Travelling Light (19 page)

It was nice living under the bridge, between its strong supporting pillars. The wood still smelt of tar and was full of old nails no one had taken the trouble to pull out. He hung his hat and stick on nails, also a hand towel and various other items – and remembered what it had been like sleeping in a tent when he was a child.

Then one night at the end of July the wind rose and high water swept through the ravine, flooding the meadow and gradually invading Uncle’s tent sauna. He woke up to find himself on a wet mattress, not quite sure where he was. The tent fluttered and slapped and it was too hot, as hot and damp as the Hothouse – a storm over the lily pond... A mass of odd objects were floating about on the water. Uncle pushed them aside and waded out into the wet night, fascinated.

Outside it was lighter; he could make out the glass cupola above the long dark swells rolling through the ravine. The cupola was much higher than usual, in fact it never stopped, and the spiral staircase had vanished. Uncle unhooked his stick from its nail and stood still, listening to the wind. The meadow billowed anxiously to and fro around him as he stumbled on. Yes, now at last he could embrace the meadow, walk straight into the lotus pond, feel soft elastic soil under his bare feet and the gentle touch of waterlilies – and he could understand the hitherto unimaginable battle of innocent flowers against an
aggressive
sea... No visitors today, not a single one, he was alone, free to possess what he loved, calm and untroubled.

Gradually he made his way up to the cottage and fell asleep. So he didn’t see the tent sauna carried off at dawn, flapping away like a ragged bat. He didn’t see the bridge’s strong legs give way and bulge and break, the splintered wood tossed high in the air and swept aside by the angry sea.

By the time the last fragments of the bridge had gone, the ravine was a torrent of raging water.

A bit of the bridge caught fast in a crevice on the far side of the island and was chopped up for firewood. The rest, swept out to sea, eventually washed up as flotsam on other shores, where it was found and used for a shed or a dock; it would all be made useful one way or another.

The family built a new bridge across the ravine, in Uncle’s opinion an eyesore. It wasn’t a proper bridge but looked more like a level crossing on a railway, a sort of varnished wooden platform that had nothing to do with him or the meadow. The old bridge had been weathered by sun and salt water and had taken on the colours of the hillside; it had blended with the land and become a natural part of the structure of the island. But Uncle said nothing, because they were all so proud of the mess they had made.

The meadow did not recover from the night of the great storm but he knew that next July it would be just as beautiful as before. And they’d done battle against the sea, he and the meadow together.

One day Uncle noticed their firewood was grey and full of nails, lumber from the old bridge. He chose some suitable pieces and found the tools he needed. Slowly, with the great care, he began making a tiny copy of the old bridge that looked just like the original.

* * *

When Uncle visited the Hothouse after his visit to Peaceful Haven, Josephson was back on his old perch. He put down his book and said, “Well, Vesterberg, you old hedonist, good to see you. As you see I’m still
searching
for some sort of logic that makes sense. But these writers are no smarter than they ever were.”

He made room on the bench and went on reading. Uncle sat down on his own side, the left; it was nice to have Josephson back. Uncle thought about telling him about the meadow and the storm, but the time still didn’t seem right. So he just sat gazing at the beautiful lily pond, which suddenly seemed altered. He closed his eyes and tried to see farther, deeper, and was embraced once again by the dark resistance of the water and the softly billowing meadow.

They continued coming to the Hothouse, though not so often as before. The caretaker who used to sit behind the bush with his crochet work had retired. The new one, who did not know them, preferred a table inside the main entrance and would slowly walk round the lily pond from time to time, round and round, his hands behind his back. He would pass right in front of their bench with no sign of respect or recognition.

Josephson seemed perfectly happy to be left in silence, occasionally exchanging the odd word, stretching his legs, underlining a sentence in his book. Every time Uncle let the silence stretch out, he grew more uneasy and annoyed. He had begun to bring the model bridge with him every day but it became harder and harder to show it and tell the story of the night of the storm; he simply couldn’t do it. The night when he embraced the meadow was slipping away from him, and Josephson was no help at all.

Then one day as they were sitting in the Hothouse as usual, a furious thunderstorm blew in over the city. Day turned to twilight, rain pelted the glass cupola, and in the thunder and lightning Josephson, his book held close under his nose, could hardly see to read. A heavy squall threw open the Hothouse doors; there was a crash of glass and the storm burst in, making waves in the lily pond – tiny waves, but waves nonetheless. Uncle stood up, walked forward and waded straight into the pool, shoving aside leaves and lilies regardless, then turned and called out, “Josephson! Do you see what I’m doing?”

“Good,” said Josephson, putting down his book. “Keep at it. Very stimulating.”

Later they sat together till closing time. The storm had gradually subsided and the caretaker calmed down. Uncle talked about the meadow and talked very well. Josephson was a better listener than he could have expected. Uncle showed him the little bridge. He looked at Uncle and said, “Yes, yes, I understand. The essence of the meadow. See, admire, experience, all that. And the bridge – what’s the point of a bridge that doesn’t lead anywhere?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” said Uncle angrily. “A bridge is a bridge is a bridge, just a bridge. Here you are again trying to find meaning in something that’s just obvious. Where it goes and where it comes from doesn’t matter. You just go over it, and that’s all there is to it!”

The caretaker came over and suggested that Uncle go home before he caught cold.

“We’re having a conversation,” said Uncle. “Josephson, have you reached any conclusion? Have you found anything important in those books?”

“This and that,” said Josephson, smiling. “It takes time, but I always knew it would. It looks as if neither of us will ever convince the other. But do we need to?”

“No,” said Uncle. “The other person only needs to listen and understand.”

“I can accept that,” said Josephson. “I liked that part about the meadow.”

Uncle said, “Yes, I do think I told it rather well.”

They stood up together and went out through the Hothouse’s storm-shattered doors, and after a friendly word separated and each made his own way home.