Everyone slept beneath the stars, more times than not jittering with cold but grateful to be able to look to the sky and know that they could speak with the silence, sleep in the company of angels they could almost see, cease to exist for a few moments—even if it were only fractions of a second—as they felt eternity and infinity all around them.
Paulo and Karla paired off with Rayan and Mirthe—more accurately, Mirthe joined the group against her will; she’d already heard that story about parallel realities many times in her life. Her participation, meanwhile, was limited to keeping constant vigil over her man so that she didn’t find herself forced to turn back midway because she hadn’t managed to do something rather simple: continue being an interesting woman even after two years with Rayan.
Paulo had also noted interest on the part of the Irishman, who at the first opportunity asked whether he and Karla were together, receiving a direct response from Karla:
“No.”
“Good friends, then?”
“Not even. Just travel companions.”
And wasn’t that the truth? Paulo decided to accept things as they were and forget pointless romanticism. They were two mariners sailing to some far-off land; though they shared a cabin, one slept on the bottom bunk and the other on top.
The more interest Rayan showed in Karla, the more Mirthe became insecure, her fury building—without her letting on, of course, because this would entail an unacceptable sign of submissiveness—and sidled up to Paulo, sitting next to him as they spoke and, now and then, resting her head on his shoulder as Rayan told them about everything he had learned after returning from Kathmandu.
“Amazing!”
After six days on the road, enthusiasm gave way to boredom and routine set in, permeating the atmosphere. Now that no one had anything new to say, everyone began to think about how they’d hardly done anything but eat, sleep outside, try to find a more comfortable position in their seats, open and close windows on account of cigarette smoke, grow tired of telling their own stories and talking with others—who never lost an opportunity to exchange little barbs here and there, like the rest of humanity did when in a herd, even if it was small and full of good intentions like this one.
* * *
—
That is, until the mountains emerged before them. And the valley. And the river that cut through the giant rocks. Someone asked where they were, and the Indian man from earlier said they had just crossed into Austria.
“Soon we’ll get off and stop near the river running in the middle there so we can all clean up. Nothing better than cold water to make you feel that you have blood running in your veins and thoughts you can cast aside.”
Everyone became excited by the idea of taking off all their clothes, the absolute freedom, this connection to nature without any intermediaries.
The driver turned onto a rocky road, the bus swung from one side to the other, and many people screamed for fear of turning over, but the driver only chuckled. They had finally arrived at the bank of a stream or, more accurately, a branch of the river that broke off from the rest, forming a gentle curve where the water was calmer before it rejoined the flowing current.
“Half an hour. Take the opportunity to wash what you’re wearing.”
Everyone ran for their backpacks—any hippie pack always included a tiny hand towel, a toothbrush, and bars of soap, since they always ended up camping rather than staying in hotels.
“It’s so funny, this business of people thinking we don’t take showers. It’s possible we’re even cleaner than the majority of all the family men and women who level these accusations.”
Accusations? Who cared about that? Simply recognizing these criticisms gave power to their critics. The person who made this comment was the target of a series of angry looks—they had never paid any attention to what others said. Well, that was only half-true; they liked to call attention with their clothes and their flowers, their open and provocative sensuality, their low-cut blouses that hinted at breasts without bras, that sort of thing. And long skirts, because these were more sensual and more elegant—at least that was the determination of the group’s self-proclaimed stylists, whoever they were. Sensuality, by the way, wasn’t a means of attracting men but a way of being proud of your own body and making sure everyone noticed.
Those without towels grabbed spare T-shirts, blouses, sweaters, underwear—anything that could be used to dry off. Then they went down to the river, tossing off their clothing as they ran except the two young girls, of course, who took off their clothes but kept on their bras and panties.
A fairly strong cold wind blew in, and the driver explained that because the place they’d come to was dry and at a high altitude, the humidity and the ai
r currents would help everything to dry much faster.
“That’s why I picked this spot.”
No one along the road above could see what was happening. The mountains kept the sun from coming out, but such was the place’s beauty—rocks surrounded them on both sides, pine trees clinging to the sides, stones polished by centuries of friction—that the first thing they decided to do was to throw themselves into the cold water without thinking—all at once, shouting, throwing water on one another, a moment of communion among the varied groups that had formed, as though to say, “This is why we live as pilgrims, because we belong to a world that hates standing still.”
If we stay quiet for an hour, we’ll begin to hear God, Paulo thought to himself. But if we cry out with joy, God will also hear us and come down to bless us.
The driver and his assistant, who must have seen the nude bodies of young people unafraid to bare themselves a million times, left the group to take a bath and went to check the tire pressure and oil.
That was the first time Paulo had seen Karla naked, and he had to keep his jealousy in check. Her breasts were neither large nor small, they reminded him of the model they’d seen during the photo shoot back in Dam Square—but actually, she was much, much more beautiful.
But the real queen of them all was Mirthe, with her long legs and perfect proportions, a goddess who’d descended upon some valley in the middle of the Austrian Alps. She smiled when she noticed Paulo watching her, and he smiled back, knowing that it all added up to nothing more than a game to make Rayan jealous and prompt him to distance himself from his Dutch temptation. As we all know, a game with ulterior motives can still become a reality—and for a moment Paulo dreamed of it and decided that from there on out he was going to make a greater effort with the woman who—of her own free will—was becoming increasingly close to him.
The travelers washed their clothes. The two annoying little girls pretended not to see the group of more than twenty nude people standing right next to them, and soon they seemed to have hit upon some captivating subject of conversation. Paulo washed and squeezed out his shirt and underwear, thought about washing his pants and using the spare ones he always carried with him, but he thought it better to leave this for the next group bath—jeans were useful in any situation, but they took a long time to dry.