Authors: Tim Parks
N
o, I’m not her uncle, Vince said. He wanted that clear at once. It was a scandal, a complete scandal, Mandy had raged when he explained the situation. The mad morning bell—ringer was at work. The valley was full of sound. Vince smiled and kissed her cheek. Seven a. m. You’re a disgrace, Adam told his son. Your mother will kill me. You don’t tell her everything you do, the boy said. His nose was blocked from the swimming he had done yesterday. Everybody’s nose is blocked. Vince packed up the tent to clear their pitch, then set off to the hospital while the others were still having breakfast. Thanks Dad! Almost at once his daughter texted him. He had said nothing to her about her night out. Despite not having used it all week, his phone was down to its last bar. And almost at once she sent a second message. Can’t believe you’re not hurrying back to the office!
He hurried to the hospital. It had occurred to him Michela would need clothes, pyjamas, toiletries and so on. He unlocked the chalet and searched. Clive hadn’t tried to tidy or left any notes. How different from their own home where everything had always been ironed and ordered, where Gloria always left explanatory yellow Post—its on cupboard and fridge. Vince wasn’t even sure if the things he found had been washed. The intimacy excited him. There were toiletry products with Italian and German names. A complete scandal, Mandy repeated, running over to say goodbye again. I wish I’d been there to give him a piece of my mind. She was angry. She took both Vince’s hands. She is jealous of the girl, Vince knew. It was silly. Of a girl who had tried to kill herself. Our families are indissolubly linked, Adam said wryly. The man offered his hand. Steady on, Vince smiled. He wouldn’t open to him. Don’t worry, I won’t fight the water, he told Keith. The paunchy man had a twinkle in his eye. Wish I was staying, mate. He was enjoying Mandy’s rage. Please, Tom whispered, give her my love. This— he handed over a beer—mat with a scribble— is my e—mail address.
And now Vince was repeating to some sort of ward sister that he was not Michela’s uncle. He spoke very slowly and clearly. It was important to have that farce out of the way. I—am—not—her—uncle. No. The truth was he had only just learned her surname: Donati. But I would like to see a doctor about her. Yes. She hasn’t woken up, the nurse warned. The woman was grim. She shook her head under a green cap. Not voken, she repeated. And not all the staff were here on Sundays. Vince waited more than an hour in a corridor before a doctor took him into a small office to insist that they must inform the girl’s next of kin. They couldn’t discuss the matter with a stranger. As always, Vince explained the situation truthfully. He had put on the most serious clothes he had with him. Cotton trousers, a battered linen jacket. The doctor didn’t agree: On the contrary, I think it is very probable that she really wants her mother to know most. He too spoke with a strong accent. She wants to say, look, Mutti, I can kill myself too. For some children, this is a way of showing they have become adult.
Vince was polite. I can only tell you the very little I know, he said. His whole career had been built on a habit of complete candour. He didn’t trust himself to lie. From the one personal conversation I had with her, he said, I would say that seeing her mother might be counterproductive. She might react very badly. She was very angry with her family. The doctor pursed his lips, played with his pen. He was a small earnest man in his mid thirties. No doubt he knows the regulations. Her boyfriend, Vince repeated, the man she lives with, will be back on Thursday. He had to go to Berlin. The doctor shook his head. I don’t think so, Mr, er, Marshall, yes? I don’t think the partner of a pretty woman goes away at a time like this. What could be more important?
Vince offered no comment. They looked at each other across a metal table—top. You have hurt yourself too, I see? Just a couple of stitches, Vince admitted. Aren’t you a bit old for falling in rivers? This was irritating. I don’t think age has much to do with it, doctor. The doctor played with a pen. You have only known her a week, then? Five days, Vince said. And why are you the one to stay now? Her boyfriend asked me to; I was the only person with my own car. So you have no special relationship with her? Vince sighed. A friend, nothing else, a member of the same group. Then he added: People have a strong sense of solidarity, you know, doctor, when they do these things together. I’m sure that is true, Mr Marshall. Now, you will please inform the mother of this accident, or you will find the telephone number so we can inform, okay? Okay, Vince said. He hesitated. Can I see her, though? Should I leave my own phone number? I have a mobile.
To his surprise, he was allowed to sit by the bed. There was a cabinet to put her clothes and things in, but Vince decided first he would find a laundry. Michela lay as if deeply asleep. Her breathing seemed normal enough; the face, with its high cheeks and tanned skin, was transformed by a huge bruise beneath the eye. She’s sweating, he noticed. He wondered if perhaps they had covered her up too much. Gloria always had stories about the incompetence of nurses. I’m on Gloria’s territory, he thought. He picked up a hand and said, Michela. Michela? He wouldn’t call her Micky. Funny, her hands were quite unscathed. She hadn’t grabbed at anything. She hadn’t tried to save herself. The skin was cool and soft. Not the heavy cold Gloria’s had been.
After twenty minutes he left her and walked into Bruneck, but everything was closed. Church bells were clanging. He couldn’t buy a phone charger and he couldn’t find a launderette. He bought a coffee, a pastry, and sat out in the same square where he had been with Keith and Michela three days ago. I am waiting again, he thought, waiting to be someone new. But it had been a pleasure to use his old persona on the doctor, the quiet authority he knew he transmitted. When he returned to the campsite the others had gone. How hot it is, Vince realised, when you’re not spending the day on the river. The air in the chalet was stifling. He suddenly felt tired, uncomfortable. In Sand in Taufers he bought a
Herald Tribune
and discovered it was the warmest summer ever recorded. In France old people were dying like flies. Clive was vindicated, then. What could be more important at a moment like this than a summit on global warming? The markets seem stable enough, though. Vince didn’t study the figures. He glanced, but his mind wouldn’t focus. I’m still on holiday, he decided.
He drove to the river where it tumbled into the gorge above the town. This was where Clive had parked the minibus after their walk on the glacier. I can’t keep away, he realised. He stepped carefully down the steep path that followed the rapid, trying to remember not to grab at anything with his bad hand. Pushing through tangled branches, he found a place that allowed him to see the fifty yards of wild water he had traversed. There was the rock that had pinned him. Was it? He wasn’t sure. It was strange to think he had been upside down in that tumult. Tons of water crashed constantly against a black solid mass. I didn’t really take it in. But this was certainly the rock he had climbed out on. Yes. He recognised the dome—like shape, the way the stream swirled round and by. What happens to a ring under water? How far would it travel? Is this, perhaps, it crossed his mind, how the old tramp first started hanging about the river, after some accident? A death even. His wife had drowned. Or a child. Probably not, Vince thought. Probably he had fished on the river as a boy. It’s the natural place for him to be. And yesterday he had saved Phil’s life. How casual that seemed! The boy had forgotten almost at once. Then Vince realised his phone was ringing. He liked to keep the tones discreet and the water was thundering. Mr Marshall, could you come to the hospital?
It was after three now. I can’t believe it! Michela was muttering. Her lips were pale. She was attached to a drip but nothing else. In the only other bed, beneath the window, an older woman was unconscious. Michela! Vince said. Again he was surprised they had left him alone. You’re awake! He felt an intense, nervous pleasure, an apprehension. Where’s Clive? she asked in a low voice. I thought they meant Clive was coming.
With no air—conditioning the room was stifling. The window was closed. The girl is confused, he realised, and sweating. She tried to sit up but fell back, as though oppressed by some invisible weight. Shouldn’t she be sedated, he wondered? Perhaps you’re not supposed to sedate coma patients. Why are you here? she whispered. Where’s Clive? Vince tried to be natural. He wiped a sleeve on his forehead. I don’t really know why, he admitted. Clive said he had to go to Berlin. He asked me to stay.
Vince wondered how much he should say to the girl, what allusions might upset her. The doctors hadn’t given him any instructions. I’ve brought your clothes and bathroom stuff. She stared at him. Actually, I’m not sure if they’ve been washed. I couldn’t find a launderette. Staring, she seemed to find everything he said incomprehensible. Again she tried and failed to sit up. She was pinned to the bed, panting. When’s he coming back? she asked. When can I see him?
He said he should be back Thursday.
A look of puzzlement clouded her eyes.
When Thursday, what day is it today?
The flight is due Thursday, that’s all I know. In Bolzano. Today is Sunday. He saw her fists clench on the bed. Until then, I mean, if there’s anything you need … Do you have a mobile, by the way. That might …
And that’s all he said? Is that all he said?
Vince was unprepared for this. It occurred to him that he had been spared any hospital scenes with Gloria. Only the morgue. Casting about, he told her: Actually he did say something about going because you would have wanted him to.
She managed to turn a little in the bed and pushed the sheets aside. Everything oppressed her. Me? And you believed him?
Vince said, I don’t know anything about you two, do I? I’m sure he believed it, though.
Making a huge effort, she dragged her head higher up the pillow. The drip bottle swung on its pole. Crumpled and damp, the white hospital smock they had given her clung to her body. Vince can see her breasts. Apart from the facial bruise, her body appears to have flushed through the rapid without a scratch. You really believed him! Her voice was harsh and dazed. Are you stupid?
It’s hardly up to me to believe or disbelieve. Vince kept his voice quiet, adult. I told him I thought it would be much better if he stayed with you, not me. He said he had something very important to do and you would understand. You would want him to go.
Ah, important. Again she grimaced. It was as if she were looking for the energy to express her anger. What could Clive ever do that was important?
Vince watched her. He was annoyed with himself for not having prepared the meeting at all, not having scouted ahead. He doesn’t want her to suffer some kind of relapse. Clive saved you, he told her in a matter—of—fact voice. He pulled you out. Without him, you’d have drowned. She thought about this for a moment. I wish I had drowned, and him too, she muttered. I wish we’d both drowned! Now leave me alone! she finished. Leave me alone and don’t come back! I don’t want to see you.
Vince stood up. You should have thought more before coming, he told himself. He sighed. You rest, he said, I’ll come back tomorrow. Don’t, she said. I don’t want to see you. Go back to your bank and your calculations.
He was at the door when she must have noticed the bandage on his hand. Oh, did you hurt yourself? For the first time, her voice registered curiosity. She was propped on one elbow. I went down after you. I couldn’t avoid it. She began shaking her head rather strangely. I didn’t ask you to, did I? I didn’t say you did, Vince replied. He paused a moment by the door. I’m not complaining. It was quite an experience. As he turned to leave, he heard her repeat. Don’t come back. Please.
Vince spent the late afternoon cleaning the chalet. He could have got in his car and driven right back to London if he had wanted to. She’s awake now, he thought. She’s out of danger. She can give the doctors the phone number of family and friends. She has her clothes, her health card. I forgot to leave any money, he remembers, washing a pile of dishes. But he knows it’s a detail. Someone would drive her back here. It was only a few miles. And it’s only about sixteen hours to London, he thought. If I drive through the night. I needn’t even be late for work. She made it perfectly clear she doesn’t want to see me.
He settled down to clean the chalet. To do it seriously. There was this urge in him to get in the car and go. He felt his body straining towards it: the air—conditioning, the long hours at the wheel through the continental night, the autobahns, the tunnel beneath the sea, the early morning on the M2, old friends at the bank, authority. For years now Vince has wielded authority. But the resistance is steady and strong. That was not the way forward.
Sweating and sticky, he heaped a hundred odds and ends onto the big bed and found a broom to sweep the floor. It was one of the witches’ variety with yellow bristles that caught between planks of bare wood. He scraped in corners. There are nail parings, the tar—drenched ends of rolled cigarettes, a couple of cotton buds, crumpled receipts, a piece of chewing gum, even a dried—out teabag. They don’t keep a clean house, he thought. When was the last time I used a broom? He didn’t feel critical, but dogged, trying to establish a geometry, a system. Both Clive and Michela are powerfully present to him. He can hear their voices. Sweep from the walls in, he decided. There was a cleaning firm for the service flat in Vauxhall. Everything is always clean when Vince gets back after a long day, everything in the right place. Then he found a rag, put it under the tap, wrung it out and wiped the floor twice. In this heat, with window and door wide open, it dried at once. At six—thirty the sun dropped behind the glacier. The valley began to cool. It was a relief. Some kids had started kicking a ball where Waterworld’s kitchen tent had been.
He tried to sort out the clean clothes from the dirty and put the latter in a bin—bag. Why am I doing this? he wondered. The girl’s underclothes in one drawer, sweaters in another. These two people are in grave trouble, he thought. He gathered stray books together on a shelf—
Strategies of Subversion, Carbon War, Stupid White
Men. Why will people never give up anything? someone had scrawled inside a cover. We must give up things! Clive, he thought. He stacked papers, invoices, brochures, printouts of e—mails. Some were signed ‘Red Wolves’, with an indication of a website. There was an IBM Thinkpad, but he didn’t turn it on. Did Michela have a mobile phone? he wondered. If so, where? He opened and closed various drawers. They are asking too little for these holidays, he reflected, considering a paper quoting the price of the canoes. It would take for ever to recover the outlay.