Houseboat on the Seine. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      3

      The Cutting Edge

      The next day I come with a shovel, a pickax and a large bucket; it’s one of the buckets we used to scrape all the ‘gook’ out of the lower boat. I’ve borrowed a pair of hip-high boots from my friend and painting buddy, Jo Lancaster. I also have a winch, what the French call a tire-fort, along with two significant lengths of chain that were part of the mooring system for the old wooden boat.

      I use the plank, M. Teurnier’s plank, to walk across to the boat. I walk along the narrow passage beside the upper boat to the bollard. I loop my short chain over it, then hook one end of my winch to both ends of rope. I throw the rest of the winch onto the bank. I know damned well everything I’m going to do would drive a real boatperson amok. This will be strictly a landlubber’s solution. But, after all, that’s what I am.

      Next, I go straighten out my winch, wrap the longer of its two chains around the largest tree on the bank, bring it down and attach both ends to the hook on the other end of the winch. I begin cranking to take up any slack. I’ll be trying the impossible, digging a channel through the sand barge with my shovel into which I can pull my canted boat against the shore. This is all according to my general life-theory that if you don’t know how things should be done, everything is possible.

      I wade into the water in Jo’s hip boots, carrying the shovel. I decide I probably won’t need the bucket. I’ll just throw the sand farther out into the river. I’m wishing I had Matt with me to crank the winch as I dig. I start digging. The boat looms above me. I dig under the rear end of the boat on the land side, where it’s grounded. Each time I think I’ve cleared it a smidgen, I give a few cranks on the winch. I can’t tell if it’s working or not. A few passersby are convinced I’ve completely lost my marbles. It goes slowly, but I can actually see the boat is inching its way closer to shore. I check to see if the cables I’ve strung holding the front of the barge are secure enough.

      They’re fine. I’m back in the water. I’m working out the hang of it. Thank God, that sandbar is sand, so most of what I scoop into my shovel, I can actually throw out of the way, deeper into the river. If it were mud, as most of the bottom here is, it’d be hopeless.

      Just then, the beat-up deux chevaux arrives. It’s one of les frères Teurnier, the one who dressed M. Jacques Teurnier in his diving suit. He stares at me a few minutes, trying to figure it out, then begins to laugh. It’s as if he’s crept up on someone building a pyramid with pebbles. I admit I’m beginning to have great sympathy for those Egyptian slaves working in the shadow of pyramids hanging over them, stacking gigantic blocks while they weren’t even sure if the whole uncanny-looking mess wasn’t going to topple over on them.

      When he’s finished laughing, he begins hauling out more equipment. I’m still puzzled about how he’s going to cut out the windows, we can’t even get into the bottom boat now. I have only a very small plastic dinghy without any oars from which he can work. It came with the wooden boat. He looks around, shrugs. I’m wishing I had Matt to translate. He makes movements as if he’s rowing a boat. I shrug. He holds up a finger and goes downriver along the chemin de halage past the Le Clerc boat. I go back to my digging in the river.

      The next thing I know, he’s rowing a huge metal rowboat laboriously upriver. He pulls it close to the barge, where it’s been cut off and where I’m still digging. I’ll never know how he conjured up this monstrosity of a rowboat, but it’s perfect for the job. He edges close to shore and indicates I’m to pass the equipment he’s unloaded onto the bank into the boat.

      This proves to be just barely within my capacity. These river men must be strong as gorillas. And I’m amazed at the number of tools, from gas tanks to red electrical boxes, that are needed.

      When I have all the equipment passed on and am ready to pass out myself, he muscles his way up onto the deck of the barge, then hands down the equipment that’s up there. He gives me a sign to wait, and walks along the plank onto the berge. He climbs up and pulls from his car coils of heavy electrical wire. I watch as he plugs this wire into the mains of the wooden boat, uncoils it toward us along the apron of the metal barge and leads it down to where I’ve been digging.

      After checking to see if the equipment is working, he motions me to join him in his rowboat. I can just struggle myself up the side and fall to the bottom. He hands me a piece of blue chalk and makes a motion with his arm for me to indicate where I want the back window cut. We’re cutting this window into the sliced-off end of the barge. I’ve no idea of what I want; I’m working blind. Practically at random, I mark out about where I’d like a big window cut from the bulkhead.

      He hands me a helmet with thick glasses and indicates I should put it on my head. I do this. Now we’re astronauts about ready to take a space walk. He shows me how to keep the wires and tubes from tangling, at the same time holding the rowboat tight close to the barge. Practically without warning, he then starts to cut through the metal with a huge spinning disk. A shower of sparks fly like fireworks, bouncing against him, me and the boat, giant sparklers on the Fourth of July. He’s resolutely cutting through the metal, right along the blue chalk line I made so casually. I’m hoping the lines are square, but he seems to have a level and rule built into his mind. In half an hour, he has the entire rectangle cut out, except for a small corner on the river side. It’s about two meters wide and a meter high.