The Raft: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

birds, the bugs, the trees and the plants. I assumed he was listening the entire time, though he continued to extend nothing other than the occasional nod and shake of the head. Soon, I simply forgot he was there at all. I got lost in my stories, punctuating my babbling with expressions like you know what I mean? and isn’t that wild?
    Finally, he reached into his inner breast pocket and when he pulled his hand back out it was tightened into a fist. His action startled me. I’d been sitting on the riverbank, not expecting a response, and was now propped up against it. Carefully, he opened his enormous white hand and rolled out his long, bony fingers.
    In the middle of his palm was a small frog.
    I sprang to my feet. I so wanted him to show me up close. He didn’t. Instead, he extended his open palm as if it was the frog’s fleshy white throne, and tipped it over. I gasped as the stiff body rolled over, out of his hand like a ball, and plopped into the water.
    It was dead. He’d pulled a dead frog from his pocket. The frog floated down the river on its back, arms and legs splayed, white belly up, and disappeared behind some rocks.
    My hands flew to my mouth and I let out a wheeze, yet even then I didn’t fear him. I was like a mother whose child has made a horrible undercooked breakfast for her. Or rather, the owner of a cat both appreciating and detesting the dead pigeon left on the stoep as a gift. After the frog was gone, I let out an uneasy giggle and thanked him, my voice dubious.
    He smiled. It was an awkward smile that stretched from ear to ear. His cheeks pulled back like two thick curtains. It felt physically forced, but earnest. It seemed to pain him, smiling in such a way, but I was pleased he had offered it.
    I announced that he needed a name. Everyone needs a name, I told him.
    I decided his name would be Burt.
    Burt, the man in the woods.
    A few minutes later, I left Burt and returned to the lodge.
    At the dinner table that evening, I still said nothing, but was in better spirits. My father had invited a nice young Dutch couple to have dinner with us. Afterwards, he pulled out the guitar and played his songs. I could tell where the night was going; a couple of bottles of wine had been called to duty. The more the chatting and laughter grew, the more tired I became. They hardly noticed me leaving. I switched on my bedside lamp, climbed under the covers, grabbed my grubby notebook, and turned to a new page. I drew a picture of Burt smiling his big banana smile and wearing his long black coat. I drew myself, standing beside him. I filled the rest of the page with tall green trees and big, bushy plants. The land and sky teemed with birds and bugs. They were all huddled around us, faced inwards, keeping a watchful eye.
    The following day I returned with food.
    Burt was standing even closer, still in the water, but on my side of the brook. I had brought a tuna-mayonnaise sandwich my mother had made.
    Now, the only thing I hate more than tuna is mayonnaise. My mother told me to not be fussy with food, because one day I might not have the choice. I replied that when the day came, I’d eat the tuna-mayo sandwich. Until then, I’d take advantage of my options. At which point my mother shoved the wrapped sandwich in my hand and said, The day’s come, smarty face.
    I’d taken the sandwich reluctantly, but now I had an idea: I’d offer it to Burt.
    I placed it on a dry rock between us and waited. He lowered his head and looked at it.
    I said, Go on. It’s for you.
    He looked up at me and down at the sandwich. He whimpered softly to himself, almost pitifully, and I encouraged him again to take it.
    Then, unexpectedly, he lunged. His long arms flailed like two long windsocks as he leaned to grab it from the rock. I stumbled back and tripped over a branch, falling onto the mushy bank. I watched with wide eyes as he ripped the cling film with his teeth and stuffed the sandwich messily into his wide, cavernous mouth. He