And I reminded her: '"Letting off a thoroughly good sneeze is a natural, spontaneous, frank action of which some people really are a little afraid."' And stopped there, to see what she'd do.
She said, 'Graff.' And spilled her wine.
'There's more,' I said. 'There's a second bottle in the river.'
'Thought of everything, didn't you?' she said, but not angrily.
So I thought a bit more, in my way - an immediate sort of plotting. Remembering how Siggy had bought the two sleeping bags at the same place, at the same time; how they made a pair, and zipped either separate or together. They could make a double.
It's the double for you, Gallen, I thought. But it wasn't even dark yet, and we still had a bottle to go, in the river.
So I said, 'Gallen, fetch us that second bottle, and I'll build up this fire. It cuts down on mosquitoes, you know.' But there weren't any mosquitoes, anyway, thanks be. We were too high up; it was cold.
And would be colder after dark, I knew, looking at the winter sort of river, that even in summer was hard to imagine without frills of thin ice on the outskirts of the current, and shuddering deer coming down off the bank for a lick, picking their hooves up high and shaking them, as if deer could get cold-footed. Though maybe they can.
Anything's possible, Siggy said somewhere. And I had a sort of seizure at the fire, bending down.
If anything's possible, Siggy could get lost on the train; they could send him to Munich or Paris. I saw Siggy stacked upright in a warehouse in Paris.
Or, I thought, there could be trouble in Ernst Watzek-Trummer's tiny rooms. Surely, he'll put Siggy in the room with the racer; and there's sure to be candles. A candle was burning too close to the Grand Prix racer. And they surely left a bit of gas in the tank, to prevent the tank from rusting. I saw the Gasthof Enns blow up.
But I had no feelings about any of the things I saw, seeing them all in the time it took an ash to rise from the fire, or in the time it took Gallen to fetch the wine. I was just numb to reacting to any of it, even to the ashes I tossed in the air. They floated down straight; there wasn't any wind.
So the gale of the world dies down at night, I thought. And I thought: So what if it does? Because I had totally benumbed myself with either too many related or unrelated things.
And all this happened in the time it took ashes to rise, or Gallen to get the wine - or it seemed to; although it was somehow dark before I was aware that Gallen had brought back the wine, and drunk half of it herself. And dark by the time I said, 'It's time to fix the sleeping bag.' The bag, singular, I said - because I was plotting for us in the double.
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'I've already done it,' said Gallen. It, she said - singular. And I realized how she'd zipped them together - perhaps, to make things easier for me. Out of pity, I hoped not.
I went down to the river and washed the fish off my teeth. Then I crept to the bag, which Gallen was warming. But she was dressed. That is: still the corduroy slacks, and her blouse. At least she'd taken her bra off; I saw where she'd tried to hide it under her jacket, just outside the bag.
Little things make a difference, I'm sure.
But when I slipped in beside her, she said, 'Goodnight Graff.' Before I'd even stretched out! And I'd been discreet enough to leave my miserable, sagging boxer shorts on.
The river was so fast it made a racket. And frog tones came up, across the river. There's always a swamp where you least expect it.
I was thinking like that - little philosophies popping up all by themselves. Gallen had her back to me - balled, with her knees drawn up. 'Why, you must be tired, Gallen,' I said, bright and snappy.
'Yes, very, goodnight,' she said again - faking a groggy voice, as if she'd fallen into an instant sleep. So I just pushed toward her, my shoulder against the warm back of her blouse - and she stiffened. 'You took your clothes off,' she accused.
'I've got my hangies on,' I said.
'Your what?' said Gallen.
'My hangies,' I told her. 'My boxer shorts.'
For a moment I thought she'd call for a light to look at my miserable hangies; I would have expired for the shame. She sat up in the bag.
But she said, 'Isn't it a lovely night, Graff?'
'Oh yes,' I said, crouching back in my corner of the bag - just waiting for her to lie down again.
'And isn't the river loud?' said Gallen.
'Oh yes,' I said, in my bored way. I just lurked in my part of the bag for her. I watched how her blouse was fluffled by the wind.