Astrud Gilberto

It was Beryl next door who started it. “I’m going to climb Ben Nevis,” she said, over the fence, careful to maintain the prescribed distance.

“You can’t,” said Laura. “You’re 83. You have to stay indoors. Self-isolation.”
“I know,” explained Beryl. “I’m going to go up and down the stairs. My grandson’s worked out how many times I need to do it. And he’s doing one of those things, you know, on the computers, so people can pay you money.”

“Pay you?” asked Laura, still a bit confused.

“Well, not pay me. Pay money, for the nurses. To buy food for the nurses. Or masks. Or something.”

“Beryl next door’s climbing Ben Nevis,” said Laura to Martin when she went back in, “but up her stairs.”

“Right-o,” said Martin. “Do you want a shortbread finger with your tea? Then Bernie next door on the other side had an idea. “I’m doing a marathon,” he said, over the other fence. “But round the garden. And just, y’know, walking.”

“Are you raising money?” asked Laura.

“Yes. My niece is sorting that out. So clever, these youngsters.” Bernie’s niece was 45 if she was a day, Laura knew that. “It can go to the nurses. Or something.”

“Bernie’s doing a marathon in his garden,” said Laura to Martin, who was watching a snooker match from the 1980s. There was only sport from the old days now.

“I see,” said Martin. “Do you know, when Ray Reardon played this match, he was younger than I am now. We thought he was so old then.” He sighed. “Where does it all go?”

Later, in bed, Laura said, “Why don’t you have a go?”

“Have a go at what?” said Martin.

“Climb Ben Nevis,” she said. “Or do a marathon. Or… something.”

“Like what?”

“Anything,” she said. “You can raise money. For nurses.”

Martin said nothing. Laura got annoyed when he was like this. She turned over and was soon asleep.

She woke suddenly. The clock on her bedside said 3:17. The colon in the middle flashed. Why did it do that? Martin wasn’t there. She got up and walked down the corridor. She knocked on the bathroom door. Nothing. Then she saw there was a light on downstairs in the living room.

Martin was sitting on the floor. Specifically, he was sitting on a big bamboo mat that he’d pulled in from the conservatory. He was looking intently at something on his laptop. Panpipe music played softly from the stereo in the corner. Laura stood in the doorway, but he didn’t look up.

“What are you doing, Martin?” she said. She tried not to sound annoyed, but she was tired, and she half-yawned in the middle. Her husband clicked on his keyboard, then looked at her.

“There’s a story here about a chap who went down the Amazon on a raft,” he said.

“The Amazon?” said Laura.

“I thought, if Beryl’s going to climb Ben Nevis, and Bernie’s going to do a marathon, I can do something a bit more interesting.”

“Don’t you need a rowing machine?” said Laura.

“No, I’m just going to float,” said Martin. “I’ll let the river take me.” And he closed his laptop and laid it on the mat beside him. 

The only sound was panpipes. “Is this Amazonian music?” asked Laura.

“I think it’s Peruvian,” said Martin. “The Amazon starts in Peru.”

“But it’s mostly Brazil, isn’t it, the Amazon? Wouldn’t Brazilian music be better? We’ve got that Astrud Gilberto CD. Bossa nova. You like her. Tall and tanned and young and lovely and all that.”

“I’ll put that on when I get to the Brazilian bit,” said Martin.

“Do you want me to set up something to raise money?” asked Laura.

“Money?”

“You know. For the nurses.”

Martin frowned. “Well, if you really want to.”

Laura was about to leave, then turned back to her husband. “How long is this supposed to take?” she asked.

“Well the chap in the article said it took him about four months,” said Martin, apparently staring at a spot on the wall, just above the sofa.

“Four months? But all this lockdown stuff will be over by then.” Martin didn’t reply, but began whistling along to the panpipes. “Shall I make some tea?” she said.

“Coffee, please,” said Martin. “Seems more appropriate somehow. Coffee from Brazil.”

When Laura went downstairs in the morning, Martin was sitting in the same position, staring at the wall, but now Astrud Gilberto was singing on the stereo. 

“Are you in Brazil already?” she said.

“It seems that way,” said Martin. “I fell asleep, and when I woke up it was light, and here I was. Maybe the river runs faster at this time of year.”

“I’ve done a thing on the internet,” said Laura. “A crowdfunding thing. I thought we could do it for the nurses. You know, from when you were in hospital.”

“That sounds good,” said Martin. “Thank you.”

“We haven’t raised much yet,” she said. In fact, they hadn’t raised anything, but there had been three messages, all saying pretty nasty things about Martin.

“Early days,” he said. “Every little counts.”

“Do you want breakfast?” she asked. “I looked it up, and they have banana cake for breakfast in Brazil. We’ve got some of that left from last week. I’m sure it’ll be OK.”

“No, thanks, love. Coffee’s fine,” he said, and began humming along with Astrud Gilberto. 

And so the journey progressed. Martin sat, mostly gazing at the wall, occasionally checking details on his laptop. Laura would bring food and drink, mainly coffee and fig rolls. Sometimes she’d sit with him, maybe doing a Sudoku.

“Why did you pick the Amazon?” she asked, on the third day.

“I always wanted to go,” he said.

“You never mentioned it,” she said. Martin was silent. “There was that film though,” she continued, “about the little blond boy who was kidnapped by the Indians in the Amazon, and they brought him up. You liked that. But I thought it was more about the pretty Indian girls running around with their tops off.” She chuckled indulgently. Martin stared ahead.

“Where are you now?” she asked, after a while.

“I’m coming into Manaus,” he said. Suddenly he was up on his feet, but hunched, as if to keep his balance. “I can see the opera house. It’s beautiful.” 

“Would you like me to put some opera on?” she said.

“No, this is fine,” he said. “I don’t really like opera.” Laura was pretty sure they didn’t have any opera CDs anyway. The Phantom of the Opera doesn’t count.

“You’re going really fast,” she said, on the sixth day, or maybe the seventh. “This is far less than four months.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask about the money. At least the horrid messages had stopped.

“I can see Belém,” said Martin. “I’m nearly there. The end of the river.”

“Where does it go?”

“It just flows into the Atlantic,” said Martin. “Becomes the sea.”

“They speak Portuguese in Brazil, don’t they?” said Laura.

“What?” snapped Martin, distracted, irritated. It had started to rain a little, hitting the front window. Spring rain, half-hearted.

“Portuguese. I’ve got some Portuguese wine, you see. We could toast your success.”

“If you like,” said Martin. Then, apparently sensing her disappointment, “Yes, yes, that would be a lovely idea, Laura. Thank you. Sorry, I’m just a bit tired. Don’t get enough sleep. It’s hard work, this. A little drop of wine would be lovely. Thank you, my love.”

Laura grinned her sad grin, then went to the kitchen. It took her a few minutes to find the wine at the back of the larder, then even longer to find a corkscrew. They didn’t drink wine much, at least not since Martin was ill. The decent wine glasses were on top of the cupboard, and she had to pull out the stepladder to reach them, but it was a special occasion, after all. And then when she finally came to open the wine, it was a screw cap anyway. She sighed, which nearly turned into a sob, but she stopped it in time.

She took the opened bottle and the glasses, and a plate with the banana bread, back into the living room. The bamboo mat was still on the floor, but Martin wasn’t there. The window was open and there were little bits of rain on the sill. 

“Martin?”

She could still hear Astrud Gilberto’s voice, but it seemed to be coming from outside now, singing ‘Agua de Beber’. Laura placed the tray with the wine and cake on the mat, and sat down as well. She closed her eyes and started humming along. She felt the rain on her skin and when she opened her eyes, Martin was sitting next to her. She looked down and saw the treetops and the chimneys, and Bernie next door, walking around his garden, doing his marathon, the top of his bald head shining as the sun came back out.

“Well, this should raise a bit of money,” said Martin, handing her a glass of wine. They both laughed as a seagull flew beneath them. “For the nurses. Or something.”