by Tim Parks
The crowd surged. Some of the men had balaclavas, or motorcycle helmets. When the police counter-charged, two demonstrators were killed. That is: a barrier collapsed alongside the road and a dozen or so people were forced under the wheels of an oncoming tram. There was a chaos of sirens and scuffles. They had a policeman on the ground. That could easily have been us, Clive shouted. It could have been you! He was angry beyond anything she had seen before. They’ve fucked everything up, he kept repeating, everything. A rump re-formed across the street by La Scala. Multinational murderers! they chanted. No surrender!
For perhaps twenty minutes the situation was out of control. Michela felt proud of her man. We shall not be moved, he sang. She pulled him away from the truncheons. Dozens were being dragged to police vans. That evening the dormitory was alive with angry debate till three or four in the morning. Thunder rumbled across the city. A teenager with a guitar sang a song: You can’t bomb your way to peace, Mr President. His amplifier was faulty. Clive bought some dope. To forget, he said. It was expensive in the strict economy of their lives. They still had equipment to purchase before heading back to the mountains. The jeep needed new tyres. Michela’s mother had offered no help. They were poor and in debt. Michela stroked his high forehead, his straggly hair. I am living intensely, she told herself. Let me stroke you, she said as he lay on his back, smoking in the dark. His body was rigid. He is crying, she thought.
But this evening in the South Tyrol, Keith, the English group leader with the glassy eyes, the paunch, invited all the kayakers to say who they were and why they’d come on this trip and what they expected to get out of it. They were sitting in a circle on the hard dusty ground between pine trees and guy-ropes. Only one or two had seats. The others shifted on their hams. Starting on my left, Keith said. He was warm and avuncular. I know most of you know each other, but some don’t. He had a fold-up canvas chair with wooden arms. Come on, don’t be shy.
I’m Amelia. This was a wiry girl with bony white legs. I live just outside Maidenhead. The accent was moneyed. I did my three-star paddler with Waterworld last month. I love kayaking and can’t wait to get some experience on white water. She seemed to have finished, then as if some explanation were required added. Oh, I’m fifteen. All right! someone cheered. Amelia forgot to say, Keith intervened, that she won the Girl Scouts Southern Counties Speed Kayaking competition last year. The girl looked at the ground. Aren’t we modest, Mandy shouted. Then her camera flashed.
In a deadpan voice, rolling gum in her mouth, the fat, freckled girl beside Amelia said very quickly: Caroline, fifteen, from Gillingham, hoping to have a good holiday because I love the water and all.
Name’s Phil, announced the gormless boy beside Caroline. His eyelids drooped. He too was chewing. Love playing on the water, like, but I’ve only done weirs n’all so I’m hoping I’ll get on something well fast and dangerous. Never been to Italy before. I’ve done some surf, though. Like off Broadstairs. Wicked. That’s it. In the sudden silence, everybody tittered. Phil seemed puzzled. He has a thick lower lip over a broad chin. Then he raised a fist and shouted: Chuck me in the rapids and I’ll go for it! Again someone yelled, All-righty, sir! Respect! said Amelia solemnly.
Keith had to intervene: Fun aside, kids, this trip is not about playing. White water is serious. Okay Phil? The first skill we have to develop is looking out for each other. Making sure no one gets hurt. Too true, Mandy said. I want people constantly watching to see that someone else is not in trouble. Constantly, is that clear? You’re always checking that everyone else is okay. That’s how a group survives when things get dangerous. Never forget that your personal safety depends on other people looking out for you. We don’t want to lose anyone.
It was dark now. A small gas lamp was hung on the lower branch of a pine. The next voice to speak came from a lean, chinless man in his late thirties. He was fingering a mobile. My name’s Adam. As you probably all know, I’m a level-two instructor at Waterworld. I’m hoping to improve my skills here and move up to level three, though obviously my main job is to instruct those of you who haven’t been on white water before. Anyway, I hope I’ll be part of giving you all a good and useful time, so that you have something to take home with you. He turned the mobile round and round in his hand.
Thanks Adam.
Already a sort of embarrassed routine was creeping into these introductions, but Keith seemed to savour this, as if the very embarrassment had a social function. Mint anyone? offered the Indian boy. All the youngsters reached. I’m Mark, said one of them, sitting back. The voice was barely loud enough to be heard. Adam’s me dad. There was a silence. You could say a bit more than that, suggested the father. I’m, like, seventeen, you know? And I’ve come to do my best. Is that all? Adam asked again. What am I supposed to say? the boy wanted to know. Even sitting, he was lanky and awkward. His long hair fell on his face. I’m here, like. He seemed belligerent. And I’ll do my best. Oh, I love camping, he added.
Tom? Keith put in quickly.
Yes, I’m Tom. I’m twenty-one. This voice was deeper, the face immediately handsome in the dim light. Every feature was even and warm and strongly moulded, the teeth sharp and white, the hair polished, eyes bright. I study at the LSE. Haven’t had a paddle in my hands for a few years now, but some other folks let me down for the holiday we were going to take, so at the last minute I signed up for this. Now I’m here I can’t wait to get on the water.
Tom didn’t say, but he rows for his university, Keith announced.
You all know me, Mandy said. She was opposite Keith. They exchanged glances. This must be the twentieth trip I’ve been on, and I’m telling you, after you’ve done all the admin you feel you deserve to be here. I’m the first-aid person and the menu planner, so any complaints, cuts or bruises or special requests this way. I’m also the trip photographer. She held up the camera, pointed it Keith’s way, and set off the flash. So if you have to do anything idiotic, do it in front of me so you can look stupid on the website. And here’s hoping this trip will be as exciting as all the others.
Three boys spoke now in quick succession. I’m Maximilian, but you’re allowed to call me Max. Come to develop my skills and have a shot at my four-star and it’s not true I’ll be trying to avoid the washing-up. Oddly, this boy was wearing a proper shirt. Emerald green. And proper grey flannel trousers. He sat on his own camp stool. If anybody’s heard snoring, folks, it’s not me!
No one laughed.
I’m Brian. Same as Max really. Oh, I’m sixteen. So’s Max. Come for the obvious reasons: drink, drugs, sex and underwater swimming. The boy stopped and blushed.
Be just like being at home then, Keith said generously.
Sex! Gormless Phil sniggered. Our Brian, sex!
Quiet kids, Adam protested.
I’m Amal. The Indian’s voice was embarrassingly high-pitched. I love Waterworld. It’s like a family for me. I’m seventeen. I’ve done plenty of white water in an open canoe — I did the Canadian trip — but this is my first time in a kayak. I’m sure it’ll be a doddle.
Bloody open-canoeists, Max said.
Then in the straining light with the sound of low drums still beating in the fresh alpine air and the moths circling the gas lamp, attention shifted to Michela. There was a short pause; it was the first time perhaps that people had had a chance to see what a beautiful creature she is. Her black hair is cropped tight around a white, perfect oval face where the eyes are steady and dark. I’m Michela, but please call me Micky. Me and Clive here have been setting up this trip for you. We’ve scouted the rivers which are not traditionally much used for kayaking, so we won’t have any problems with traffic. We’ve sorted out what level is what and who can go where. Or Clive has. He’s also selected and bought fifteen good Pyranhas and all the equipment, so this is quite a big moment for us. I’ve mainly been doing things like booking the campsite, accounts, paperwork and so on. We really care about your having a good experience in a beautiful environment, leaving it as you found
it and hoping it will change you for the better.
She stopped. Hear, hear! Keith said. You English? Caroline asked. The fat girl was squatting on her haunches, elbows on her thick knees, chin on hands, chewing. Michela hesitated: I’m Italian, she said, and turning quickly to Clive she asked him what he wanted to add.
As the others also turn, they find themselves looking at a powerful man with a thick beard and broad forehead. I was one of Keith’s first pupils years back, he says. His thinning blonde hair is shoulder-length. And I survived to tell the tale. Somebody titters. Clive sits cross-legged, hands forward as if warming himself at a trekker’s fire. I’ve always thought kayaking was more than a sport. I mean, more than playing squash or tennis or something. It teaches you to respect nature, to read it carefully and understand it. One day your life may depend on how well you read the river. Then, when you spend time by the river and on the river, you can’t help but understand how dull and squalid a lot of so-called civilised life is. That’s why Michela and I have been trying to make it our job to get people involved. He paused.
Anything else? Keith asked. Want to give us some kind of idea about what we’ll be doing?
Clive still hesitated. It was the first time Michela had seen him address a group. She couldn’t imagine he was nervous. The river Aurino, Clive said, or Ahrn as the Germans call it, rises in the glacier above Sand in Taufers. He gestured with a thumb up the dark valley. On the Austrian border, more or less, about twenty miles away. It’s what the Italians call a torrente, rather than a river. Until Taufers it’s fast and wild. There’s a stretch there we might try on the last day, with those of you who are up to it, that is. But I’m warning you, you’ll have to convince me and Keith that you really are up to it. The water is powerful and there’s no space to breathe. Either you make the eddies and break out perfectly or you’ll be carried straight down the river and trashed on the rocks. Anyway, we’ll start by working the stretches downstream of Taufers. Plenty of interesting rapids, but usually a good space to roll up and generally relax afterwards if you’ve got the worst of it. Further down, between Bruneck and Brixen, there are stretches where you’ll have to deal with a lot of volume. One day we’ll have a go on a slalom course on the river Eisack, north of Brixen. That’ll be a bit of a drive.
Any waves? Maximilian asked. He has a public—school voice. Stoppers? Phil wanted to know. Holes? So far they had only heard tell of holes.
Plenty of everything, Clive promised. But actually, what I really wanted to say was …You see, last week, Michela and I were at the anti—globalisation demonstration in Milan, you probably heard about it, where two people were killed. I don’t know, maybe we’re still a bit upset. Anyway, I’d like you to know that we feel the work we’re trying to do here is part of the same campaign. You know— to help people respect the world before it’s too late.
Yes, that’s an interesting thought, Keith said. There was a pause. Adam said: Actually I’m not sure I can go along with that. My own impression is …
Okay, okay, Keith intervened. No politics, not on the first night. We’re here to help each other and learn about the water. Now, let’s have the Wally of the Day nomination before we break up.
It seemed every evening— Michela could never have imagined this side to Englishness— that a small furry toy of vaguely teddy—bear shape called Wally was to be hung around the neck of whoever had done something particularly stupid during the day. The culprit would then have to perform some demeaning act, after which he or she must keep Wally about him until the following evening and be constantly ready to show it on request. Failure to show Wally at any time, even in the kayak, would lead to further humiliations.
Who gets today’s Wally award?
Mandy nominated Keith himself for the incredible cock—up he had made reading the map outside Mainz, as a result of which they had gone west instead of east and arrived two hours late. Maximilian proposed Adam for having tied the kit on the roof so badly. A suitcase had slipped onto the windscreen just before Munich. It wasn’t me, Adam quickly explained. It was too, Dad! protested the boy beside him. Yes it was! said Caroline. From a strictly legal point of view, Maximilian said, your name was on the duty sheet, Adam, so it was your responsibility. Oh shut up. The instructor was irritated. But the majority voted Keith. Punishment: a performance— Mandy proposed— of Ken Charles, Outdoor Activity Director for Kent County Council, giving his famous awards speech. Keith jumped to his feet. His glassy eyes shone. He is overweight, his cheeks round and red as a child’s. He fixed Wally sideways under his chin like a bow—tie and ruffled up his hair. Ladies and gentlemen, he began, in a pompous bass, strutting back and forth. Everybody cheered. If you had but the teeniest inkling of what your dear offspring have achieved at Waterworld this week, you would be agog with wonder. Drinks! Max jumped up to shout. Everybody to the bar for drinks before it closes. Alrighty, sir! Phil was on his feet. No alcoholic beverages for the under—sixteens, Mandy ordered. Is that clear. I promised your parents.
The group moved quickly off through tents and caravans to where there was still music coming from the top of the campsite. Karaoke perhaps. Michela and Clive went with them. Then, towards midnight, in one of the site’s chalets where they had lived for some three months now, Clive watched his girlfriend climb into their bed. He was seventeen years older than her. Aren’t you coming? she asked. He kept pottering with bits of equipment. There was a spraydeck to mend, a repair kit to sort out. She waited. He was smoking more than he usually did. The room was rough wood with only the barest necessities. They had to share the outdoor bathrooms with the rest of the site. What’s wrong? she asked. You just sleep, he told her. Then he said: What a prick that guy Adam is! Can you believe we’re going to have to spend the week with a chinless wonder like that. What’s wrong? she repeated softly. You can just see he’s a prick, Clive insisted. A tight—arsed prick. Bet he’s an estate agent or something.
Michela waited. Clive continued to potter about the room. Now he was sorting out clothes. This isn’t the right world, Micky, he eventually told her. Not for us. He had found his sleeping bag in the big cupboard. Be strong, he said. Squatting, he unrolled it on the floor. She sat on the bed and stared. They had been lovers for two years. What are you doing? she demanded. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, he said. His voice was low and tired. We can’t sleep together anymore.
She sat still. He was fiddling with the zip on the bag. Bastard thing! It had snagged. He wouldn’t look up. What did I do? she asked. Her voice quavered. What’s happening? Clive wouldn’t speak. He had coaxed the zip past its snag. Slowly, as if he were squeezing into a new kayak, he sat down on the floor and put one leg after another into the sleeping bag. You hit the light, he said. The switch was just above the bedside table. Michela threw back the bedclothes and stood to grab a dressing gown hanging from the door. She pulled the waistband tight. What ‘ave I done? There was an edge of disbelief in her voice. She felt sick. What in the name of God ‘ave I done? She was standing over him. He lay face up, but his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Nothing, he said. It’s me. You haven’t done anything. Look, don’t worry, Micky. Everything will be just the same, the kayaking and the camp and the money and so on. But this isn’t the world for us.
Don’t slam the door! Vince stopped the car. It would wake people, he said. The need to respect others seemed to have snapped the driver out of his unhappy reverie. He let the car roll along the dirt track, passenger door still open. Louise trotted beside, making little forays among the pitches to check the vans for the Waterworld logo. It was almost two a. m. The autostrada had been jammed for hours. The sleeping campsite was illuminated only by the neon glow from the bathroom block. Everything was tied down and zipped up. Where are they? Louise rushed off between two tents again. Sweeping slowly round the corner at the bottom of the site, the car’s headlights picked out a slim figure in silhouette sitting beneath a pine, back bent, face in hands. Vince touched the brake and the passenger door swung forward.
If he leaned back a little, he saw a head of dark hair framed against bushes. Mi scusi, he began. Dad! Louise came running, then tripped and fell heavily. Vince climbed out. Don’t yell! They’re over there! The girl was dusting herself off.
Are you looking for the English kayak group? The seated figure had got to her feet now. A young woman offered a wan smile of welcome. I’ll show you to your pitch.
Vince parked beside a screen of trees that sloped steeply down to darkness. The night was quiet, but you had a distinct impression of the proximity of moving water, of a strong pull beneath the stillness of the branches. They haven’t left you much room, Michela apologised. Heaving out their camping stuff, Louise tripped again. A torch shone out through orange nylon beside them: If this tent collapses, a posh voice announced, you’ll hear from my lawyer!
Vince was surprised that the young woman appeared to be staying to help. You weren’t waiting up for us, I hope? he said in a whisper. But Louise had the giggles now, trying to sort out tangled guy—ropes. Maximilian, or perhaps it was Brian, was making an obscene shadow play with torch and fingers on the tent wall.
Kids! Don’t wake everyone up, Vince hissed.
I’m Michela, the woman said. I’m responsible for arranging things this end. But please call me Micky.
Oh come on Dad! Louise was laughing helplessly. We’re on holiday! The girl’s solid body had turned to jelly. We’re supposed to be having fun. She laughed madly.
Michela took the guy—ropes from the younger girl’s hand and untangled them. She seemed to know exactly how their tent was to be put up. The ground’s too hard to push the pegs in with your foot, she warned. Go to the kitchen tent, there’s a mallet just inside on the left.
The kitchen tent was a big, hut—shaped canvas structure open at both ends. Inside, between a dozen cardboard boxes with provisions, Vince’s torch flashed over two figures asleep on the floor, in separate bags but face to face. Vaguely, he took in the sharp fine features of the one girl, the dull heavy jowl of the other. When he returned, Michela already had the tent up. Louise was complaining she had put the door at the wrong end. Don’t look, Dad, she said some time later when they were undressing. It was cramped inside. They were lying on their backs, barely a foot apart. What? Don’t look! Of course, sorry. That Max is so stupid, Louise complained. She huffed and puffed, turning this way and that for a comfortable position. Vince lay still.
