The River

“I want to tell you about the river…” the email starts and I hurry to delete it. They come irregularly now, every other week or month, making it all the more tempting to open and find out what you have to say this time. If it is any different than what you’ve already said. I used to read everything in the beginning: the daily messages, the emails which popped up every other day, the occasional paper letter you slipped into my postbox without an envelope, letting me know you knew where I lived. Some were lyrical essays about nature and loneliness as a fundamental state of human life. Some were messages of longing, nostalgic love confessions which had nothing to do with our lived reality. You regretted losing what we’d had but your description of what that was didn’t match my memories. And then as the frequency declined, the tone turned sinister, accusatory.

“I want to tell you about the river, I finally went to the source. Remember how you said that it would be too boring to walk all the way to the stream’s source? That the scenery stays the same and it would be much more fun to climb the mountain instead? I listened to you then, but you were wrong. The river was beautiful in itself, you would have liked it.”

Isn’t frustrating that one can’t delete anything just like that, one click and gone? In the end I retrieve your email from the trash. It is a mixed breed, a lyrical description of nature with some accusations. I have gone through all kinds of emotions reading your unsolicited outpourings. Sorrow, guilt, heartache. But for the first time I feel angry. 

Let me tell you about the river, I want to say. Remember how you said that it would be too boring to follow the other hikers on the paved, even path to the stream’s source? Remember how you dragged me uphill to the top of the mountain instead, although I didn’t have the right shoes and I was afraid of heights?

“It was such a fresh spring morning, just like on the day we went together. It’s a strange thing, how busy and lively it was back then, all the families with their children, everyone having a great time. And this time, I was completely and utterly alone, like a physical representation of my mental state.”

I remember a bank holiday on a hot summer day and you complaining about the crowded parking lot, the noise of the children and the existence of other hikers altogether. I didn’t mind. I was happy to spend time with you outside on a beautiful day.

“I had a terrible sunburn by the time I returned to the car. I thought about you then, how you always pestered me about using sunscreen and wearing a hat. You looked so cute in a hat.”

I stop reading and click delete again. Then I open my trash bin and delete the email there as well. A pop-up shows on my screen.

“Are you sure you want to permanently delete this message?”

I stare at its alarming message and hit yes.

At first I had wanted to stay close to you, these first weeks when you started writing me and I refused to answer. It felt good to know what I occupied your mind because you occupied mine. And yes, it was a tiny bit flattering, no, it was very flattering that you wanted me back.

But let me tell you about the river. Remember how you left me there and didn’t come back?

We had gone up the mountain and had just returned to the valley after 10 hours of hiking. We fought about something, had been fighting for most of the descent. I was looking forward to driving home and taking a long, quiet shower. As we neared the parking lot you dashed forward. I didn’t think anything about it at first, just watched you. You liked to be ahead of me as often as possible. I should have gotten suspicious when you took off your rucksack while you were running. I should have been warned when you threw it on the back seat and slammed the door. I should have known by seeing how mad you were. I stood in the dust cloud you had left when you drove off. My eyes told me you were gone but my mind refused to comprehend. These things happen to other people, imaginary people on TV or in books. In real life people were descent. Nobody left their girlfriend standing by the side of the road on a hot summer day.

The village was an hour walk away. I had drunk all my water and eaten all my food. My phone had died just a few minutes before. I had been planning to charge it in the car.

I sat down in the dirt and waited. I was sure you would come back. You would apologise and then you would laugh, you would try to make a joke out of it. I would give you a hard time at first, shout and pout, although they seem mutually exclusive. Then we would reconcile. You would kiss me and I would kiss you back, and we would forget what we had been fighting about.

An hour passed and you didn’t come back. Other tired hikers walked over to their cars and drove off. Some turned around, asked me if I needed a ride. I declined. You would be back any minute now. Finally, it was quiet at the parking lot. One car was still standing and waiting for its owner to reclaim it.

Across the road the river rippled its way down the valley. We had walked along its bed for the first hour, had watched its clear blue water bubble over rocks and branches. It’s the same river which flows through our city, a hundred kilometres away. Here it is still young, narrow and fresh, but you didn’t want to follow it upstream all the way to where it springs from the rocks.

I walked over to it now. In the waning light of the day the water looked golden. I dropped my rucksack on the ground and took off my heavy boots and sweaty socks. My feet were swollen from a day of heat and walking. I knew that I should make my way to the village before it was dark. I should look for the train station, buy a ticket and ride home. I had money and the key to our flat. The trains were frequent this time of the year. But for the first time something inside me rebelled. I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of seeing me walk in late, exhausted and humiliated. I wanted you to wait, as I had been waiting, and as it grew later and later, I wanted you to start worrying. I wanted to you to be unable to sleep. I wanted you to feel regret.

I dipped my feet into the water. It felt like they screamed an ecstatic thank you. I walked further into the current, the golden shimmer of the stream now reaching almost to my knees. A thousand tiny needles pinched the sensitive skin of my calfs. And yet, it felt heavenly. Along with the dirt of the long day, the water seemed to wash off all the fear and helplessness I had been wallowing in. I wanted to emerge myself into it, let it purify my entire self, carry away all the hurt I had swallowed, all the tears I hadn’t allowed myself to cry.

I turned around and I waddled out of the water towards my rucksack. I took off my hat, and pulled my t-shirt over my head as the water swooshed around my legs. You had made fun of my hat, called it “idiotic” and I had taken it off for most of the way. Only when I had felt the impending headache and the sunburn on my nose had I dared to put it back on.

I stumbled on the pebbles of the shore and fell on my knees. The joints complained on impact and they were right. I had tortured them enough on the rocky terrain today. I stood up again and threw the hat and the t-shirt towards my rucksack. They landed on the ground. I took off my bra next. My shorts and underwear were tricky and I got some water on them from my dripping legs. But I aimed better this time, and everything landed safely on the upper flap of the rucksack. I stood up and looked around. Suddenly I was self-conscious. I could hear you calling me ridiculous, people could see me, I could catch a cold, I could drown. The last thought made me laugh out loud. I bolted for the river before your voice could change my mind.

My legs welcomed the coolness of the water. As I walked further in, the warmth loving parts of my body complained. I ignored them. Soon I stood roughly in the middle of the river. The water came to my waist. Your warning that I would drown sounded ridiculous now. I took a deep breath and dove in. My heart almost stopped from the cold shock. I emerged for air and tried to swim but the stream was too shallow. I floated for a bit instead, legs bent and water reaching to my neck, as my body adjusted to this new feeling of numbness. I dipped my head under water a few times, swiped the moisture off my eyes as I rose up again. It felt like a rebirth.

A splash startled me and I spun around. A large, furry head was moving towards me.

“Hey, buddy,” I said.

The dog was some kind if wolf breed, with grey-white fur and brown eyes.

“Wolf, Wolfy, no!” Someone shouted from the shore and then a sharp whistle follows. The dog, Wolfy, spiked his ears and swam towards the shore. A teenage boy in hiking gear stood not far from my rucksack with a double leash in his hand. One end was attached to a short-haired, genteel looking brown dog of an indistinct breed. The other dangled empty.

“Sorry, miss,” the boy shouted in my direction, “he is young still and gets cheeky!”

“Didn’t bother me,” I said.

The dog trotted out and shook off his wet coat. The boy waited and then attached the leash to his collar. The brown dog stretched his neck towards his friend and I wondered what they say to each other.

‘What’s up with you again?’ The brown dog said. ‘Too hot, too hot,’ Wolfy answered and the brown dog shook his head. ‘Easy for you to judge, furless, I’m boiling in here!’

I grinned at my invented dialog. That’s stupid, dogs don’t talk like that, you said.

The boy raised his hand towards me.

“Sorry again!”

I nodded and watched him walk away. My body was shivering so I stood up and made my way towards my clothes. Goose bumps rose up across my skin. I patted my feet over the pebbles careful not to trip again, my eyes glued to the boy’s back. He would see me if he turns around now and you would be furious. He didn’t turn around.

I dried myself with my t-shirt and dug into my bag for the spare one I had packed this morning. My skin was cool and smelled like mountain water. The fresh t-shirt felt like heaven and even my socks had dried a little in the setting sun and were less disgusting to put on. As I shouldered my rucksack, I heard an engine starting. I jogged towards the sound and almost jumped on the hood of that last car which I had left standing on the parking lot. It jolted into a halt. From the driver’s seat the boy stared at me with his mouth open. He must be older than I though he was.

I held my hands up in apology.

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t want to scare you.” 

He nodded but still stares. You would have screamed at me, charged out of the car, called me names. 

“Could you take me to the village? I would have to walk an hour otherwise, and it’s getting dark.”

He turned off the engine and got out of the car. His hands shook but he gave me a shy smile.

“Sure, sure,” he said. “Man, you scared me there. Come, come.”

He motioned me to follow him to the back of the car. Would he knock me in the head and load me up in the boot? In my head you laughed. What did you get yourself into?, you said.

“You need to introduce yourself to Wolfy and Don, if you are to ride along,” the boy said and opened the door. The dogs lay in a large cage which took up the boot and most of the back seat. They turned to look at us but didn’t get up.

“Stretch out your hand, so they can smell you,” he said when he noticed that I was at a loss. What the hell? You voice said, this guy is asking his dogs’ permission to take a hitch-hiker?! But I thought it was sweet. I stepped closer and held my hand at the bars. First Wolfy and then Don had a sniff. They wagged their tails leisurely and rested their heads back on their front paws. Then they looked at the boy as if to say “Alright, can we go now?”.

He relaxed and motioned me to the front. As I climbed into the passenger seat I heard him slam the back door.

“Where should I let you out?” He asked.

“The train station would be great. I hope I haven’t missed the last train to the city already.”

He hesitated.

“I’m going to the city,” he said and gave me a tentative look. “I can drop you off at the Freedom bridge. Would that work?”

That’s on the other side of where I live, your voiced complained. But I said: “That’s perfect!”

When I asked him he told me that his name was Alvin. He was twenty-two and worked as a bus mechanic. He answered my questions quickly, dutifully, but didn’t ask in turn. Some people are just genuinely not interested in other people, you said. I thought he was just shy. Finally, as we came close to the bridge his curiosity seemed to win.

“Why were you alone at the parking lot?”

“My boyfriend left me there. We had a fight. He was upset with me.”

He didn’t say anything for some time.

“Wolfy was a very cuddly puppy, you know, I loved him immediately. But when I first got him I had to teach him a lot of things. Like don’t go on the couch, don’t pee in the flat, that kind of stuff. One day I came home really tired. I normally take the dogs out as soon as enter, but that day I sat down on the couch. I just wanted to relax for a few minutes, you know. Then Wolfy jumped on the couch and before I could push him away, he looked me in the eye and pooped right there next to me. On the couch! I was upset with him, very, very upset. But I didn’t think that I should kick him out and leave him there. You know.”

Your voice was silent. I did know.

“That was our longest hike, wasn’t it? I thought you looked beautiful that day, I thought I was the luckiest man in the world, that we couldn’t be happier.”

That evening, after Alvin dropped me off at the Freedom Bridge, I stood at the bus stop watching the buses come and leave. It was late and although I didn’t feel hungry anymore, I was very thirsty. I walked down the street to a night kiosk, bought a bottle of water and downed it, then I bought another. Then I took a bus going in the opposite direction of where you thought I should be going. It was past 10 pm when I knocked on my friend’s door and burst into tears. She pulled me into her arms and held me until I calmed down.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” She asked later as I lay cuddled on her couch.

“Yes,” I said, “I’ll tell you about the river.”