Rapids (17 page)

Adam released the edges he was holding, rolled backwards. Excuse me? In a moment they were all fighting their way out of the flapping cloth. Vince recognised the man he had seen that first day at his shack by the river. He held an old fishing rod, a battered bag, a bottle. He was shouting, shaking his head, turning to point theatrically down the river. He bent down and spread out his arms and moved them outwards as if touching something low and long.

Leave us alone, you’re drunk. Adam was abrupt and sharp. Hang on, Clive said. Listen, he asked, speaking slowly to the man. Want some food? Eat? He had his lunchbox in his hand. The man stank of spirits. He started shouting again. His eyes were mad. Max understands German, Vince said. Everybody is shivering. The bloke’s drunk, Adam insisted. Come on, then, Max. But the man’s voice was slurred, he was shouting and yelling in dialect. The only thing I can get is
gefàhrlich;
the blonde boy shook his head. Ge—what? Phil asked. We know it’s
gefàhrlich,
Clive said patiently. The man knocked the sandwich out of his hand. He seemed angry. He stared at them all, gesticulating at the sky, along the river. His movements were jerky and unnatural. He says the river’s dangerous today, Michela said. But the visitor had already turned and was picking his way along the bank downstream, his body bowed, jerky but oddly agile.

Clive watched him go. We’ve got about fifteen minutes to visit the waterfall, then we’d better get moving. You could see from the mud in the water, he said, that the river was coming up fast. Are you sure there’s time? Adam worried. This is an important experience, Clive repeated. Quite a find. You’ll need your helmets, Michela warned. Brian said he couldn’t walk. His foot was hurting. I’ll stay with him, Amelia offered. Oh Kiss You! Max shouted as the two pulled the makeshift tent around them. Hope the old pervert doesn’t come back, or you’re dead meat.

The little group climbed steeply for about two hundred yards among tall trunks, their knuckly roots fastened into the rock. Everything was twisted, crushed, flaking, leaning, broken, sharp. Everything dripped and drizzled. Phil began to throw pine cones. What did that word mean, ge—what—sit? It means absolutely—fucking—terrifying, Max lied in his poshest voice. I wish, Phil sighed. Don’t worry, he said the same to me, first day, Vince remembered. I think he has trouble imagining there are people who can’t speak his language. Or people mad enough to kayak, Mark muttered. A cone bounced on his helmet. Then they met the stream tumbling down and saw the waterfall about fifty yards ahead where the slope ended abruptly against a wall of rock. I’ve seen bigger, Adam remarked. The water poured down steadily in a broad sheet. Wait, Clive said.

They had to scramble up in the stream itself now. The rocks are slippery, but they have their wetsuits on and rubber shoes. Use your hands, folks! Clive had to shout over the noise. Can’t afford any injuries now. Sometimes a leg sank in up to the thigh. It was definitely colder than the river. Oh my poor bollocks! Phil sang. Look at this! Max had found something jammed between two stones: a sheep’s skull. Attractive fellow, Adam said. Friend of Wally’s no doubt, Max declared. Pioneer of canyoning! He threw the thing at Phil, who dodged to let it rush off in the stream. Vince offered Michela his hand as she jumped from one boulder to another. She refused it.

At the top, at the foot of the rock wall, the falling water had hollowed out a pool about fifteen feet across. Clive waded round and climbed out on a narrow ledge just to the left of the fall. Instead of the rain, a fierce icy spray blew into their faces here. A strong breeze was rushing down with the water. The roar was so loud they had to put their heads together to talk. Adam— Clive challenged the man— why don’t you walk across and see what’s behind. Walk under the water? That’s what I said. You’re joking, Adam told him.

It was difficult to say from close up, with the spray stinging their eyes and the trees dripping gloomily all around, how high the waterfall might be. Forty feet perhaps. That’s why I said to bring helmets, Clive explained. There was a deep chill in the air. I thought it was for the pine cones, Max laughed. But how do I know the water’s not too deep? Trust me, Clive told him. Glistening with bright drops, his bearded face suggested both prophet and explorer. There was a glint in his eye. He looks older than he is, Vince thought. Mark was watching his father. Go on, Clive yelled. I’ll give it a whirl, Phil offered.

Adam immediately stepped into the water. His leg sank to the knee, then the thigh. The water crashed on his helmet. Leaning forward, his hands supported on the rock behind the fall, he edged along with nervous slowness. There was no regulation way of doing things now. The waterfall is perhaps twelve feet across. The man had reached the middle when suddenly he stumbled forward through the curtain of white spray and disappeared. Jesus! Mark breathed. For about thirty seconds there was no sign of him— Don’t worry, Clive laughed— then Adam reappeared further along and began to climb out from the water. From the opposite bank he turned and shouted something, held up a thumb. Now you, Clive told Phil, and try to enjoy it more than he did.

One by one the group inched along the ledge, then, with nowhere to stand on the far side, people began scrambling back down the slope to the boats. Vince was second to last with only Michela behind. As he stepped into the falling water, he was astonished by the force of its downward thrust beating on his helmet. His neck tensed to resist. Nobody said I wouldn’t be able to breathe. The air was all water. His eyes are blind, ears full of sound, cheeks stinging with cold. His hands advanced, pressing numbly on the slippery rock behind the fall. Then, as he imagined, the resistance suddenly disappeared. There was no wall. He stumbled forward through the heavy water and stood, thigh—deep, in a space that might have been the size of a tall wardrobe. So little light filtered through, it was impossible to make out what was above him. Vince stood there breathing deeply.

Why didn’t he just hurry on then, as the others had? Was it guile? Suddenly, it seemed essential that he should have come here, that he should know this cold, roaring place, at the heart of everything, he thought, but dark and hidden. It’s important that there are places like this. He couldn’t think why. But he knew the Italian girl would be coming. Any moment. He waited, breathing the saturated air. Sure enough, she suddenly blundered forward through the water and against him. He could just make out her pale face as she yelled something inches away. What was it? He couldn’t hear. He started to edge out, but she is holding an arm. He turned to her. She pulled him against her. Her hands had fastened tight on his jacket. Their cold wet faces are together now. Still she was yelling something. The water thundered. He shouted: I’m crazy about you. Absolutely crazy! He was shouting at the top of his voice knowing she couldn’t hear. I do nothing but watch you. She shook her head. Their eyes had caught each other, gathering a faint brightness from the shadow. Something was quivering there. She put her hands behind his head. Their helmets banged. And for perhaps three or four seconds she pressed her cold lips to his. Then she let go. She pushed him. He turned. Stepping outwards, the weight of the water was again so unexpected he lost his footing on the ledge and fell outwards. The pool was up to his neck and he had to swim. By the time he reached the shallow water, Michela was already ahead, hurrying down after the others.

Mystical experience? Clive asked Adam as they got into their boats again.

Claustrophobic, Adam replied. He had his sardonic smile. Place could use some good garden lighting.

Bit of a toilet, if you ask me, Phil sneered.

Vince?

Can’t describe it. He shook his head. What could he say? A great wind was blowing through him. Like a place, he hazarded, I kind of always knew existed but had never been to. Does that make sense? He didn’t look at Michela as he spoke, but saw Clive lift an eyebrow in her direction. There was a squint of anxiety in his expression. The Italian girl’s voice came very flat and clear: Last place on earth, she said. Terminal.

Did we really miss anything? Amelia was demanding of Max. And has anybody got any lipsalve?

Rapid poke in Mother Earth’s old womb, Max said. Core of the universe kind of thing.

Earth’s what?

For Christ’s sake, Phil, where have you been, where did you come from? The womb!

Cunt to you, Brian explained, checking his spraydeck.

Kids, Adam began.

Not exactly, Amelia protested. She pressed a stick of Vaseline against her lips.

Thereabouts, Brian said. And just as wet by the sounds.

You should be so lucky, Max told him.

Cunt is warm, Phil objected.

Unless you’re into necrophilia.

Kids, I said enough!

Then they were on the water again. It was distinctly dirtier now as the rising streams brought down earth from the mountain sides. There were the first bits of debris. A broken branch, a dead bird. Yuck, Amelia said. Bugger off, foul fowl. The creature rolled over softly in the eddy—line, limp feathers outspread. How quiet the valley seemed, Vince thought. The dull roar of rain and river made a strange ferocious hush.

Just before the first rapid, Clive told Phil and Max to go ahead together and scout. First sign of anything really tricky, out of your boats and check it from the bank. This is the definitive four—star test, okay?

The boys paddled off and disappeared over the horizon line. The others chattered. Adam acknowledged that the little cave behind the fall was worth a visit, but didn’t see why Clive wanted to insist on the word mystical. Michela stared glassily into the water: because it was where she and Clive had kissed so passionately three weeks before, she thought. Amelia was asking Brian if they would let him have his four—star even if, with his bad foot, he couldn’t do this scouting business. Then Mark shouted, Listen up!

It was Max’s voice. He was hoarse. Shrieking. Unable to get along the rocky bank, the boy had climbed five or six yards up in thick bushes. Quick! He’s drowning. Quick. Oh God! Hurry. Help!

Clive thrust his boat out into the stream. Adam! With me. Everybody else, stay. The two men were out of sight in a matter of seconds. Max was crashing away again through the trees. About halfway through the rapid, the instructors found Phil trapped under a tree that had fallen, uprooted, across the water, its trunk just clear of the flood, the branches beneath forming an impassable sieve. This was a place to die in. But a man was already out there. Straddled on the trunk in a mass of broken twigs, he had got a hand under the boy’s shoulder, keeping his face just half out of the water. That crazy bloke was waiting there shouting, Max explained later. The boys had gone down over the pour—over, heard him yelling, seen the obstacle and tried to eddy out. But Phil must have planted his paddle exactly between two rocks as he turned. When he lifted it, the blade had gone. He hadn’t even felt it snap. The river had him. The boat was dragged beneath the tree. The water pulled him down into the tangled branches.

With a coolness that was the opposite of his reaction to the violence in Milan, Clive found two half—submerged stones to wedge his boat between, got out and tossed his tackle to Max who had arrived on the bank. In a moment he had brought Adam alongside of him. But for all their competence, with the strength of the current sweeping into the matted branches and the difficulty moving along the bank and then out onto the trunk, it took the men almost fifteen minutes to get the boy free. Meantime, the old tramp held onto his shoulder in the freezing water, shouting incomprehensibly, while the instructors secured ropes to the belt of his buoyancy aid.

Pulled clear, Phil retched and vomited. Never again. He would never get back on the water again. His gormless face was white, lips bloodless, and his whole body shaking. Never, never, never! He shook his head violently. It’s my fault, Clive told Adam. He studied the narrow gorge with its steep banks, the fallen tree. We’ll have to portage.

The kayaks were dragged out with ropes. They must find a way round. At this point it was clear that the person who really ought to have been excluded from the trip was Brian. Safest in the water, the crippled boy couldn’t carry his boat and couldn’t even walk unaided except on a fairly flat surface. Ask the guy if there’s a path, Clive told Max.
Wie heissen Sie?
Max asked. The man was squatting on a rock with his shoulder bag and rod, filthy khaki trousers soaking below the knees, a sodden raincoat. He had shaved perhaps a week ago. The stubble was white. Roland, he answered. There was a smell to him. He wore boots with no socks. Roland. He grinned now. I’m Max, Max said.

The man began an expansive monologue, gesturing constantly towards the tree. He seemed to be scolding them.
Gibt es ein Weg?
Max asked.
Ein Wanderweg?
The man pointed up. Tell him how grateful we are and ask him if he can help us with the portage, Clive instructed. We have someone who can’t walk. Tell him we’ll buy him a meal. Anything.

Max interpreted, but Roland didn’t seem to understand. Max repeated the offer. The man picked up his rod and opened his bag. It stank of fish. I think he’s saying he has to stay by the river.
Cius,
Roland stood up abruptly and without moving began to wave as though to people already in the distance.
Auf wiedersehen, au revoir.
It was clownish. We should have scouted ourselves, Adam said. But if his paddle hadn’t snapped … Max objected. We’ll debrief later, Clive said. We’ve been lucky.

The slope above the river bank was slippery with rainwater trickling down through roots and pine needles and patches of exposed rock. Having got back to the main group and then found a way up to the path far above, they arranged a pulley with the throw—ropes and hauled the eight boats more than a hundred steep yards through undergrowth and thickets. Clive lifted Brian on his shoulders and staggered zigzagging among the trees. Keep your helmet on, he told him. Good view, the boy said, ducking his head. Then they regrouped along the path. It was narrow but clearly marked, following the contour of the gorge through slim pines a couple of hundred feet above the river.