Rapids

TOD

No, 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.

Suddenly, Vince realised he was crying. The tears are flowing as he shifts the bed and sweeps the big dust — balls from under it. He doesn’t stop. There are two old Durex foils. I should have done this before wiping the floor, he realises. Nobody has swept here for a month and more. I’m doing what Gloria always did, he mutters: tidying up. He shifted the bed back into position, turned up a photocopied pamphlet: ‘The Bomb in the Garage: How To!’ He shook his head. It used to infuriate him, having got home late Friday night, that Gloria would then spend Saturday morning cleaning. I never protested. He crouched down with the dustpan, collected up the dust and the foils and tobacco shreds and sweet wrappers. Should I wipe again? These are tears of shame, he decided. He didn’t stop. He tipped the mess into a Despar plastic bag, wrung out the cloth again. Could that have been what she meant? He got on his knees. That she was sorry for the Saturday morning cleaning sessions. The wet wood had a musty smell. We could have loved each other better, Vince thought.

He had nearly finished now. Adam was a detail, he decided. He wiped the table and counter and moved the chairs back. In six months, nothing has brought him so close to his dead wife. So close to the edge. He sat on the stool by the counter. There was still the sink to sort out. Deep trouble, he muttered, thinking of Clive and Michela again, their books, their bad investments, their aggressive concern about the world. Was there any bleach about? he wondered. They need an accountant. Then a vibration in his pocket told him a text had arrived. Let us know your news. How is M? Mandy. M awake, he replied. All well. Safe journey.

Vince stood at the open door of the chalet. The campsite was busy with new arrivals organising their gear. The evening was moist and warm and beyond Sand in Taufers the profile of the mountains rose quiet and clear into a pale sky. Did that girl commit suicide? he wondered. Katrin Hofstetter. The name came to him. It hadn’t seemed an obvious place to fall from. The path was easy. He gazed up above the castle to the glacier. They hadn’t visited the castle. The landscape is patient, he thought, staring at the high slopes. It waits patiently. But perhaps memorials aren’t always put exactly in the place where an accident happens. That might be dangerous. Perhaps she had died a hundred yards away, on some tricky bit. I left no memorial for Gloria, he thought. They’re not the fashion these days. He imagined a plaque on some boulder up in the mountains, his wife’s photograph and a date. Perhaps that way you could restrict remembering to a place, a routine, an anniversary visit. Jingling the car keys in his pocket, Vince walked through the campsite towards the village. Even after shedding the ring, she won’t let me go. Unless it was just a question, he thought, dropping the Despar bag in a bin, of not being used to having nothing to do. I arranged a holiday, Vince realised, that would be all action. I did that on purpose so as not to think. I am always so busy. And how strange that through all those years, in the office, in the flat, at home, these mountains had been waiting here. They always will. Even after the glaciers have melted. The world waits for you to be tired of your life. To save himself having to choose, he went to the same restaurant they had eaten in yesterday evening.

As soon as he sat down, Vince knew he was touching bottom. The place was not the same without the group. This is it, he realised. They hurried him to a corner, a small table for two. The waitress spoke no English. She was in a hurry with all the other clients, the holidaymakers. Trying to get a grip, Vince looked around. The room assailed him. Without the others, he has no resistance. This schlock is horrible, he realised, these dangling hearts that aren’t hearts, these fake trophies, these dead animals, this awful international music with its sugary electronic rhythms. How could I have loved it so much yesterday? Why did I find it so wonderful?

The same ageing musician presented the same impassive face above his keyboards. A mahogany face. The tune was ‘Smoke Gets In Your Eyes’. He must have grown up with the accordion and folk dances, Vince thought, or with the organ in church, with festivities and solemnities. How can he play this stuff? The music suddenly seemed very loud. It’s a betrayal, Vince thought. The man was not incompetent. He’s betraying his past. And the voices were swelling too. There was a huge buzz of voices. The international clients aren’t listening to the entertainment that has been laid on for them. They bring their money, Vince thought, but not their attention. The musician’s eyes stared across the heads of the holidaymakers. Into nothingness. He pays attention to nothing. Like a photo on a grave. And knows no one is paying attention to him.

Suddenly, Vince was covering his face with his hands. I miss them. His head was shaking. I miss Brian and Max and Amelia and Tom. People I’ve only known a few days. Gloria is dead, a voice said. Oh then please, be dead! Vince wailed. Die! He had spoken aloud. Don’t come back please, Michela said. Don’t come back.

Entschuldigung? The waitress is at his side. She wants to take his order. I am about to make a scene, Vince thought. He forced back his chair. I’m sorry. The waitress had seen his tears. Her face didn’t soften. I’ll have to go. He turned and made quickly for the door.

There is no question of thinking now. He walked swiftly along the lamp — lit street. This is a complete impasse. I don’t want to see you. What had he expected? How lightly he had scorned Mandy’s sensible interest. Abruptly he turned into a bar. Whisky, he said. They would understand that. He pulled out his wallet at once. Behind the counter a young man was moving quickly between the beer — taps and now Vince noticed kids playing at screens around the walls and others sitting at keyboards typing out e — mails. This must be where Louise and the others had come most evenings. It was smoky. I still haven’t said anything to the bank, Vince remembered. Where Phil had downloaded pornography. The barman was showing him an ice — bucket, eyebrows raised enquiringly. Vince shook his head. Louise scorned Phil and his dirty pictures, but in the space of a couple of days she had slept with a boy she hardly knew. Why did I let her do that? She’s far too young. Vince sipped the whisky. He doesn’t like whisky. Then downed it. I should have said something, about relationships, about commitment. I’m nervous about calling the office, he realised, like an adolescent afraid of parental reproach. Yet he only has to inform them of an emergency, a forced absence. For God’s sake, I’m one of the most important people in the bank.

The whisky burned outward from his stomach. It was satisfying to do something out of character, something destructive. He feels nauseous. He feels better. I constantly feared Gloria’s reproach, he thought. He put the glass down. Why? He had shed her ring, but not the sharp reproachful voice that runs in his head. You never take a holiday. You’ve given your whole life to that bank. If we moved to London, though, he told her, we’d have more time together. That was always how the conversation went. But she wouldn’t give up her job. Gloria was secretly happy I didn’t take holidays, he realised now. Without modulating his normal voice at all, he asked: Is there a bottle I can have. Was? A bottle. Can I buy a bottle of whisky? To take away. The young man smiles. He can see I’m in trouble. Haben wir eine Flasche Whisky? he calls to a sour — looking girl making up sandwiches. That’s his wife, Vince thought. He stepped out into the street with a bottle of something called Highland Dew.

Where was he going? He hadn’t crossed the bridge that led back to the campsite. He was walking along the road down the valley to Geiss and Bruneck. As soon as he was beyond the village lamps, the pavement disappeared. To the left was a thin strip of woodland between road and river; all around, the quiet mass of the mountains. He was exposed to oncoming headlights, swerving as they saw him. Three, four, five together. The glare is blinding. He had to stop. Then there was a break and the darkness and silence flooded back. He could walk again, until the next car arrived, speeding, glaring. Two worlds that alternated. The landscape, the traffic. We ignored each other, Vince thought. That was the simple truth. That’s why it is impossible to be alone now. For years you ignored each other and now she won’t leave you alone, now you must pay attention. I am talking to myself, Vince stumbled. I am lost.

But at that very moment he found the path. The bushes opened to the left, down towards the river. He trod slowly in the dark. The old man will have a lamp, he thought. Sure enough, he met the river at exactly the point where they had tackled the wave the first day. Got it right! He stopped a moment at the river bank. The black water was fast but unhurried. The foam of the stopper glowed a little, as though phosphorescent. He looked across. I know the call of it now, he told himself, the water’s invitation. He could understand the gesture of the limp arms, the girl’s neck bent like a swan’s towards the current.

Through the bushes a few yards on, the tramp’s shack was in complete darkness. For some reason, Vince moved very quietly, stealthily even. He trod on tip — toe with his whisky bottle in one hand. The dwelling is made of old plywood panels anchored with nylon cord, draped with tarpaulin and corrugated iron. Vince bent to move aside a blanket. 1st jemand da? He had prepared the words. He didn’t know if they were right. He poked his head in, but saw only three or four small grey chinks where light leaked from outside. The smell was powerful. 1st jemand da? Vince repeated softly. Suddenly the whisky bottle was wrenched from his fingers. Ow! As he turned, a torch shone in his face. He had a vague impression of an arm raised, of the whisky bottle attached to it. No, he yelled. Für Sie! He tried to protect his head. Trinken. Geschenk. Don’t you understand? Roland! Finally he remembered the man’s name.

There was an old mattress laid across two loading pallets and an assortment of filthy cushions and blankets, fruit boxes with plates, tools, fishing gear. Roland lit a gas lamp that hung from the sagging roof. He must have some money, then, Vince thought. Some relationship with the world. It was hard to get accustomed to the smell. Rauchst du? Unlike Clive, Roland smoked regular cigarettes. I’ve accepted a cigarette! Vince hates smoking. Roland was talking excitedly all the time. They sat at each end of the mattress. The cigarette trembled in his fingers. Roland drank straight from the bottle and handed it to him. Occasionally the flow of words was interrupted at what seemed to be a question. But this was not the German Vince had learned for O level. Ja, he filled a gap at random. He knew it wasn’t necessary. Ja, ja.

He handed the bottle back. Roland cocked his head to one side. The face was gaunt and in the white light of the gas it was as if the skull were somehow outside the skin, had risen through the broken veins and blemishes, the loose lips, long sparse hair. He’s younger than me, Vince realised. Roland’s eyes were young and glassily blue in bloodshot rings. The Adam’s apple jerked sharply when he drank. Nein, Vince said into the next pause. The bottle came back. Then he said. Ich bin allein. It wasn’t clear whether Roland had understood this. Talking fast in a German that was strangely liquid, singsong almost, he fumbled in a pile of paper bags, brought out a roll of bread, made to break it. It wouldn’t break. He started smiling, then laughing, making a comedy of his failure to break the bread, then at last handed half to Vince.

Meine Frau, Vince said, ist … He couldn’t remember the word. My wife is dead, he said. Roland began to speak again. Drinking from the bottle, Vince was vaguely aware of hot ash falling on his trousers. T>d, he remembered. Gloria ist tod. Roland shouted something quite raucously, then lowered his voice to a muttered monotone. Vince watched. The man was fumbling in the pile of paper at the head of the mattress again, but this time found nothing. He shook his head theatrically. The air was heavy with smoke. At some point Vince heard the shout, Draussen! Draussen! Roland was yelling. His voice was suddenly clear and he was making a throwing gesture towards the blanket across the door. Ja, Sie ist tod,Vince repeated. He felt a sharp pain burn into his fingertips.

When he woke it was broad daylight. His bladder was aching. He had been in a board — meeting, pissing under the big polished table. Almost at once the shame was swamped by a pounding head. His hand went between his legs. He hadn’t. Hadn’t heard the bells either. Roland must have stretched him out on the mattress. Vince stumbled out of the shack and had to lean both hands on a tree while he relieved himself. What time is it? I’m late. Ten — thirty. The phone was still in his pocket. He had slept in all his clothes. He felt suddenly for his wallet, then was ashamed of doubting the man. Why wouldn’t the phone turn on? Why was it taking so long? Vince realised he had never turned it off. It was dead. It’s Monday. Tod,he thought. He shook his head and began to shamble back to Sand in Taufers under a blistering sun. Amazingly, it was getting hotter.

Hello, is that Colin? There was no electricity in the chalet. He had bought a car charger, but there was no shade in the campsite to park in while he phoned. All the places under the trees were taken. When he opened the car doors, the air swirled with heat. The seats and steering wheel were too hot for bare skin.

Vince, old chap! Welcome back. Not before time. Are you coming up for coffee?

No, actually, I’m still here, Col, I’m still in Italy. There’s been a bit of an emergency I’m afraid. Accident.

Colin Dyers began the inevitable mix of concern and cautious questioning. Not Louise?

Vince hasn’t had a hangover for more than a decade. Explaining the situation, he was aware that he didn’t sound his normal self. Thank God for that, Dyers said. Though actually we were rather counting on your being here. The older man’s voice was rich with catarrh. He was conventional and astute. That was very kind of you to, er, stay on for the young woman. I was the only one with my own car, Vince said. There was a slight, significant pause. Paul has been collating the figures from the States, Dyers said. There are a couple of urgent questions to be addressed.

Then Vince was aware of how absolutely unlike himself this behaviour must seem from the point of view of his colleague. Not so much the staying behind, but he could easily have phoned Dyers or one of the other directors on Sunday. He had their numbers. He could have warned them at once. He could have presented himself as extremely concerned about this delayed return, about all the many problems one had to deal with at this time of year. I should be asking who is handling what, sounding worried that I’m not personally in charge. Listen, Col, I can make it to an internet point, he said, if you want to send me some stuff to look at. And I’ll have the phone on twenty — four hours a day now. I had trouble finding a car charger.

When do you think you’ll actually be back, Dyers asked. There were strict rules of course about what could be committed to e — mail and phone conversations. Vince hesitated. He had stretched his sleeping bag on the car seat so as not to have to sit on the scorching material. The charger was plugged in. The heat trembled round his head. A fly was buzzing against the windscreen. Next Monday, he said. At the latest. You are well yourself, though, aren’t you? Dyers asked. I’ve had a wonderful holiday, Colin. Wonderful. Just the break I needed. That’s great, Dyers said. He would be sitting at a desk stacked with tasks and reports. At least one other person would be in the room awaiting his attention, one other phone — line is on hold and as he speaks the man’s eye will be ranging constantly over the constantly incoming e — mail. Vince said: Listen, Colin, just give me this week. Trust me, okay. I won’t let you down. Dyers immediately responded. We’ll expect you next Monday, Vince. Back with us.

In the chalet, Vince opened the two windows and lay on the bed. His head aches. There was no way to shade out the light. He had left the phone to charge in the car. Closing his eyes, it suddenly occurred to him that there was an obvious purpose to this empty week. I must think about Gloria. I must give time to it. Real time. Not the few confused minutes before falling asleep. I must go at it as a task, a job.

For seven silent hours then, Vince lay on the bed in the chalet and told himself the story of his marriage. He remembered first meetings, holidays. He tried to list presents, to recall decisions, the cars they had owned, her father’s death, the miscarriage after Louise. He remembered Gloria’s sporting achievements, her body, her brusque but loving ways. She was loving, he thought, despite the austere, hurried meals, despite the Saturday morning cleaning. He remembered a way she had of dressing too lightly, of insisting they sleep with the window open, he remembered her fortitude when the first company he worked for had failed and there were mortgage payments and her father was ill. She had been solid then. She was never frightened of life. He remembered her laugh, her loud raucous laugh. She was taken from me, he said to himself at last, before there was time to understand, before I could prepare. I didn’t sit by her bed. Perhaps it was a love story, he decided. In its own way. He tried to remember Christmases and dinners and discussions about Louise, about schools. He felt better. He stood up and switched on the radio. There was a small digital set on the counter. He brought it back to the bed and lay down again. The problem is not the past, he decided, but what to do next. He was surprised by this sudden clarity. What a strange night last night! He pressed the search button looking for a station in English. Reception wasn’t good. The mountains no doubt. I haven’t eaten for twenty — four hours, he thought. He remembered Roland trying to break his piece of stale bread. At last a woman’s stern voice was talking about Iraq, about an election, an international disagreement, a plot to kill someone. Gloria would listen to two or three news bulletins one right after the other. Vince had always thought there was something disturbing about this attachment to chronicle. To return to the Berlin summit, the woman was saying— her accent was American— the three men who have chained themselves to the railing outside the Reichstag, now claim to have a bomb that they will explode if the police try to remove them. Vince got up, went out to the car, turned on the phone and texted a message to his daughter. Thinking of you, he wrote. It was lovely to be on holiday together.