LITMIR.BIZ

      In the beginning

      In the beginning was Eden, whence we were expelled.

      We watched the clouds pile up above the hills below which the Una flowed into our town. At first they were light in colour, then they took on the muddy hue of dirty snow. The air was electric, as it always is before a summer torrent. We didn’t like rain because it meant the end of bathing for the day, and it had to be hellishly hot the day after for us to muster up the courage to dip in again. Bathing in the river was the main summer ritual in our town. Life existed only for the sake of bathing. The calendar existed because of summer and water. The town smelt of river, of riverine greenery, of fish. Duck feathers were in the air, fish scales scattered on the riverbank. Smoke rose from barbecues in every corner, crates of beer were cooling in the water. On the other bank, on the roof of a house in progress, the wind outspread the tri-colour with the red star, and the towels tied below it to bring happiness and well-being to the house and its occupants.

      When a cormorant appeared on Mallard Isle, somebody tried to stone him away. His feathers were greasy black. He submerged and emerged swallowing fish. The current took him far down the river from the Wooden Bridge, where swimmers tried to drive him away by shouting.

      I dived into the river till I could dive no more. The moment I’d emerge onto the bank, which we’d cemented for more convenient walking, I’d climb onto the platform again, leap up as high as I could, bow to the river, straighten my body and delve in with all my might towards the murky blue bottom. It’s peaceful and quiet down there, and soothingly cold. The fish would scatter before me every which way. I’d dive straight into a shoal of nase and the odd chub.

      Everyone dived, in order to make the most of the day. Some wouldn’t come out of the water at all, they splashed about in the shallows like walruses letting the stream take them to the waterfall which catapulted them to the Wooden Bridge, some hundred metres from our beach on the Quai.

      The clouds are now dark and menacing. Peak voltage in the air. Heavy drops fall hard. Bathing ceases, everyone rushes out of the water, only a few bathers are still swimming. Rain picks up pace, the drops are larger and colder. Thin trees dance in the wind. The raindrops weigh down on their crowns, like when an umbrella is being closed. It’s roaring, and bolts of lightning rend the sky like in the Bible. One should find a lee, wait for the downpour to abate and go home. The surface of the river is obscured by the liquid curtain. It is as if the rain decided never to stop.