It Takes a Thief

by Niels Hammer

  XXVIII

  As if slightly wary of what the new day might bring he sat up in the bed to have a closer look at the milky drizzle outside. A homogeneous layer of clouds passed by at a height of three or four thousand feet towards the Arctic Ocean. The weather was sullen and the wind South-westerly – but Caitlin was sound asleep – breathing through her left nostril – at peace with the world because at peace with herself. This strange boulversement of his life had come as unsuspected as death might have done – and he lay back to re-enter a semi-fluid state where concepts could not crystallise out to influence mood with solid shapes – so sleep came gently again like a warm thick mist from the ground to dissolve him in the freedom of non-intentionality.

  When he woke again – much later – he was lying alone in the broad-beamed bed of birth – love and death. She had thrown the eiderdown aside impatiently to engage the new day – and the prospect of the planned activity of the immediate future began to take shape in front of his eyes as sharp-lined images while the pleasant drowsiness of inaction faded out into the past. Just another day in this that was his life – another day in which to do or die – for her? But she had saved him – from the absurdity of trying to give life spontaneous meaning – to continue through each pass of tears – with une vraie raison d’ être quite apart from painting and quite apart even from Nature. Superficially it could be explained by plain biology but there was more to it than met a mere four-dimensionally scrutinising eye of scientific bias. For what was a man really? Breath and shadow. A superfluous burden upon the Earth. Either a strumpet’s fool or his own if focused on career – competition – power – self-promotion – all the laukikāḥ superficialities. Far from him should such meanness be. Love as passion could open the hatch to a possible transcendence – to the alaukikaḥ state of any honest animal. He had only to be true to his present feelings – to be true to his own dharmaḥ – so he should join her to-day to get a new experience. And that was also why she intrigued him. He was discovering her – his new-found wilderness – and some aspects in himself he had dimly felt only existed as poor potentialities. Rising to search for his slippers with his toes he shivered in the raw air from the window and hurried downstairs to the kitchen – attracted by the smell of toast and her strange Stone Marten sounds. A morning-drowsy bumble-bee – the rose-red flower of Dawn.

  “It’s not a skylark’s weather to day, so it seems that we will be favoured by fortune.”

  “I hope so though it’s still far from certain.”

  To ward off the vigilant kudṛṣṭiḥ perhaps? He kissed her good morning – she kissed him good day.

  “You slept so peacefully, like a tired child, that I didn’t want to wake you.”

  The excitement of the enterprise was perceptible in her movements as an irrepressible buoyancy that would keep him afloat with his head above the turbulence of submerged anxieties for the rest of the day – but she was also ascertaining his amenability to be baptised in her fire.

  “It’s nice to be up in the morning but better to stay in bed when the weather is foul.”

  “That’s what we used to say when we only had inefficient fire places and no proper heating.”

  She smiled at his wilful ignorance because she forgave him his weakness for nostalgic dreams.

  “I was trying to imagine what your life would have been like as a child?”

  “We had a nice, warm and cozy house. I remember my childhood with affection, but I am certainly not sentimental; and I have had no difficulty in accepting that life has changed. You see, I’m a woman, a chameleon.”

  “But in moments of great agitation the true Celtic colours of Bannock Burn flare up, as with your accent. Usually there’s barely a hint present, so if you had been less excitable, less wild, less sea-natural and more Roman or even Anglo-Saxon I might never have found you.”

  “And you would not have fallen in love with me either, would you?”

  “I cannot imagine you in any way being different from what you are so I don’t know, but what shall we do all day before embarking on our expedition?”

  “I know what you want, but let’s wait. We’ll have to start at about half past three.”

  The lust of the chase – the lust of battle in the tone of her voice – the sound of a slightly fluttering leech. As always it was the exploring circuit – dopamine – which later would be overtaken by β-endorphine activity – if and only if everything went well – but his state of mind was also influenced by his mirror neurones – and even disregarding them which he could not he had to continue running with his dripping tongue hanging out over his teeth to follow her spoor.

  “Waiting is always the worst part of it, but we have to get ready and that will take some time anyway. I’ll have a look at my tools and make a list of what we have to remember, and remember not to forget. I must first of all disassemble the transmitters opposite the doors. And the routine is crucial. You have to get the process of doing it right into your blood stream, so that it becomes second nature.”

  The steely determination in the timbre of her voice maintained an authentic tension. It was also the urge of having to manifest herself properly prepared for battle that whisked him away.

  “So you make lists which you check like a flight plan just before take-off?”

  “Yes, it’s always a question of knowing when to be systematic and when to rely on intuition.”

  “Half an empirical science and half an honest art?”

  “That’s one of the main reasons why it’s so rewarding. Both aspects play together.”

  “So even I might end up becoming a veritable aficionado?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t put it past you.”

  As much to him as to herself – but she was also inviting him to explore a new experience – and as always it would be emotional as well as intellectual suicide to form an opinion on something about which he had no direct personal experience – no proper sākṣāt.

  “I know you’re still slightly apprehensive, but you don’t have to worry. You can rely on me.”

  “I am already relying on you for every single breath I take.”

  Pulling her up from the chair he felt her response – womanly – wily – wild – wiry – wilful – wanton – wet – womb-warm –

  “Come!”

  Her hand on the tiller – tied to her rudder?

  “No, wait!”

  Disengaging herself from his embrace with the soft movements of an affirmation she went up the stairs to hone her plans and he began to clear the table for want of having anything else to do. Activity was a flight from inly peace but there was plenty of time yet. The last battery was fully charged so he carried it out to the car and remembered the tarpaulin. It could be fitted as a roof above the scaffold and it would reach out over the gunwales. They should take the mattress also and the blanket.

  “I’m meeting Barbara in twenty minutes.”

  “Do you have a towel or a piece of cloth?”

  “Yes, I put it in the booth yesterday.”

  So he kissed her goodbye though hardly able to let her slip out of his arms for a couple of hours – or for ever – and watched the car as it disappeared behind the trees into the unknown. Triumph or disaster – ought to be kif-kif – but the shadow fell between the reality and the dream – so he had to wash and shave – to be ready for his fate – in whatever shape it would come. A little later – calming his agitation with the opium of intentionality – he arranged sou’westers – spare clothes – torches fitted with red plastic cover – mosquito hats and veils – gloves – two towels – the infrared binoculars – the binoculars – the telescope – the tripod – three phials with ketamine – two needles – the syringe and the water-tight container on the bed – and took his vest down from the hanger to see into which pockets the things that had to be handy would fit or where they would be most convenient. Then there wer
e only the smelly cloth and the piece of meat – each in a plastic bag – left – beside spare socks – trousers and sweaters in case of too much rain.

  To escape thinking he walked down to the landing and bailed the rain water out of the boat. A soft dark-grey light played on the surface of the silently moving water and the smell of mulch – leaves and roots that saturated his nostrils – was wet and heavy. The mattress – the blankets – the tarpaulin – the pillows – the motor – the three batteries – the plastic covers – the mosquito net – were all still in the car – but of course they would need something to eat and drink as well. To celebrate they could share of bottle of Champagne on the way back from Wroxham. Two glasses and the Turkey meat that had been in the box yesterday – bread and olives. He knew now how keenly he looked forward to having accomplished the task but also to the prospect of doing it – however – that might be because she really enjoyed it and because he was doing it together with her. It would strengthen the double – carbon-fluoride – bond between them. The shared experience would smith them together because the emotions were red-hot and alike. The recognition and the knowledge would come later on as an afterglow. The weather could be a cardinal point. Detailed forecast for the next twenty-four hours. Heavy showers and twenty-five to twenty-seven degrees. The Moon would be insignificant – invisible behind the clouds and anyway with too small an illuminated surface. It was one o’clock and she ought to come now. Maybe he was nervous as she had suggested? Fear if not too pronounced sharpened the senses. As he began to make sandwiches he heard the door.

  “I’ve placed everything on the bed beside your vest. You just have to sort out your tools.”

  “Fine, then we can have lunch. I nearly rubbed all the hair off the poor bitch for she was not any longer in oestrus, but perhaps some of the smell still lingers in her guard hairs.”

  “I can detect a distinct canine smell emanating from your clothes.”

  “Then the towel ought to stink. I have washed myself already, but I’ll go up and wash my hands again and change clothes.”

  He did not like that smell – a sour saline spicy stench. A glass of Chablis would do and some good nutty Gruyère – but a full stomach would blunt the attention. Then she came tripping down still dripping wet and smelling of tar – the soap she used – to take him in her arms.

  “Is that better?”

  “Yes, much better. You have a fresh smell now, and you smell of yourself.”

  “Now I’m hungry. What do you have here?”

  “A glass of Chablis, tomatoes, olives, bread, cucumbers, beetroots, Gruyère.”

  “Fine, so everything is ready. I’ve placed the pick gun and the electric gun, both with new batteries, on the bed, together with the receivers. I have it all in different pockets, and I have room for the transmitters as well, plus of course deep pockets for the jewellery.”

  “I have also taken the water-tight container.”

  “It’s a precaution I have never considered myself, but I’m much more reckless than you are.”

  “Even so reckless as to be willing to marry me after less than forty-eight hours?”

  “No, that had not much to do with being reckless, quite the contrary; for marrying you involves no risk. It’s laying the cornerstone of security. I’m a pragmatic woman. I knew what I felt and acted on it just like you did.”

  “Birds of a feather; but there must also be a distinct difference, the attraction between a south and a north pole. Both similarities and dissimilarities have to be present, not only in the right proportions, but also in matching and divergent character traits. While such a jigsaw puzzle might appear to be impossible to do subconscious intuition palpates the patterns for mutual compatibility and tension within seconds, and this is then followed, automatically, by a conscious decision. But let’s go upstairs now and take a nap.”

  “It’s also routine for you, I mean with binoculars, telescope, tripod and everything else. Your vest is quite similar to mine, but would you mind if we began half an hour earlier than planned? I want to be certain of arriving in time to pick up the signal from her car as she passes the bridge. If we wait at the bend of the river in the little wood from half past six we can hear her when she passes the bridge, and be certain that she has left the house in order to follow her usual routine in which case she will not be back before half past twelve or one o‘clock. Otherwise she might have cancelled her engagement and just taken the car to go somewhere else and then we will have no idea when she will return.”

  “Of course not, but before we sleep would you mind listening for a while to a piece of music?”

  “No, but if I don’t like it?”

  “Here’s the remote control.”

  Lacking the real alternative he slid the shining disk of canned sounds into the machine and soon – in virtual reality – the clear vibrations arose out of an ethereal stillness to suggest drifting clouds with purging power – fragrance of humid earth in sunshine beneath Pine trees whispering in an on-shore breeze – cool brooks with rapid water rippling over smooth grey pebbles – thick green moss – Bluebells among shadowy ferns on the brinks – and in the distance trilling flutes of Red-Crowned Cranes duetting as they danced. Caitlin took hold of his hand to feel how closely his experience of the music matched her own and encouraged by the harmony she sensed as a predominant background colour faintly shimmering in pale persuasive blue she closed her eyes and in the light from the window her eyelashes – curved skywards and seaward – touched lightly as she began to transcend associative images and semantic concepts to become the liquid notes which flowed forth entwined together in time to purify them with the eternity from which they came – so together they turned into the truth-silence of the music to cease being aware of anything else – though when it eventually vanished as a wave ebbing out on a flat and sandy shore she fell asleep while he lay awake to listen to her quiet breathing and the rhythm of the wind outside as it combed through the leaves of the Wisteria that had saved her like a parachute – but as soon as the clock shredded the peace and she threw the eiderdown aside to sit up already wide awake he knew that he must have slept as well.

  Fortified by the revelation of clarity and the bath of sleep they dressed quickly – immersed in visualising various aspects of the task ahead – and when they had made certain that they had remembered everything and he was turning the key to start the motor she placed her hand on his arm to further the synchronisation of their movements and perspectives. It had begun to rain when he parked at the landing so they protected themselves with dark green sou’westers against the heavy drops from the clouds. He bailed the water out that had accumulated along the keelson – spread the tarpaulin out over the scaffold – placed the plastic sheet – the mattress and the blankets in the hold – fastened the motor to the sternpost and attached the wire to the battery. Caitlin came with the spare batteries and when they had placed them both in the prow she went back to get the binoculars – the plastic bag with the meat – her bicycle – the plastic bag with the smelly towel and the picnic basket.

  “There’s nothing left in the car, so we must have everything here.”

  Reassuring herself by patting her pockets she smiled to confirm his destiny – and as she loosened the moorings and turned the boat around he started the motor. While they sailed through the rain she folded the tarpaulin out over the gunwales and probably also out over the prow so she could sit down upon it and keep the edge from flapping up in the head-wind – and at the stern he spread the tarpaulin out so that only the corner of the board on which he sat would be wet. The mutual understanding – which did not require the artificial respiration of explicit expression – was based on seeing the same things from similar perspectives – for the determining experiences in the past had been comparable. All clear colours had been washed out of the landscape and the different shades of grey gave it a dismal air – an air lacking in vivacity – but the amount
of leisure traffic would subsequently be greatly restricted. Aesthetics or necessity – to-day he opted for the anomalous aspect. They passed the first two bridges and continued southward to the confluence with the added speed of the raindrops while heat or condensed sweat made the weatherproof clothing more and more uncomfortable – but from time to time Caitlin looked at him from the edge of the scaffold and her smiles infused him with encouragement or calmed him with reassurance – yet he felt both apprehensive and impatient for it seemed to take too long although their speed was better than it had been last Saturday – but as soon as they reached the confluence and turned to starboard they went against the grain. To-day there were neither forms nor colours nor music. The warblers did not want to waste their energy in singing to overcome the steady sound of the drops – and the rainy haze gave the landscape a uniformity and even a certain anonymity for both specific contours and relative distances had become indistinct as if partly dissolved in the water-saturated air – but delighted by the abundance of the altruistic clouds from the Atlantic snowy Mute Swans with greenishly-tinted necks – garrulous Mallards – very conspicuous Shelducks – well-camouflaged Gadwalls – Tufted Ducks – triple-coloured Pochards and Shovelers who preferred efficiency to form – swam to and fro along the brink – either as solitary couples or in small flocks or loose springs. And their quiet but animated cackling reminded him sharply of the fallacy of giving subjective perspectives universal validity. Caitlin hid a yawn behind her hand and looked at him to probe his present whereabouts. Maybe boredom and tension always would prevail like this in the hours just before such an operation? They were now quite close to Horning and when they reached the little wood he would have to remove the mattress and lift the boards to bail the water out for here and there the rain still trickled into the boat in spite of the tarpaulin. A large wherry passed them with the rattling noise of an age-old Diesel engine. The contamination of oil and petrol in the water – but the votes of the motor crowd and the lobbying of the industry betrayed the future – and that was an evil for which atonement would be impossible. A failure to follow Nature – far worse than a crime against Humanity – however – the weather discouraged superficial activity so they would be even more alone on the river at half past ten or eleven than they were now. The signal from her car should be clearly audible when she passed the bridge – there was less than one kilometre – or even when she left her house and approached Wroxham. Caitlin would take the transmitters facing the doors first – no no – the transmitter marking their landing place. Well – that was Horning. Leaning out over the gunwale he caught a glimpse of her sitting in the prow with her hands folded around her knee – se préparant à la bataille – but the features of her face were softened in the drizzle and soon she would only appear like a silhouette against the background of trees and houses bordering the brink. When they sailed back she might tell him what she had been thinking about. Two top-heavy motor boats approached them – going far too fast and making large bow waves – the injurious consequence of an awkward hull design. Motor oriented tribes behaved like motors as motors were their ideal. The lights to the north there would be the lights of Wroxham – a fight with heart and hand. The odd vicissitudes of history and memory. Rain before the battle made the ground too soggy for the canons – the flight of a Morpho cypris along the brink of the Orinoco ended with a storm fifty-two degrees North on the receiving shores of the Atlantic. All this intrinsic interconnectedness – which he failed to see. What he saw would be a few isolated spots and with great luck he might discern a certain coherence in the way they were structured. It was getting darker as they passed Wroxham. There was much more water in the river now and it was hard in the shadow beneath the bridge to see if they could get through. There seemed to be less than half a foot of free space left. On the other side of the railway bridge they should go upstream along the southern arm of the river as the main traffic would be along the deeper northern arm. The binoculars were just visible beside the edge of the tarpaulin. She was eagerly examining the brink – but the visibility was now so bad that they could not be of much use. He slowed down while praying for a small inlet. There was a cluster of Alders growing out over the water and as he let the boat drift into their shelter among the tall green reeds Caitlin crept out under the tarpaulin.