The Driver

It’s been nearly two years exactly since this night I write of occurred.  It was really nothing much, but it occurs to me what a perfect, pure memory it was and what genuine, wholesome pleasure it gave me and I feel compelled to write it down.

In Austria winter is cold, snow falls in delicate flakes amongst the valleys of the alps and blankets everything in white.  One calm afternoon (a Sunday I suspect), lounging about the school with nothing much to do, I was asked if I could drive the choir to a performance at an Austrian school in a village some distance away.  I affected a casual answer but it was undeniable that I would be eager to go. 

I’m not much for singing and neither were the kids, a motley bunch from every clique of the school - numbering around nine, but everyone seemed pleased with the prospect of an evening adventure.

There was a buzz of nervousness as I helped gather the students into the van while Ms. McLean reviewed with each, individually, what they had rehearsed in the preceding week.  With some younger boys, some older girls, a big Turk and a couple Japanese all loaded snugly in my van I drove with contentment as if they were all my own.

Snow fluttered about the emptiness before, behind and below us as we drove through forested passes and over alpine ridges.  The sun set between the mountains and snug hamlets twinkled in the dusk.

When we arrived I had little to do, being naught but the driver, so I took a walk about the little campus.  The Turk was desperate for a cigarette and seemed inclined to follow.  I told him to go far and hide himself well - these little halls bedecked with children’s drawings should not have to suffer his unseemly transgressions.  I wandered around and in, up stairs and down.  It was a quaint school - not far from what I knew in my own country.  My wandering soon led me to the festively decorated theater where the students rehearsed on stage.  Two teachers, women, American and Austrian, had arrived and Ms. McLean conversed with the American, a grey but youthful woman.  I sat in a tiny wooden chair, arranged in row with many others and smiled at the students waiting their turn on stage.  They came to me and left with apprehensive energy, some of which began to sink its way into me.

The other teacher, a younger woman, who spoke no English at all, captivated my humble fancy.  Her expression was wonderful, sweet, benignant and sublime, her skin soft, her hands gentle, it was no wonder that, leisurely, I fell in love.  I fancied what it would be to live in this little village, under the snow tucked away in the alps, as the American woman had done; to take this corner as my own, to marry and hibernate in love and comfort.  Whether my fancies grew too strong or my hunger more importunate, I felt compelled to rise to walk once more.  My second circuit of the grounds brought me to a window, without which were the two Japanese – tiny girls with elfish hands and voices, and wonderful, peculiar, laughter.  They were smoking furtively and once they beheld my grinning specter they panicked most flatteringly.  In a few seconds they were at my side begging my silence on the matter.  My gracious reassurance that their secret was my own was monumental for the girls they showered me in hugs and gratitude (as well as a sooty aroma).  I hate enforcing the no-smoking rule, I find it condescending both to the students and to my role as a model.

Not much later I was helping apply face paint (I don’t remember why – I suppose it was related to the holiday) with awful, smeary paints.  Washing my hands clean, I then split my time observing the arrangements of the growing buffet and the preparations in the theater.

I don’t recall much of the performance, like who stood where, which songs were performed, or how well they sang, but I do remember being captivated by the experience and thinking that the children were little angels.  These kinds of things usually don’t affect me but in a steamy, warm rustic theater stuffed with a gregarious lot of Austrians rattling about in their native tongue like a big loving family gathered for a holiday, it was kind of hard not to be.  Our students sang both in English and German, there were musical performances by the locals and lots of little speeches were made in a language I didn’t much understand. All the while, the native Austrian children provided a boisterous and eager audience.  

Following the performance, with heat-flushed cheeks, I suffered through waiting my turn to access the food (situated poorly in a confined stairwell landing).  Once admitted, through some minor wiggling and nudging, I gathered my fill of cookies and snacks and then assisted in gathering our singers back to the vans.

The drive back was one of excited relief.  There was much discussion of whether the kitchen would be open when we returned, where we might find food and whether we might stop at the Burger King we had passed coming in (a strange site given its remote surroundings).  Caught up in the spirit of the season and feeling genuine pride and love for the students, I disregarded my usual disdain for fast food as well as my orders to return in time for study hall and, amidst much fanfare, we stopped to eat.  They had special fried potato things in the shape of pumpkins and everyone was happy.

We caught the end of study hall when we returned and the usual routine began to reassert itself on my physiological state.  But the effects of bliss, however vicarious it may be, are not so quick to depart and I’m sure I slept very well that night.  It’s amazing how rewarding being the driver can be.