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ROBERT AND PASHA were getting the hang of it, their oars moving swiftly, in unison. Objects on the shore dwindled to insignificance as they leaned forward, leaned back, pumping their arms. Yes, they had arms! Those arms had biceps and triceps and all that stringy stuff. This had been Robert’s halfhearted suggestion, an idea nixed before uttered, and Esther, overhearing, experienced head-to-toe convulsions of mirth that didn’t stop until fat tears launched down her cheeks, and even then, wiping them away with her handkerchief, squealing in pain, she continued trembling with joy. Her allegiance was foremost to humor. Blunders, missteps, and odors were her comic fodder. People’s sensitivities, like their food allergies, were tiring. But by the time she was done appreciating the mental image of her husband and son manning a canoe, there was no chance they weren’t going to do it. Without a word Pasha followed his father’s lead to the rental station, claiming they weren’t in a position to turn down anything gratis.
Gliding farther out into the boundless lake, they were noticing superbly, noticing splotches of light dancing on the water’s metallic surface and how the clouds receded from their advance — OK, so there wasn’t much to notice, until the houses dotting the shoreline metamorphosed into mansions, each guarded by an obedient yacht. Such commodity fetishism wouldn’t have impressed them, but arduous teamwork and exposure to direct sunlight operated in conjunction to make a man inclined to be impressed. Look over there, said Robert, nodding toward four stories of architectural sleekness, glass walls, extraterrestrial sensibilities. And this one, said Pasha in reference to an ocher villa of palatial proportions. Pasha used his oar to push aside a turgid log. Robert steered them clear of rocky terrain. The sun drilled into their curly backs, extracting sweat. Shirts off, legs spread, breath labored. Conversations were initiated, but none stuck. Grunts and groans would have to suffice. Talk was superfluous. Sweat, toil, brotherhood.
The necessity of a major life change became glaring. Robert had always enjoyed working with his hands, pruning the garden, cracking walnuts, repairing the fence that one time. A primordial feature was activated. He became more spacious. The fog lifted from imaginary distances, extending the inner horizon. And he had an advantage. Levik may have been more naturally gifted in the handiwork department, but Robert didn’t have a tizzy the moment a switch failed to turn something on, no tantrum when a few bolts didn’t fit into place. He had no temper to lose. But everybody (Esther) ridiculed him whenever he set to tinkering with a broken contraption or went to do his sport (a set of torso twists and toe reaches performed on the boardwalk). A muffled clap of thunder in a distant valley set off the tremendous nature poetry of Tyutchev. The lake itself began a plangent recitation of Bunin’s “Returning from Nazareth” and “Summer Evening.”
The water level in the boat was rising, and Pasha ingeniously thought to put his new baseball cap (Levik’s old baseball cap) to use. The damp cap would then be refreshing on his scalp. As he ladled capfuls and flung with gusto, his oar came loose, plopped into the water, and sank to the bottom. It happened so fast it might not have happened at all. Pasha squatted to peer into the lake, but the boat’s sway forced him back into his seat.
A glance of uncertainty passed between father and son. Flanked by dense rows of huddled, inscrutable trees, the lake was congealed sky, the sky an emptied lake. Absorbent and reflective properties made it a challenge to panic properly. They were nowhere, nobody around to incite distress. And they wouldn’t incite each other’s. In predicaments Robert and Pasha served the same extinguishing function. They were the turgid logs that killed the flame, and if they happened to ignite, it turned into one massive blaze — a purely speculative metaphor, as in their many encounters with disaster they’d managed to steer clear of that one element, having never tempted fate with grills or space heaters.
So I guess, began Robert, but he aborted. A moment later he tried again. What probably happened, he said, but decided not to. Hmm, he said, hmm. See this metal ring that’s holding my oar in place? It was probably already damaged on yours, and when you let the oar go, the weight finished off the job.
Oars aren’t supposed to sink.
Damaged! Nothing’s really free in this world!
It’s our luck that’s the problem, said Pasha.
Will we be charged? How much does an oar cost?
A million dollars. Are you about to go down there?
Robert seemed to consider it, peering into the clogged drain of the devil’s bathtub. Price doesn’t matter, he affirmed. Let’s head back.
But the second oar wasn’t decoration. Circling in one spot as if caught in a slow-motion tornado, they succeeded only in getting disoriented. You have to alternate sides, said Pasha, and grabbed his father’s oar, which also came out of its lock with ease, making Pasha feel strong and mighty. In trying to alternate sides, he flooded the boat more. Their shoulders ached. Blisters stiffened their palms. They decided to wait for a boat to pass, meanwhile drifting into a dark, narrowing nook of the lake shaded by grotesque trees that obviously had to find circuitous ways of meeting their nutritional needs. There was a smell of damp, verdurous pulp, as if at the end of the lake a giant grinder were mashing the lake, trees, shrubs, and sky.
A few minutes passed in silence before Robert recognized his fortune. What more could he want? Locked with his son in a capsule, stranded in the American wilderness with nothing to occupy Pasha’s interest, no one to divert his attention, no disciplinary interjections from Esther, no impossible-to-keep-up-with ideas from Marina, no CDs, books or art catalogs, no phones, friends, subways, no Chelsea or Guggenheim, just trees and a few clouds, which they admired, appreciated, perhaps willfully sustained around themselves, but without true investment. Trees and clouds were the natural world’s equivalent of TV, which someone always kept turned on. Robert and Pasha were at most peripherally tuned in.
This reminds me of our plane rides, said Robert.