Free Mad Hope by Heather Birrell Page B

intrepid to be so far from the creature comforts they were used to, and it should have brought them closer together, the risk they were taking, the shared adversary, which was the weather, or the atmosphere really – so thick, so talented at insinuating itself into your lungs, your very pores. No real civilization anywhere close by; eight hours by motorized canoe to the nearest hospital – and piranhas surrounding them! It was easy to act blasé about these things, but the fact remained that she and Paul, both Britons from way back, were not constitutionally designed for the rainforest. They did not exactly fit in.
    On their third day out, Miguel rigged up fishing rods using long sticks they had selected from the edge of the trail, a length of strong twine, a rudimentary hook and a bucket of bait – pieces of raw meat that shone like rubies in the humidity. The moisture in the air made a sound like impatient insects and the reflection of the trees in the water made it seem they were gliding through an absurd upside-down land where anything could happen. They hung their lines over the side of the boat and waited, then exclaimed at the cleverness of the creatures when they felt a tug, or several tugs, and pulled up their lines to see the decimated bits of beef. They were about to return to camp when Beth felt another tug at her line and began exclaiming excitedly, ‘A bite, a bite, Miguel! Miguel, a bite!’
    â€˜Pull it up,’ he urged, standing in the canoe, hands on hips like a squat human teapot.
    So she hoisted up the line, and there it was – small and prehistoric, scales seemingly pasted on over bone. The piranha thrashed weakly on the line, then stopped and appeared to be musing, with some malevolence, on its own fate. Miguel caught the fish up in his hand, then plucked a large leaf from a nearby overhang. He extended the leaf to the piranha and watched it chatter tiny, nonchalant puncture holes through the plant matter. Miguel held the fish up to his face and bared his own teeth for the cameras. As if he and the piranha were kin. Then he called Beth up to stand beside him, and Paul took shot after shot of her holding the piranha aloft, smiling next to Miguel.
    When she had taken her place on the bench next to him again, Paul put his arm around her. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ he whispered. She understood his breath against her cheek as a kind of communion and felt herself smiling again. They both sensed Miguel looking in their direction, taking no pains to disguise his glare.
    â€˜Oh, Paul, he’s a bit of a sad figure, really, isn’t he?’ Beth said.
    â€˜Yes, but he likes you, and maybe you like that he likes you, no?’
    â€˜Maybe,’ Beth replied. She kissed Paul on the mouth. ‘Maybe.’ And it was true, there was an anger in Miguel whose shape she recognized.
    Then the driver of the boat, a stooped man in his seventies with saggy knees and a round drunkard’s nose, stood up quickly, as did Miguel. They peered at the sky for a second, then exclaimed, ‘Ponchos!’ to each other and to the group.
    The two men sprang into action, pitching balled-up rain gear to each passenger. The sky opened like a giant trap door and water fell from it. Beth, Paul and their fellow tourists scrambled to pull the ponchos on over their heads, laughing at their own ineptitude, at the silliness. It was Mother Nature herself directing this slapstick, and it made them all giddy, although the canoe was quickly filling with water and the boat’s gunnels had sunk to mere millimetres from the surface of the river.
    Beth and Paul huddled together, watching the water rise around them. When Miguel threw them two sawed-off bottoms of bleach bottles, they gamely began to bail, although nothing seemed that serious, not really. They scooped and poured like toddlers, side by side, laughing. Beth knew that they had truly loved each other in that moment. It was as if