor am I.” Harry drew in smoke.
‘“That much was obvious,” said Sonja and she smiled again, nervously, affectionately. “Almost as obvious as your new job.”
‘Harry pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, his smile gone, and looked at her intently. “Is it that obvious?”
‘“My father worked as a smuggler between Austria and Yugoslavia before the war. So I know. But it’s a lot more dangerous now. Now they shoot to kill.”
‘Harry said nothing.
‘“What are you taking over?” she pressed him.
‘Harry looked furtively around, then leaned forward and whispered in her ear.
‘Sonja burst out laughing. “Sewing machines!”
‘Harry looked somewhat aggrieved. “Nobody but nobody has got sewing machines in Yugoslavia. They’re worth a
fortune. Drago - that man who was here before - he has the contacts in the Party.” He raised a finger and waggled it at her. “We sell only to the top - generals, high-ranking Party officials - and they pay in American dollars.” He put the cigarette back in his mouth and leaned back. “It’s very safe.”
‘Sonja looked at him and just shook her head, and wished she didn’t feel the desire for him that she did.’
Maria Magadalena Svevo stopped for a moment. Couta Ho raised an objection. ‘The problem with these stories is that they presume there are one or two moments in your life that define what you are for the rest of it. Life’s not like that.’
Maria took the cigar out of her mouth, smacked the grey salmon flesh of her tongue around her lips to moisten them, and said, ‘What if it were?’
‘It’s not. My life doesn’t feel that way anyhow. It feels just the opposite - rushed. Always having to decide this or that. Countless decisions.’
Maria watched the languid rise of the smoke from her near-dead cigar toward the ceiling. ‘What if it is? As I get older and older I think perhaps there is a great truth in such stories. I used to be quite confused about such things. Now I think that maybe the confusion is what we use to not hear the silence. To not see the emptiness.’ Maria Magadalena Svevo paused, but Couta Ho said nothing. Maria Magadalena Svevo decided to tell another story.
‘I knew a young girl once and she fell in love with a young man, a nice young man, from her village. She must have been … well, at least eighteen. And she fell pregnant. And the young man, because he was a good man, said he would do the right thing, as they say, and marry her. And she refused him. They sat together in her bedroom for two days, crying. She said she would not marry him because of the baby, because the baby was the wrong reason to get married. And because he was a good man he countered that he loved her and that he believed in the idea of their marriage. They could not agree on what was to be done, and because they did love one another with all their hearts they ended up crying at their own tragedy. They cried so much that their tears stained the bedspread upon which they sat. Her family listened to the couple crying and wondered what would happen. When they finally came out of the bedroom it was for her to announce that they would not be getting married and that she was going on a short holiday to the nearest town. At the town she had an abortion - by what means I don’t know, because this was a very long time ago, when such things were done in secret. On her return journey home her cart ran off the road into a tree and she was killed. After her death there was a funeral, and a respectful time after the funeral they cleaned out her room in preparation for a boarder. There was not much there, because they were a poor family. The tear-stained bedspread they took off the bed and washed, but the tear stain would not wash out. Try as they might they could not wash the tear stain away. They bleached the bedspread several times, and in the first few years following her death washed it frequently, but none of it made the slightest difference. The tear stain remained. I suppose it troubled them in the end, this bedspread, for they gave it to the young man who had been her lover.’
‘And then what happened?’ asked Couta Ho. ‘To the young man, I mean?’
‘Oh. Nothing. Nothing at all really. He married, many years later. Not a happy marriage, nor an unhappy one. His wife bore him four daughters. And when the eldest turned nineteen he gave her the bedspread and told her this story.’
‘And then?’
‘Then nothing.’ Maria pulled a cigar out of the double-headed eagle box and tapped the double-headed eagle on one of its two beaks with the cigar end.
‘Es ist passiert,’ she said ruefully. Her head was bowed, and just for a moment, though only for a moment, Couta Ho thought the craggy old voice quavered. ‘It just happened like that, that’s what the old Austrians used say. Es ist passiert.’ She stopped again, as if her thoughts were interrupting her speech. Then, as abruptly as she had halted, she recommenced talking. ‘Now the daughter sleeps under that bedspread every night, and as she falls asleep she looks at that stain and wonders about the strangeness of life and what she would be, if anything, if her father’s lover had not made that fateful decision.’
Maria looked at her cigar for some time, as if minutely examining it for flaws. Then she lighted it, inhaled and, holding her breath, spoke in a husky voice. ‘Would you like to see it?’ she asked Couta Ho. She swallowed spittle. Then exhaled a dragon breath of smoke.
the fifth day
The smoke fills my vision. When it finally clears I see the punters gathered round the fire site and Rickie the doctor making a few desultory efforts to get the fire going. It is a dismal affair, for after so much rain even the wood under the fly is wet. The fire in consequence spits and hisses and steams and smokes as a thin slink of flame slides in and out of the wet sticks, as if searching for one that will burn. It is breakfast. The morning comes slowly, the light weak and oppressive, the black clouds, though no longer emptying torrential rain, still there, making the bluey-black sky look as though an ink bottle has fallen upon it.
The Cockroach looks at the menu, a typed sheet in a clear plastic envelope, to see what they are meant to be eating on day five. The Cockroach doesn’t bother with the fire, but instead cranks up two petrol stoves and puts a billy of water on each; one for coffee, one for porridge. As the stoves busily rumble with the rapid pulsation of the petrol vaporising I can see Aljaz walking down out of the rainforest and onto the riverbank. I watch him stretch and yawn; his body, dry and warm from a night’s rest in his sleeping bag, now at odds with the cold and damp.
He checks the stick he put in the bank as a water gauge the evening before. The river’s edge ebbs and rises in minuscule waves and he spends some time watching, making sure that his reading is correct. The river is up perhaps ten centimetres on its level of the previous evening. Compared to the five metres it rose over the previous day, it is a marginal increase. Aljaz goes and fetches the Cockroach. They both go back down to the river and look at the gauge. They wonder whether they should try and go through the gorge or stay put. They look at the clouds and try and guess what the weather will do. If they stay put for a second day they will fall further behind schedule. The lost time is not impossible to make up by any means, but it will be hard to rendezvous with the seaplane at the pickup point on the Gordon River. But if the river continues to rise then the gorge will become far too dangerous and they must simply wait, no matter how frustrating it is for the punters, who are already thoroughly sick of seeing their precious vacation days drift away with the rushing flood waters.
‘Should we wait one more day?’ asks the Cockroach. Aljaz looks around, surprised that the Cockroach shares his thoughts. The Cockroach laughs his easygoing laugh, his buck teeth protruding. ‘Ah, well. The gods will punish us if we don’t wait long enough,’ he says. It is a joke and his buck teeth protrude again. The Cockroach notices something. He leans down, squints, and then points at the gauge stick. The river has started to drop, albeit slightly. And at the very moment of the Cockroach’s discovery, a single shaft of light cuts through the gloom and illuminates the two river guides as if it were a spotlight. They look up toward the heavens and see that the clouds have parted and some blue sky has appeared. Their decision seems to have been made for them by an ethereal force. ‘Into the gorge on a falling river,’ laughs the Cockroach. The two river guides turn and start heading back up into their rainforest camp. ‘The angels have ordered us,’ says the Cockroach.
When they get back they find that the porridge has burnt. Derek the accountant apologises. ‘I stirred her twice,’ he says by way of inadequate explanation, ‘but I wanted to pack up my sleeping bag.’ The Cockroach rolls his eyes, tells Derek he’s a moron, and says that he’ll make the coffee. He makes it extra strong and black, and the grounds fill Aljaz’s mouth. As he sips from his chipped green enamel mug, Aljaz squats on the ground. His guts rumble as the thick black coffee mixes with the fears in the pit of his stomach. His bowels feel unusually heavy. The punters gather
round the two river guides like animals around a corpse. They sense that a decision has been made, but no one asks. They murmur in low tones to each other about their digestion or their night’s sleep and the little tricks they have deployed to make sure they rest better.
‘I roll up my clothes and put them in my sleeping bag cover and make a pillow of them,’ says Sheena.
‘I dig a little hole for my hip,’ says Rickie.
‘I sleep in my wet socks and they dry in my sleeping bag from my body heat,’ says Derek.
‘I light up me farts and that keeps me warm of a night,’ says Otis. The others look around at the big boy-man. Watch his face slowly turn up into a smile. ‘Itsa a joke.’ Aljaz smiles. The Cockroach laughs. The others follow.
Aljaz stands up and stretches, rubs his hands over his stubbly cheeks, pulls his Fitzroy beanie off and runs a hand through his thin greasy hair, then pulls the beanie back on. When the laughter dies down, he speaks. ‘If I could just have everyone’s attention for a minute.’ The low murmuring dies away. ‘Normally we don’t set off into the gorge at this sort of level. But as you can feel, the air is warmer than it was yesterday and the rain has stopped. That warm air means the weather has changed round to northerly. That means it should be clear skies for at least the next few days. The river has started to fall and I think with this sort of good weather it will fall real quick through the day.’
Aljaz looks around at the punters, takes one last swig from his enamel mug, then throws the remnant coffee grounds on the fire. ‘The Cockroach and I feel that we would be safe going through the gorge and that maybe we ought give it a crack today. If we do decide to go, we’ll only be going as far as the Coruscades today, where we camp at the top of the second major portage. Tomorrow we would go through the rest of the gorge.’ Aljaz’s statement is greeted with a general murmur of approval. The punters are as sick of waiting around in their tents as Aljaz and the Cockroach.
‘So we’re going or what?’ asks Marco.
Death of a River Guide Page 15