Rapids

by Tim Parks

  With some difficulty, Vince had tied the leading end of the rope to the bow—handle and was planning to toss the rest, in its bag, to the bank, when the folly of this occurred to him. Without anyone to catch it, the stream would pull at the rope floating in the water and carry it away. I need someone on the bank. Pressed against the kayak, his shoulders just above water, he untied the rope with fingers that had already lost their sensibility. Can I throw it unattached? It must reach the bank with the trees. No. Feeling under water, he loosened the waist of his cag, thrust the rope between the two rubber layers and tightened the waist again. Then he pushed off sideways into the rapid.

  It wasn’t so much a question of swimming, but holding his body in such a way as to reduce the blows to a minimum. This isn’t serious stuff, he thought, letting the water flush him through. As he was swept round the end of the bend into calmer water, he remembered the boys’ four—star test. Clive prepared us well. It isn’t him in Berlin. As soon as he had passed the rapid he began to swim to the shallows.

  On the wooded bank, he scrambled back upstream through thick undergrowth till he was opposite the boat. He unravelled all the yellow rope from its bag, tied one end around a slim tree—trunk and the other to the belt of his buoyancy aid. Just before plunging in again, he suddenly thought: Stop, think. Nothing more dangerous than momentum.

  He sat on the edge of a four—foot drop into the water. He was on the other side of the river now. The bank was undercut by the current swirling against it. Instead of taking him towards the boat, it will pull him back in to the bank. Vince stared. If I swim diagonally into the current, as if ferrying, how far will I get? He had no idea. I must psyche myself up, he decided. I’m tired. Fleetingly, he was thinking of the memorials on the mountain. People who no doubt thought they could overcome some obstacle, or didn’t even realise they were in danger. We know catastrophe is awaiting us, wrote the psychologist on the Guardians web—pages, yet we choose not to see it. The hell with that, Vince grinned. He started to walk upstream. Twenty yards from the tree where the rope was tied, he chose his spot. For perhaps a minute he took long deep breaths, filling his lungs. Now, plunge and swim.

  Keith called it power swimming. Head well out of the water in case of rocks, arms crawling like crazy, feet paddling hard. I’m being swept away. Pointing upstream and across, fighting like mad, he can’t see the boat. Something banged his left knee. Then his helmet. I’ve overshot. No, it was the boat’s stern. He grabbed it. Suddenly, his body is dragged under. The rope has snagged on something on the river bed. It’s tight. The current is pulling him below the stern of the boat. Calm. Vince tugged. It won’t come loose. Don’t wait to be short of breath. He released the buckle of the life—jacket, let the rope go and was swirling through the rapid again. This time, before he could get into position, feet first on his back, he took a fierce knock on his shoulder. For a second his mind clouded. Then he was through to the calmer water, swimming for the shore.

  He needed more time to rest now. Sitting against a tree—trunk, eyes closed, his thoughts have lost any structure. The river, the boat, Gloria, the men chained to the railings in Berlin, the girl’s lips approaching his, the torch coming through the undergrowth, his daughter’s perfume bottle, Dyer’s voice: We were expecting you back … everything is present to his mind. Everything is muddled, as if dissolved in the blood flooding his head. Slowly, he began to focus again. There’s no real danger, he thought. I’m just tired.

  He fought his way along through the undergrowth, found the rope, pulled it in. One tug in this direction and it came easily. This time he packed the rope back in its bag and clipped the bag itself to the life—jacket belt. It would unravel as he swam, rather than being loose from the beginning. That way it shouldn’t snag. He walked back to where he had dived in. A fish flipped up from the water. A trout presumably. This must be the last attempt, though, he told himself. He feared for the moment when his strength would just go. Adam had warned them of that moment. The cold finally gets to you. Now dive.

  Vince tried to keep the strokes fast and determined. Suddenly he had a sense that he was both fighting the water and not fighting it. Perhaps this was what Keith meant. He was fighting, but not against the water. Use the thrust to force your way across. Then he was sweeping past the boat on the far side. Almost a yard further than last time. The rope wrapped around the boat, under it probably, and held. At once, he grabbed the rope tight and pulled himself, like a climber, into the small boiling eddy behind the boulder. He could stand here.

  Now he was behind the rock with the boat on the other side. Without the pressure of the water against him, he could move. He had time. He tied the rope to the bow—handle. Now all he had to do was dislodge the canoe. He kicked and pushed and shoved. It won’t budge. It needs to be pulled away sideways, he realised, slipped between the opposing pressures of current and rock. Whereas I am behind it.

  Vince is almost screaming with frustration now. Then he understood. Once again, he launched into the flood, let himself be flushed through the rapid, swam to the bank, climbed back, very slowly, to the tree, the rope. He sat on the bank a while, just gazing at the yellow rope sinking into the white water, attached to the red hull. Then he began to pull. The rope came taut. At the third tug he felt the boat shift, it definitely shifted, and with a couple more yanks it was free. It went tumbling away through the rapid. Vince lifted the rope as high as he could to keep it clear of the rocks. Good. Inevitably rope and boat were swinging in to the near bank. Vince scrambled back downstream. When he arrived, the canoe was already there, banging against the bank, the yellow rope taut.

  He pulled the canoe ashore, felt inside with shaking hands, found and released the buckle, retrieved the keys. Then leaving canoe and kit in the trees, he began the long walk back. There was no way along the bank this side. He had to strike away from the river till he reached the road. Then it was a good half mile. He kept stopping to sit. Have I ever been so tired? But his mind was full of pride. I did it! I screwed up, then I put things right. This is infantile, he thought. He felt wonderful. Towards Geiss he was aware that the sun had fallen behind the peaks. Already! The wetsuit was chafing him, under the arms, behind the knees. How late is it? he wondered. The boat will have to wait till tomorrow.

  When he reached the car, he didn’t even have the energy to undress and change clothes. Seven o’clock. He turned on the radio. I should have put some food in here. I need sugar. Checking his mobile for messages, he was vaguely aware that the German newscaster he was listening to had used the word Mord in the headlines. Selbstmord. When are you coming back, Dad? Louise had written. Miss you. Things to talk about. An hour later, in bed in the chalet, he thought again, it won’t be Clive. The American Forces radio station said that the protestors were as yet nameless. They had blown themselves up before the deadline when an armoured car had approached them.

  PASSWORDS

  Vince already had the boat loaded in the back of the car when he reached the hospital. His left shoulder and right knee were aching. When Clive returns, he can tell her about it, he thought. But if Clive didn’t return? Surely if Clive were one of the three, the police would know, they would already have come to the chalet. Vince had thought of hiding the laptop; but then someone might imagine I was stealing. Michela was already waiting for him on the steps at the main entrance, wearing dark glasses. Suddenly she looks like some kind of celebrity. She has a bright blue mini—dress. They let me go into town yesterday afternoon, she smiled. She seemed cheerful. I spent Clive’s money. Then she added: I’ve decided to live, by the way. Her tone was deliberately casual. Glad to hear it, Vince told her. He was awed by her easy elegance, a sort of natural disdain she has.

  Throwing her bag in the back, Michela asked, how come the canoe? He had had to lower the back seats. I went out on my own. This morning? She raised her eyebrows. The bruise on her cheek was almost gone. He explained. He had had to drag the thing through brambles. You’re mad, she told him. You could have drowne
d. Against all his plans, this prompted Vince to say: Did you hear what happened in Germany? She was opening the passenger door. They were in the hospital car park. The pause she left was so long, settling herself now in the seat, wriggling a little to be out of the way of the nose of the kayak propped between the headrests, that he wondered if she had heard. This afternoon, she said firmly, I must check through all the kit. There’s some administrative stuff to do as well. And tomorrow morning I’ll have to shop, because the deal is that we have to provide the food for the first meal. They’re supposed to arrive after lunch. She turned and looked straight at him, smiling falsely. I’m not to mention it, he understood. She knows. As soon as Clive gets back, he said, I’ll hit the road.

  When she opened the chalet door, she hardly seemed to notice the transformation that had taken place, the clean floor, clean sink, tidy table. She put her bag down. To work! Vince drove her to the post office, the bank, the internet café. She and Clive had a business e—mail. She made notes of one or two messages. At the post office there were brochures from equipment manufacturers. Invoices and cheques. Heads turned as she stepped out into the street. The blue of the dress was dazzling in the sunshine. She is conscious of those looks, Vince saw. She is enjoying them. But there is still something brittle about her. She is tensed for Clive’s return. Take me to lunch, taxi—man, she told him. She is warm and mocking. The Schloss Café is good, she said.

  This was at the end of a dirt road two or three hairpins above the castle that dominates the village. An ample terrace was packed with tables. What time did he say he’d be back? she asked. To Vince’s surprise she has ordered steak and wine. They are sitting under a red and white sunshade looking down over pine trees into the warm green hum of the valley. Yesterday’s river is a harmless brown ribbon flecked with white. Early evening, I think, Vince said. He didn’t give a specific time. Vince has never bothered with sunglasses, but feels the need for them now. The slopes and mountains are pulsing with light. The very air is too bright. I should be back Thursday. He remembered Clive’s voice. The man hadn’t said when.

  Good! She was rubbing her hands. Just a few hours, then.

  He is struck by her cheerfulness. Her hair is glossy from a morning wash. Perhaps she’s had it trimmed. She’s eating and ordering without any concern for the price, as though this were some special celebration.

  I was wondering … he began.

  Ye—e—e—es? she laughed, raised her sunglasses for a moment. Her eyes are playful.

  Wouldn’t it be better, maybe, to come to some agreement with Clive, about the, er, money side of things, then for you to go and live elsewhere, perhaps, with friends. I mean, with the situation as it is, you risk getting upset. Or getting more attached, without solving anything.

  She put down her knife and fork, patted her breast. I was wondering, she mimicked, head cocked on one side, voice pompous. Wouldn’t it be better if Mr Banker minded his own business? She burst out laughing.

  Please call me Vince, he said.

  Anyhow, I don’t have any friends, she said.

  Vince found this hard to believe.

  Not in Italy. And anyway I don’t want to speak Italian. But we’ve been through that. I don’t even want to think it.

  Go to England.

  Are you inviting me? she asked.

  Vince was taken aback. Actually, I wasn’t.

  She smiled brilliantly. Please, Mr Ba— No, sorry, Vince, please, stop worrying about me. Okay? Come to think of it, after lunch, you might want to get going right away. If Clive is late you risk falling asleep at the wheel.

  Vince told her he enjoyed starting a long drive in the evening, then stopping at a hotel as soon as he felt drowsy. She refilled her glass. She is drinking steadily. Behind her sunglasses he senses the eyes are searching him. She said: You think he might not come back, am I right?

  Vince was caught out. Not at all, I just promised I’d stay till he did.

  The waitress arrived, hovered, went off.

  Why wouldn’t he come back?

  Oh I’m sure he will, Vince said. His voice sounded wrong. And then, I’ll get moving, obviously.

  They ate. The fare was standard but good. The day was too hot again, though they were pleasantly shaded, lightly dressed. Vince’s body ached in various places from yesterday’s adventure, but when sitting down to meat and wine these are not unpleasant aches, more reminders of being alive. Perhaps Michela feels the same way about the bruise fading from her cheek. There comes a point when a wound makes you more aware of the healing process than the damage. Even the tension between them is something to savour.

  Tell me what you will do when you get back home, she asked. He explained that strictly speaking he wouldn’t be going home. He must drive straight to the office. There would be at least ten days, non—stop, of sixteen—hour work stints, sandwiches grabbed in the canteen, a few hours’ sleep in his service flat.

  What’s so important?

  It was a question, he says, of deadlines for filing accounts, mainly for the bank’s American operations. Things can often be accounted for in various ways.

  You mean you have to look for loopholes, to avoid taxes.

  Vince shook his head. Not at all. He smiled. Everybody thinks that. Actually, it’s a question of choosing the form of accounting for every transaction that most nearly and clearly represents reality, so that everybody is in a position to understand what’s going on, the directors, the institutional investors, the shareholders. If they don’t understand the situation, it’s hard for them to know how to behave.

  So, at least with money, you know how to behave. She was smiling. She enjoys making fun of me, he thought. My job is more to do with defining what has happened, he said, not making the investment decisions.

  And after those two weeks, you can go back to your house and daughter?

  He explained that Louise lived with her uncle’s family.

  Why?

  I spend the week in the city and her school is a hundred miles away.

  You put your work before her, Michela said.

  Vince has understood that these provocations do not necessarily indicate hostility. When Gloria died, I didn’t know what to do. I was thrown. I thought the best thing was to keep working as before.

  Giving your whole life to money.

  Vince poured himself more wine. You let me off the hook with that kind of crude attack, he told her. Mouth full, she raised an eyebrow. Money, he spoke quickly, is that invention which makes all resources measurable in common terms and hence transferable, so that people don’t have to swap a cow for a field. Yes? Or a goat for a kayak. The bank is that place where the units of wealth can be stored so that resources can be exchanged when and where it is most convenient. Or alternatively they can be used by someone else while the real owner is deciding what to do with them, so that wealth is not just left lying around in heaps of gold. A banker is not serving money, he’s at the centre of a complicated network of exchanges that makes life possible.

  Yes, Professor. Of course. But the way it actually works stinks, doesn’t it? No one is thinking where the resources should go. Only where money is most likely to multiply. There’s no morality in it, let alone compassion.

  In my case, Vince said, the morality is in the honesty of representation.

  She had finished. She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, pushed her chair back, crossed her long legs. What do you do in the evening, then?

  Vince shrugged. Nothing. I get back to the flat late. Bit of TV. Bed.

  And at the weekend?

  Maybe I take the canoe out on the estuary. Which is going to seem pretty dull after last week.

  Or you could visit Mandy.

  I could, yes.

  You must have lots of friends, she said.

  Not really.

  Oh, I find that hard to believe. Again she is mimicking. She is almost too good at it. He smiles. Acquaintances, I suppose. Business friends. Gloria’s friends.

  You don�
�t really want to go back to your job, do you, Mr Banker?

  Vince remembers that Clive had suggested the same thing. Perhaps they had talked together about him. He decided to be honest. You know, I don’t quite understand what I want. Actually, I don’t know how I can understand. It would mean knowing the future, knowing myself. I’ve changed.

  You see, Michela said, I was right, you don’t want to go back. The young woman seemed very pleased with herself. She lifted her glass to her lips again.

  Vince looked down the valley. Clouds were gathering over the peaks now. Perhaps there was the first smell of a storm in the air. There seemed to be a lot of birds on the move. I feel I would like to take a risk, he said. That’s all.

  Like you did yesterday on the river.

  I suppose so. I had a good time. I mean, even when it was bad.

  You know what Clive says?

  What?

  A fragile candour crept into her voice. You know he liked to run rivers that he really shouldn’t? Like on the last day of the trip. We should really have got off the river at lunchtime, you know.

  Looking back on it, yes.

  Well, Clive always says, the trouble is, after the high of getting away with it on the river, nothing has really changed. It isn’t a real risk. That’s what he said. Not a real risk.

  Vince watched her. Behind the enigma of the sunglasses there was a sudden vibrancy. So, he asked, what would a real risk be, as far as Clive is concerned?