Rapids

by Tim Parks

  Great. Really. Learned a lot. Apart from having Phil push in front of me about every two seconds in the eddy by the wave.

  Yes, a Wally nomination coming up there, I suspect. Vince?

  Sorry?

  Could you introduce yourself?

  Vince still doesn’t understand. His mind has been captured by the drumming.

  Let people know who you are. A few words.

  Someone sniggered. It was a beat that seemed to go round and round in rapid circles.

  Yes, of course.

  He was standing by the entrance of the tent. Michela noticed that his eyes were clouded, his mouth always slightly open.

  Well, I work in a bank.

  There was an adolescent groan.

  Vince smiled. Right, he agreed. Very boring. Anyway, probably some of you will have known my wife, my wife Gloria, since she was an instructor with Waterworld until a year or so ago. He took a breath. Anyway, after … after what happened, well, she had booked a place on this trip, and I just thought I would … He couldn’t go on. The drums pattered.

  Vince’s wife, Keith cut in, was national sprint champion in her age group at Henley, when was that, Vince?

  Vince was staring at the lamp—lit faces under canvas.

  1998, Adam said.

  In the night, he opened the fridge and she was crouching there inside. He wasn’t surprised. The fridge was her domain. I can live for ever here, she told him. He was looking for eggs to scramble. What else can I cook? He took them from her hand and closed the door, then went back and opened it again. There was something I should have said. She didn’t seem cramped. She was in her gym kit. No need, she said. Her smile was condescending, like a mother’s. There’s something I want to ask, he insisted. Don’t keep the fridge door open, love, you’ll waste the cold. She smiled. You’re wasting electricity, love. There’s something … It’s precious. Close it. He closed the door. But he was in the flat in London, not at home. Gloria never comes to his London flat. The fridge is tiny. There’s something I have to ask. He rushed across the room to tear the door open. The fridge, as always in his flat, was empty. Gloria! He shouted. Gloria!

  Dad, you’re snoring! From her sleeping bag, his daughter woke him. The girl was sitting up. They were unnaturally close in the tent. She seemed eager to turn away.

  I’m sorry. He lay still on his back. The ground is uneven and uncomfortable. But it’s not that. The blue canvas flickers from time to time with the torchlight of people heading for the bathrooms. Did I make myself come camping as a punishment? he wondered. Vince put his hands behind his head. His body ached. The day on the river has exhausted him. Then, as always after these nightmares, in the alert, sleepless mood they induce, he played over the sudden last moments of his marriage, the end of life as he had known it. Vince, I’m dying, her voice says. She has called his mobile. He is just climbing the stairs from the Underground at St Paul’s. I’m dying. I’ve phoned nine nine nine. I’m paralysed. It’s a stroke. I’m sure. I know the signs … It must have been at that point of the call that he had shouted, Gloria! He had stopped in the crowd. People were pushing past. It was early morning at St Paul’s. He was standing still, rigid, in the hurrying crowd. Gloria, for God’s sake! My head is filling with blood, she cried. Oh, I’m dying Vince. I’m so, so sorry.

  The curious thing, as he let each evening’s tears fill his eyes, was the clarity of her voice in his head. Freed from the crackly quality of the mobile on the stairs outside the Underground, it spoke directly in his head. I’m paralysed. It’s a stroke. The change of tone from her normal matter—of—fact, rather bossy self to something piercingly intimate could not have been more marked. Oh, I’m dying Vince, I’m so so sorry. It was as if right at the end it hadn’t been her, or rather it had been her at last, someone he had never known. My wife. His mind was caught there, turning and turning in this unexpected maelstrom. Why had she said she was sorry? Why did he feel so ashamed?Very soon, I must become someone else; Vince knew that. He couldn’t break out of this churn of thought. After six months, it was a wonder he hadn’t already drowned.

  A RAPID

  At breakfast Tom joined the adults, rather than the children. Those bells! The young man seems in turns uncertain of himself and aggressively assured. Vince had been woken ten minutes before the morning ringing by the arrival of a text message on his daughter’s phone. They stood in the mud by the kitchen tent. Who pays the bloke to get up so early every day? Adam was shaking his head. Mandy wanted to know how on earth Michela had learned English so perfectly. She had only been in the UK a few months. She hadn’t even studied at university. With the grass damp, people ate standing up. Tea in the pot! Keith announced. I was born in the wrong country, the young woman laughed. The sun was just touching distant peaks, but the valley lay in shadow. The church tower was topped with a gleaming bronze onion dome, quite new obviously.

  Neither of your parents speaks English, though?

  I would never have learned if they did. It’s hard to explain, I always knew from as soon as I could think, I should have been English.

  Too much of a class act to be a Brit, Tom said earnestly.

  Oh thank you so much! Mandy objected.

  Michela wasn’t eating. She looked at the young man without seeing him. Too much to do in a world that’s too ugly, Clive had said last night. Once again he had insisted on the sleeping bag on the bare floor. It was a punishment. Again she had walked out after midnight and sat on the roots of the big pine tree above the group’s pitch. In a tent the other side of the track a man and woman were murmuring in a language she didn’t know. She sat with her spine against the damp bark. Why now? Why had he chosen this of all moments?

  Again, sometime after one o’clock, she had seen the thin, older Englishman head for the bathroom. He sneezed twice. That was the river in our noses. He is carrying a burden, Michela thought. She drew into the shadow so he wouldn’t see her. She thought in English. She would not use the language of her father and mother. She would not let Clive see her cry. I must be strong, she decided. If you want to go back to your mum, Micky, he said from the darkness as she pulled the door to, I’d understand perfectly. We could sort out the money side. She waited some minutes before answering. She undressed and got into bed. I’d rather kill myself, she told him.

  Her man did not watch as she undressed. He knew her body. He knows how avidly she makes love. The room was dimly lit from a lamp outside. It smelled of bare wood and river kit. A good smell. I checked my e—mail this evening, he said finally. He had driven into Sand in Taufers. They’re talking of chartering a plane for Berlin. Will you come?

  Of course, she said.

  He had not looked as she undressed, but now, over cornflakes, Clive was watching Michela carefully. Vince caught the man’s intense gaze and knew he was in love. For months, he thought, I keep noticing people in love. It was almost the only thing he did notice.

  But you have a pretty high position, don’t you? Adam was speaking to him. He named one of Britain’s major clearing banks. The tall instructor was already wearing a wetsuit, the shoulder—straps hanging at his side. I mean, you’re one of the big guns, aren’t you? He seemed extremely respectful of Vince, eager to get to know him. His hair was neatly combed, his receding chin closely shaved. Clipped to his belt, a waterproof case held his mobile.

  Well …

  I remember your wife saying something.

  He only pretty well runs the whole bloody bank! Louise arrived hungry. There was a bag of Chocos she was after, under Tom’s elbow. Move over macho! The girl wore no bra under her T—shirt.

  One shouldn’t exaggerate, Vince began.

  Oh, come on Dad! You know you run it.

  Adam seemed to be expecting a response. I imagine, he insisted, that someone like yourself has to be in touch even while you’re away. I mean at certain levels of responsibility …

  But now a new noise captured everybody’s attention. There was a tinny jingle. Oh no! shrieked the young Max, hi
s straw hat tipped back. On the table in the kitchen tent, beside the milk carton, a white hamster, about a foot high on its hind legs, had begun to beat a tin drum. Legs and paws moved with mechanical grace, while the solemn head made slow turns from side to side. A recorded voice in his innards crooned:

  I think I love you, but that’s what life is made of.

  Amelia and Caroline were bent double with giggles. The big girl grabbed Phil. Was it you? She had to pull off the headphones of his Discman.

  And it worries me to say, the voice crooned on, that I’ve never felt this way.

  Who stole my hamster? Mandy demanded. The bristly white muzzle was hilariously wise. The voice was that of some twenties vaudeville entertainer. Picked up in a service station, the toy had been a constant joke on the long journey from England. Amal was grinning broadly.

  Do you think I have a case, the hamster sang, won’t you tell me to my face?

  Who’s been in my tent? Mandy insisted. This is a happy British holiday, Vince told himself. I must participate. Adam smiled sardonically. Who was it? Mandy shrieked. Everybody was running around, giggling. Who stole my hamster? Guilty! Keith peeped a ruddy face from behind Michela’s pine tree. Was it possible, Vince wondered, that the group’s leader and their administrator had something going together? You cheeky bastard, Mandy made a half—hearted dash. Nosing in my stuff! Oh a serious impropriety! Max shouted in his most camp voice. Photograph! someone shrieked. One for the website! When Vince turned he saw Michela was hurrying away to the trailer where the boats were loaded and locked up. How lithe she was. You are under a spell, he told himself. It was an expression he would sometimes use at work to describe this or that commodity or currency. Coffee is under a spell. There’s no other explanation. The dollar is under a spell. But now Tom was saying politely, Mr Marshall, actually I was wondering—

  Vince, I’m called Vince.

  Sorry, I was wondering if I might pick your brain on money supply at some point? There are a couple of things they’ve been teaching us at university that I really don’t understand.

  Listen, don’t talk about my work, Vince told Louise quietly as they gathered their kit together for the day’s outing. His cag was still damp. She couldn’t find her towel. She was sure she’d left it on the line. Please, he said. They fussed about the fly—sheets. It bothers me. What else is there to talk about with you, Dad? she asked. You never do anything but work. He asked if the message she had received this morning had been from her cousins. No, she said. She smiled very brightly. Adam had promised her she could charge her phone on his car charger.

  They already had the boats on the water before the sun climbed over the mountainside and poured its warmth into the valley. This time they ran the section from the campsite to the village of Geiss. Never do anything but work, Vince is thinking. His daughter’s words have soured his morning. Yet he hadn’t called the office so far this holiday, as his colleagues no doubt expected. He hadn’t even read the papers or listened to a radio. Quite probably they are trying to contact him. He hadn’t turned on his mobile. He hadn’t bought a car charger. He had no idea what the market was up to. For thirty years you give your whole life to something, he thought, you build up a solid career; and then in the space of a couple of weeks, it’s forgotten. I have lost my daughter, Vince told himself. This holiday is confirming that loss. First in Florence, now here. I have lost all sense of purpose. All I notice is people in love. From what you tell me you are clinically depressed, his brother—in—law had advised him. Jasper worked in that field. He ran a psychiatric clinic in South London. You should be on drugs, he said. Vince was afraid that drugs would cloud his judgement. It was a difficult moment in foreign equities. It is always a difficult moment. He had stopped performing after Gloria died. He knew it. He knew they knew it. Why had he let Louise go to live with her cousins? I have no home now. Suddenly, Vince feels a grating under the boat. Wake up! The kayak is broadside to a bank of pebbles rising from below the grey water. The river slides forward with a strong steady pull. He should have seen the tell—tale rippling on the surface. It’s too late. Vince finds himself being turned over in only six inches of rapidly flowing water. His shoulder bangs along on the stones. Wally nomination! Phil shouts. Phil has the creature tied round his neck for his behaviour yesterday. What a fool! Vince curses himself. He is livid.

  Only a few minutes later, Clive orders: Stop paddling everyone and listen. There are still patches of early—morning mist rising on the calmer stretches of the water. The boys are splashing each other. Listen up! Adam complains. It seems to irritate him that Clive and Keith won’t impose discipline more firmly. Mark, I said listen! he tells his son. Stop paddling.

  The fifteen kayaks with their bright plastic colours drift on the glassy surface. The thin mist is luminous and the water wide and apparently tranquil, pressing steadily forward. Three ducks are flapping along the bank in front of them. Faint in the distance from beyond the trees is the repeated beep of a truck reversing, in some quarry perhaps. Brian giggles, Mysterious!

  Shush!

  Leaning back, arching until her helmet rests on the deck behind, Michela gazes upward. Among high white clouds, the tall mountains slowly revolve. It’s dizzying. The current is turning the boat. The high rocks seem precarious. They will tumble down. A buzzard swoops above the tree line and the girl feels as if she herself has fallen from there. She is still falling, the mountains turning. It’s so calm. She doesn’t believe what has happened. She is living an intense swan—song of adoration and denial. She has given herself completely to Clive. My family is behind me. I will go anywhere you go, she told him last night. She lets her hands trail in the water and the chill climbs up her fingers to wrists and forearms. You know I can’t go home.

  Then Vince hears it. Beyond the still—beeping truck, a low roar emerges, a dark line floats up on the auditory horizon. At once the water takes on a new urgency. They are gliding past narrowing banks of steeper and steeper stone. Alrighty! Phil breaks the silence. River—left! Clive shouts. He is paddling backwards, facing the others. As he tells them what to do, he is sensible, steady, entirely manly. But Michela recognises the hint of impatience in his voice, the energy restrained. He wishes he were in another era, exploring virgin territory, commanding soldiers. She loves this in him. Kayaks are plastic toys, he complains when he is depressed. There’s nothing necessary about them. They’re not natural. One evening he asked over and over, Do you understand, Micky, what I mean by something being necessary? Clive is old never to have settled; she knows that. She saw the mad intensity of his eyes at the demonstration in Milan.

  Keith is shouting names and numbers. He has to yell now over the roar of the rapid, swollen with yesterday’s rain. Amal five, Amelia six, Louise seven. They must follow Clive’s line. Three boat—lengths apart. Don’t get too close.

  One by one the kayaks drop below the horizon. Each hull with its bright colour slips suddenly away, then the helmet. Louise’s helmet is white. Number seven is gone. Next to last, with only the expert Adam behind him, Vince dips into a slalom of rushing water and rock. The acceleration is dramatic. For the first time he finds himself actually looking downhill, in the water. No time to be frightened. The boat is flung to the side. The boulders come very fast. Vince steers and turns and braces. His mind is absolutely concentrated, his body is wired and reactive. Suddenly, a boat is blocking his path. Mark is pinned against a boulder to one side of the narrow central chute. The water is piling on his deck. He’s shouting. Vince crashes into the boat. Mark is bounced free, but capsizes in the rush. Somehow, Vince does something instinctive, some strange banging of paddle on water, an unexpected elasticity of ageing hips, that keeps him upright in the race. Now he is plunging down into the terminal stopper. The water is frothing. Paddle! a voice shouts. From the eddy behind a rock, everybody is shouting. Paddle hard! The churning white water grabs hold of him. The stern is pulled down, as if arms under there had clutched him. They want him under. Paddle, for Christ’s
sake! Vince paddles and the boat rears and pops out. Safe.

  Vince enjoys, then, as on waking every morning, about two or three seconds of complete contentment. He fights his way out of the white water. He sees his daughter’s radiant pink face. She is rafted up against Tom in the eddy. My daughter is bursting with excitement and happiness! Their first real rapid. What a rush of adrenalin! Then after this flash of pleasure, the dark returns, with an awful inevitability. You give everything to work, Gloria would say. You have no other life. Bizarre phrases come to his mind. I am excluded. He wants to shout the words. Gloria excluded me. I’m so so sorry, she said. What did she mean? Vince is boiling with rage. Whipping the boat round as he crosses the eddy—line, he sees only now that the instructors have passed a rope across the river at the stopper and Clive is in there pulling out Mark. I forgot the boy. I forgot him! Mark is retching. His face is white with panic.

  That evening everybody began to drink. The afternoon had been uncomfortably warm and Keith insisted on splashing and playing the fool and putting everyone in a party spirit. How could the idiot get himself pinned in a grade—two rapid? Adam kept repeating of his son. Three more rapids were run without incident. In the spaces between, Amal insisted on pairing up with Vince and chattering in his queer, high—pitched voice. His father had died ten years ago, his mother was obliged to work all hours in his uncle’s shop. Waterworld is like a family to me, he repeated two or three times. Amelia had been his girlfriend when they were both on the Canadian trip. She was nice. That was open canoes. But they had agreed to split up.

  You run a bank, don’t you? he said. They were paddling the last tame stretch to Geiss between high banks of brushwood. Your wife taught me once, he explained. My two—star. She was the one with her hair in a bun, right? And she worked in a hospital. That’s right, Vince said. Good teacher, Amal said. Very strict. Didn’t let you get away with doing things even slightly wrong.