Adam said calmly: If somebody asks for money from a private organisation, what is that organisation supposed to do, give it them for free?
But there are whole continents dying of AIDS, Michela pleaded. She seemed on the verge of tears. Because the drug companies don’t want to lower their prices.
That is true, Mandy observed. She mentioned a TV programme.
What a petty morality! Clive cried. A petty, petty morality! Like the money — lender demanding his pound of flesh when the victim and his children are starving. As if we weren’t all part of the same human family.
Ask the September nth people about that.
All we are saying, Keith began to hum, is give peace a chance! He placed his beer mat on the edge of the table, flipped it in the air and caught it. Chill out, folks. Let’s talk about tomorrow’s paddle.
Why don’t you explain to them? Adam suddenly said, straight — faced. He twisted his lean neck and turned to Vince. You understand it better than anyone here.
I think we could do with an expert opinion, Mandy agreed.
Clive snorted.
Keith sent half a wink that invited Vince to calm the waters. Waiter, he called. He pointed to their beers. It was after eleven now. The three youngsters on stage with their keyboard and rhythm machine were trying to persuade someone to do the Macarena. Two Scandinavian children obliged, then two couples in swarthy middle age. Slavs perhaps. Above the open terrace, the sky had cleared and was seething with stars.
Bit of a far cry, Vince tried hesitantly, from my kayaking problems, isn’t it?
Actually, perhaps not, Clive said in a knowing voice. Maybe not at all.
Oh come on, Adam laughed. If you treat everything as a deep and mysterious secret we won’t be able to talk about anything at all.
Vince saw Michela’s hand gripping Clive’s now. He sighed. He pursed his lips. I’ve been involved, of course, in negotiating and renegotiating loans to Third World countries. What can I say? Actually the bank directors do think a lot about the human consequences of their decisions. It’s a complex situation.
What’s complex, Clive cut in, about people dying of hunger? You should be ashamed of yourself.
Ease off, Clive, Mandy said.
By the way, Keith put in, check out those Wops! A pair of young Italian women were wriggling back to back. The band played with more enthusiasm.
On the other hand, Vince went on, as a bank, our primary responsibility, inevitably, is towards our shareholders. He stopped: I wish we were discussing my paddling problems.
Perhaps we are, Clive said.
Oh come on! Adam looked up from his phone. Michela was grim. She took the tobacco herself now. Her fingers were trembling.
When we’ve finished, I’ll explain, Clive insisted.
Okay, Vince said. I’ll give you a typical example. So, a large organisation, maybe even a country, asks us, in consortium with other banks most likely, to extend them a loan. A big loan. We know that this country needs money to develop its economy and improve its people’s lot. So we agree, having negotiated certain collateral of course and despite the fact that we are accepting a lower rate of interest than usual. The client is creditworthy we tell the shareholders. Then something happens. The government changes. There’s a drought. They start a war. They make a disadvantageous contract with some multinational commodities set — up. The currency market shifts. They spend the money on arms. All of a sudden we have a debt crisis and our shareholders are looking at losses. Now the question is, how far can we be charitable on their behalf? That’s not why ordinary people invested their money in our bank.
All you’re saying, Clive said. He had to raise his voice because the music was louder now. All you’re saying is that the normal, comfortable mechanisms for accumulating fortunes have broken down. Tough bloody luck. But when you’re looking at kids with swollen bellies and maggots in their lips, there’s only one real question: How can I help?
Vince hesitated. A fourth beer was before them.
And how have you helped, Adam cut in. He had a light, sardonic smile. What have you ever done?
Come on, Adam, Keith said. Chill.
From what I gather you go to a demonstration and shout your head off, but then at the same time you’re setting up your own little business in the tourist trade, which is what kayaking is in the end.
Adam’s even voice was barely audible above the throb of inane music. The Italian girls had attracted others to the dance floor. The instructor had a hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth, as if what he was saying were not offensive at all. When I teach kayak, he went on, two evenings a week on the estuary, I do it free, for underprivileged kids, in my spare time. You’re making money and pretending you’re involved in some cause to save the world.
There was a very short pause. As in a collision on the road there was a split second in which everybody realised that they were involved in some kind of accident, without yet knowing how serious.
Enough, let’s talk about tomorrow’s paddle, Keith said determinedly. I was saying to Clive, I think it might be time to split up into two or three groups around ability levels.
Clive had climbed to his feet. He reached across the table and slapped the chinless man hard across the face. Clive has a knotty, powerful arm, a solid hand. Adam fell sideways against Amal. The boy held him. Something clattered to the tiled terrace floor. The phone. A beer glass had gone over.
Prick!
Michela stood and pulled him back, put her arms round him.
Clive! Mandy shrieked. For God’s sake!
He pushed the girl away, stepped backwards knocking over his chair, and walked off. Michela fell back and burst into tears, crouched by the table. Stupid, she was shaking her head. Stupid!
From their scattered tables the other campers were watching. One of the Spanish children was hiding behind Mandy’s chair. Amal picked the phone from the floor and wiped the beer off it with the front of his T — shirt.
Since those people were killed, Michela got out, in Milan, he’s been so tense. She stifled her tears, sat on a chair. Vince was in a trance. He felt exhilarated, upset. Only now did he notice there was beer dripping in his lap.
If he’s broken my phone … Adam began. But the mobile was already beeping with the arrival of another message.
I’d better go and talk to him, Keith stood up.
Later, it turned out that Adam’s sister — in — law in Southampton had given birth to a healthy little boy. They should have been celebrating.
KEITH’S ROCK
Vince watched Amal. This was the Rienz below Bruneck, a broad brown swirl of summer storm water rushing and bouncing between banks thick with brushwood, overhung with low, grey boughs, snagged in the shallows with broken branches that vibrate, gnarled and dead, trapped by the constant pressure of the passing flood. A hazard.
Amal sits alert and relaxed in his red plastic boat. They are ferry — gliding, crossing the river against the current. The Indian boy waits his turn in the eddy, chatting with the others. The boats rock and bang against each other. Someone is humming the hamster song. Then one firm stroke and the prow thrusts into the flood. The leading edge of the boat is lifted to meet the oncoming water. The current is wild and bouncy, not the steady strong flow of the narrower torrent, but the uneven tumbling of scores of mountain streams gathered together in the lower valley and channelled into a space that seems to resist their impetuous rush. The water piles on top of itself. It comes in waves, fast and slow.