Despite his age, Vince has no experience of conversations like this. Perhaps this is why he can’t leave be. Michela has a strange glow on her face.
Let’s talk about Clive, Vince says. You didn’t seriously imagine I thought he might be one of the three. Watching the road as they began to drive, Michela told him: The last time Clive and I made love was four days before your group arrived, and one day before two people were killed in a demonstration in Milan. I don’t know if you heard. The police charged some demonstrators and two protestors fell under the wheels of a tram. We were right close by. That night Clive was mad. He smoked a lot of dope. Then the day you arrived, that night, he told me that we weren’t going to make love anymore. He was obsessed that he should be doing more about everything that was wrong.
Maybe, Vince said, negotiating the unsurfaced road, to go back, that is, to what we were saying before— maybe the real risk, for Clive, would have been to settle down with you.
Don’t be sentimental, she snapped.
Vince was remembering Clive’s peculiar charisma. It had to do with a sort of sovereign aloneness. He turned the car onto the main road through Sand in Taufers. After a moment’s silence, Michela picked up: Anyway, I told him, if he really couldn’t live because of how things are in the world, he should do something important, not just go chucking himself down dangerous rivers. Again an odd ring to her voice made Vince glance sideways. Michela was sitting on her hands, back straight, lips pressed tightly together. He wondered then if she had bought her new dress and sunglasses before or after hearing that news from Germany. Seat — belt, he said. You haven’t done up your seat — belt.
They spent the afternoon checking out the equipment. Michela changed into some old denim shorts. Vince pulled all the boats off the trailer and Michela got into them and checked what size of person they were padded out for, more or less, and put a sticker on the boat— small, medium, large. There were twenty people in this group, she said. From Birmingham. I hope I can understand their accents. But at least five would have their own kayaks. There was no one under seventeen. It should be a question of removing padding rather than adding, she said. Towards four, the first thunder rumbled far away up the valley. Clive will have to drive in the rain, she said. It would take him an hour from Bolzano.
They had all the boats out on the baked ground between the chalet and the pitches and Vince moved quickly to stack all of them on the trailer again and cover the top with a sheet of heavy plastic. Shit, we’re two paddles down, Michela discovered then. The one Phil had broken. The one she had lost. If necessary somebody could use the splits, but that still left one short. I’ll go to ask at the rafting centre, Vince offered. They’ll have paddles. The first big raindrops were falling. A wind rose. All around people were hurrying to zip up their tents and tighten the guys. Stay here, she said. We can ask tomorrow. If necessary there’s a place in Brixen we can buy from.
They hurried to the chalet. The rain began to fall in slapping waves. The wind gusted violently. Hang on, Michela said. Let’s freshen up. She stopped just outside the porch, on the steps, and let herself be soaked. Vince was already in. The doors and windows were banging. He turned and saw her shoulders shiver as the yellow T — shirt darkened. Then she came in, drenched, laughing. But the moment everything was shut, it was hot again. How tense we are, Vince realised. He had thought they were relaxing, sorting out the boats. Instead it seemed they were more on edge than before.
It was past five o’clock. Her T — shirt was clinging to her body. Vince looked away. Bending forward, Michela peeled the shirt off, towelled herself quickly, put on another. Then took off her shorts. Her pants are white. He couldn’t understand if she was doing this on purpose. She seems so natural, opening and closing a couple of cupboard doors. Where did you put my jeans? she asked. I can’t believe you sorted our stuff out like this. Second drawer from the top, he said, I think. You’re weird, she told him. He gazed determinedly out of the window where somebody was trying to ride a bicycle under an umbrella across a field of mud. There! She was dressed. Let’s be English and make tea.
The rain beat on the wooden roof. They sat quietly over their tea. There was too much at stake to say anything now. Outside, plastic bags, bits of polystyrene, a sheet of newspaper, are being chased about in the wind. Michela’s face is crossed by sudden spasms. Vince watches. A moment of misery is transformed into elation. She gets up and walks back and forth between sink and table. She throws herself on the bed. Oh shit! Suddenly Vince is aware she is smiling at him. A warm smile. Then she is gathering up an armful of clothes, kicking the wall. She wants it to have been Clive who killed himself, Vince thinks. And she is terrified he has done it for her. The news, the girl suddenly said. Where’s the radio. Damn! It was a couple of minutes past six.
She found an Italian station. Vince can’t understand. Her face is concentrated. She’s sitting on the bed, chin on hand. Then, with a grimace, she turns it off. So? Oh various groups have claimed responsibility. Police think they may have identified the one who spoke to them, matching the recordings they made of his voice. They didn’t say who though. Then she was furious. Can you believe they had some prick expert comparing them with the Islamic suicide bombers. I can’t believe it. They’re not terrorists. They didn’t hurt anyone else. Then not a single word about what the conference decided! Vince watched her. Nothing, most probably! The girl was full of pent — up energy. Their world is burning up and all they can do is criminalise the people who care. She stretched forward and grabbed her ankles. For a moment her arms seemed to be straining to pull her legs towards her, while her knees thrust down against them. Ow! She sat up. In a hundred years from now, those men will be heroes, saints.
Vince’s phone was ringing. He saw from the display it was his colleague, Dyers. Vince? Listen, I won’t be in the office tomorrow when you get back. His wife’s father, the director said, had just passed away. He was going to Edinburgh for the funeral. I just wanted to tell you what you’ll find on your desk when you get back.
Vince listened and asked pertinent questions. At the same time his gaze met Michela’s. Their eyes held each other’s as they never did when they were talking. It was close in the room with the rain outside and the accumulated heat of the morning in the wood. Vince was sweating. I’ll give precedence to the stuff from V. A. then, he said. I presume we can rely on their assessment. As he spoke, her bright eyes were intent and enquiring. There was just a hint of a smile on her lips. Vince imagined her passing judgement on the work he did every day. She wants to see into my world and dismiss it. Is everything okay there now? Dyers was asking. Ready for the drive back? I should be leaving in a hour or so, Vince said. Michela raised a mocking eyebrow. When he closed the call she was still watching him. Should be? she asked. Then she said, Look, call the airport. We can find out what time he landed.
Vince gave her his phone and she called directory enquiries. The rain still clattered on the roof. He said it was a charter flight, Vince remembered. Michela spoke in Italian. Her voice seemed sharper, more nasal. They were sitting together now on the stools by the counter beneath the window. The earth outside was black and splashing with puddles. The trees screening the river were waving darkly, but above the peaks, to the right, Vince could see a break in the clouds. It is easing off. Michela suddenly smiled. Waiting to be connected, she ran a fingertip round the wound on his left hand. Then she saw the white mark on his ring finger. She looked at him, lips pursed, head cocked.