Then I sneezed, of all things. I had surfaced.
From out of the sawmill smell of the bag, Gallen brought her hands against my ears and rang my head. The buck staggered, dizzy, up the bank. Gallen kissed over my mouth, and my head cleared. Solidly ashore now, the buck loped for the warm does.
Then Gallen let her hands fall lightly away from my ears, my pulse came down, and the only real sounds came back to me.
The river storming along. And frog tones from the swamp that you'd least expect to find here.
What Gallen Did, Again
I WOKE UP early, feeling guilty that I'd slept at all. Because I knew that Ernst Watzek-Trummer had spent the night at elbow height above his kitchen table, had even outlasted the dishwashers downstairs in the Gasthof Enns.
Gallen was alr
eady awake, inching about for her huggies and trying to snare her bra, outside, without my seeing any of her. Thanks be, she took my guilty look for herself. Because she said, 'Graff, it's all right, I feel fine.' And she tried to look very gay - but not at me; her eyes shiny and shying away.
So I said, 'Just so you're fine, then.' To keep her thinking I'd been thinking of her. Then I did think of her, and kissed her, and started to hunch myself out of the bag, very lively.
But Gallen said, 'Wait, your hangies are right here.' She turned her back so I wouldn't have to contort myself down deep in the sweet, pitch-smelling bag.
'This bag could stand some air,' I said.
'Is that me?' she said. 'Do I smell like that too?'
'Well,' I said, and we both looked around. I was hoping for some small, unusual animal to come on the scene, or a wild-colored bird, about which I could say, 'Heavens, Gallen. Would you look at that.' And thereby change the subject neatly. But I saw nothing except the dew-covered motorcycle and the river, heaped in fog. The morning air was cold.
'Let's have a swim,' I said bravely.
But she didn't want to get out of the bag until I'd fetched her the bra. Which she wouldn't ask me for, either, so I popped out and groped around for it, finding it and holding it aloft. 'Why, what's this odd article?' I said.
'OK, give it here,' said Gallen, hair over her eyes. Then I went down to the river and waited for her.
Lord, the water was fierce; it made my teeth tinkle like glass, and nearly tugged my miserable hangies off. Gallen didn't swim, she just dunked in and out. With her hair wet, I saw how sleek her head was. Her ears were a little funny - too long, and even pointed, slightly. Her jaw was trembly from the cold. When she climbed out, her bra was full of water. In such the nicest way, she squeezed herself; she sort of wrung out her breasts and made her bra cling to her. Then she saw me watching her and she danced over the bank, back to me, conscious of how tightly her huggies hugged her.
I came up the bank, forced to walk somewhat apelike because my frotting hangies were stuck all over me, almost down to my knees. And when she saw what a figure I cut, she laughed at my vain bones. 'I think you need smaller-sized hangies,' she said.
Then I leapt toward her, hooting self-conscious, and danced around her, pointing. 'Look!' I shouted. 'You've got two schillings in your bra.'
Because that's just what her nipples looked like, size - and color-wise - a lovely off-brass color, just glorious. Two schillings, for sure.
So she stared at herself and then spun away from me. I thought: Please laugh, Gallen - even at your own parts. A little humor is essential, I'm convinced.
'Do you have a shirt I could wear?' said Gallen, seriously worried. 'My blouse would wet through, and I didn't pack any towels.'
And when I brought her my fabulous red-and-white striped soccer jersey, she was hiding her schillings with her hands - but smiling wide, with a slash of hair in the corner of her mouth, stuck wet against her cheek; she pushed it away with her tongue.
'Breakfast?' I said. 'If you can make a fire, I can ride to Singerin for eggs and coffee.'
'I can,' she said, - laughing at something funny to her now, 'if you can help me with this first,' and I came around behind her to help unhook her bra, under the soccer shirt. She wiggled, sliding the wet thing down to her waist; behind her, I just came up with my hands for a moment - around her wet, cold, hard breasts. She was like a statue just hosed down.
'Let me brush my hair,' she said, but she didn't try to get away. She leaned back into me.
The river rose; it seemed to wash over us. But it was only a wind that came up and moved the fog our way. I saw deer in the forest, docile as sheep. Except the forest was hemmed in by something. Rivers on all sides, maybe, or even a fence. And standing off to one side of the deer, like a shepherd - though he didn't have a staff - Siggy was saying, 'Sit tight, my deer. I'll have you out of here, don't you worry.'
Then Gallen said, 'You're hurting me, Graff - just a little.' I'd bitten a ring-shaped, fire-bright spot on her neck, through a strand of her hair. And when she saw me looking guilty again, she thought it was just because I'd bitten her.
'Well, I'm all right,' she said. 'Graff, I'm not so delicate, really.'
I went along with it, letting her think I wore my odd look for her sake. She brushed her dark wet hair, bringing the red back into it. So I ducked into the woods to change out of my impossible wet hangies.