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.