I start walking.
Tomorrow’s teenager, still small and high-pitched, scoots past me as I make my way along the river embankment. He has known this place for as long as he can remember, has grazed his knee on the gravel (a brief calamity, now long forgotten) and catapulted himself into the fluid wetness. It is the map of his short life, and surely the forever of his future: he can’t imagine anything or anywhere else as tangible as the Danube.
I walk on.
With his shoulders hunched in an undersized suit jacket, yesterday’s youth cuts across my path and frowningly searches for answers in the upside-down reflection of the island. So recently he had spent careless summer days throwing frisbees on the narrow strip of land between the Danube and its lanky arm – but those days are over. Now he must pretend to be an adult.
Not far from me, a lady of a certain age, who can’t quite believe she belongs to today with its wrinkles and greying beauty, sits with legs stretched out on a bench and face turned towards the watery, rippling shimmer. She likes it here, because the weak late-autumn sun shines not only from above, but also from below, and there is still a suggestion of warmth.
And I? Where do I belong in this relentlessly rushing timeline? The rivers of my youth are not the Danube. They flow through countries that are separated from this one by sea and mountains – places that are apart and choose to distance themselves yet further. I have known tributaries of this mighty waterway, but the Danube is new to me.
Walking past these generations of people so familiar with their river, I am inundated with emotions that I struggle to name. Longing, perhaps. Or loneliness. An irrational part of me is jealous that these people can call the Danube their home, that they have the certainty of past and present and future entrenched in this region – to my imagining, at least. I want to see my story reflected in the inky waters, liquid words that pour into eternity; I want to be part of the history that courses through Vienna.
I go down to the river, onto the jetty. The wind whips my hair into my face and a few rust-coloured leaves stream past me. Ignoring the chill and the curious looks, I get changed.
One foot. It is cold, but it doesn’t hurt yet – and anyway, today I will be brave. Two feet. Ankles, calves, thighs. Now it becomes more challenging. The water reaches my stomach, and each centimetre requires an effort of will. It would be easier to go all at once, I think, and count myself in: Three, two, one…
There is a split second where I feel nothing, and then comes the shock of the cold. I experience a flood of feeling – or is it pain? My breath, when I resurface, is short and sharp and requires concentration. A reminder of what it is to be alive, and here, and now.
I swim. Small, uncertain strokes at first, testing these new waters; and then more confidently, drawing great arcs with my arms and stretching my legs into the unknown – and my story joins the torrent of others in and on and by the river Danube.
