The slim trickle of a trout stream crossed the road and the orchards and leaned down the mountain - to where we would go and see Waidhofen, after our lunch.
The stream was so tiny we'd almost missed it; the bridge was so thin we'd almost been sifted through the slats. But the trout here hadn't been shy about rising; now they spattered in the pan and tuned their music to the bee drone in the orchards.
And a bee flew a blossom over the stream; the air current dropped from under him, and the bee got his wings wet, paddling an apple petal now. But he was better off floating air than water; the giant trout pulled out from the bank, rose and nosed bee and blossom down its throat - left barely a ripple mark in its descent.
'There's one we missed,' I said.
'There's one who'd have eaten your whole rod,' said Siggy.
We ate a bit messily ourselves, picking with jack-knives until the trout were cool enough for our hands. And of course we had the beer cooling in the stream, waiting to go with an after-lunch pipe.
Belly-up to the sun, then, with the bee drone all around us; I couldn't see the road from the orchard, just the bridge rail underlining the treetops, the green-blotched bouquets of blossom and bud. This world is kind to itself, I thought. Well, the bees make honey for the beekeeper, the bees multiply the orchardman's apples; no one's hurt by that. And if only Herr Faber were a beekeeper, and Gippel an orchardman, wouldn't they be all right too?
So I said, 'Well, Sig, I could never tire of this.'
'One day it rains,' he said. 'One day it snows.'
And the notebook turns everything to poetry: Fate waits.
While you hurry
Or while you wait,
It's all the same to Fate.
Then I saw her head moving gently above the bridge rail; she had one hand on the rail, and I think she was tippy-toeing so she wouldn't rouse us. The red braid was pulled over her shoulder and tucked in the collar of her leather jacket; she tugged a thick knot of hair to her throat like a scarf, and her long face came down over it. The rail cut her off at the waist, so it was only a bit more than a bust of her that was sneaking by us.
I kept my eyes half closed, and I whispered, 'Look there, Sig, but be easy - don't open your eyes. On the bridge, look.'
'Frotting Graff!' said Siggy, and he bolted upright. 'Look where without opening my eyes? Look how?'
And the girl gave a little cry; she nearly bobbed out of my sight. I had to sit up to see her skip off the bridge and cross to the far side of the road. She was protecting her legs with her laundry bag.
'It's the girl, Siggy.'
'Oh, dandy,' he said.
But the girl was still walking away.
'Here!' I called. 'Can we give you a ride?'
'A ride with us?' said Siggy. 'Three on our bike?'
'Where are you going?' I shouted. Now I had to stand up to see her.
'She's running away from home, Graff. We won't be a party to that.'
'I'm not,' said the girl, not looking back at us. But she stopped.
'I didn't know she could hear, Graff. And anyway,' he whispered, 'I know she's running away.'
The girl turned a bit more to us, still keeping her legs behind the laundry bag.
'Where are you going?' I asked.
'I've a new job in Waidhofen,' she said, 'and I'm going to it.'
'What was your old job?' said Siggy.