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Rifle club was the highlight of Basch’s week – those Saturday mornings down at the range where methodology and practice ruled always succeeded in chasing away whatever stresses the world had chosen to throw at him. The careful clicks of his most beloved gun, the smell of gunpower and freshly mown grass and that firm, reassuring kick of the rifle into his shoulder: it almost seemed too good to last. So, naturally, it didn’t.
The club’s founder and manager was a stern and quiet man named Edelstein. What his first name was, or if he even had one, was of no concern to Basch. He was just the man with the range and the trophies. To Basch, Edelstein seemed to end with his rifle, it was practically ludicrous to imagine him having any sort of career or social life. But it seemed that at least once in his life the man had left his rifle range, for one bright autumn morning he brought a man in his early twenties in front of all twelve club members and introduced him as his son, Roderich Edelstein.
Within minutes it was clear that Roderich matched Basch in age and nothing else. He had no interest or skill in shooting, spent most of his time sitting in the shade either complaining or listening to his ipod and seemed to just generally get on Basch’s nerves. It was if he was operating on a clashing rhythm to Basch – every time one of them moved they would somehow get in the other’s way, interrupt their silence, or all manner of tiny annoyances. As he watched Roderich go through twice Edelstein’s usual ammo allowance, Basch decided he had come across the most obnoxious person on the planet.
For some reason, Edelstein Jr. became a reoccurring fixture of the rifle club despite how little he seemed to actually do. He was always there, slumped against a wall as his father set up guns for the two of them, when Basch arrived. While Basch was rarely social with the other club members, he was determined to be as cold to Roderich as possible. This wasn’t exactly hard considering Roderich had no desire to speak to anyone, but Basch took great pride in how often he found excuses to glare across the line of shooters to that useless young man. Even when he did deign to actually take a shot, Roderich’s technique was just embarrassing. Everything from his aim to his stance was sloppy, but while Basch and a few other club members gave sharp inhalations and quiet titters at this performance, Edelstein Sr. didn’t even look over.
A month or two progressed like this, cold stares in reply to his glares tainting Basch’s Saturdays, until Edelstein announced the club would be hosting a three day camping trip for any of those members willing to try their hunting skills on the local game. Basch lived for these trips, usually no more than two a year, an excuse to get away from his desk job at the bank and live as his most ancient ancestors did. Except with a gun. But this year his excitement was seriously marred when the camping group first convened. Six of the current members – and two sisters of one member – had signed up, including Basch and the Edelsteins. Impressed at the turnout, Edelstein announced that the group would be split in two, with him and his son each leading a camp. Basch couldn’t help but snicker to himself thinking of Roderich in the wild. Perhaps his music taste would be bad enough to allow him to bag a deer with his ipod.
Edelstein ignored the raised eyebrows his announcement garnered and proceeded to hand out information on the trip. Standard stuff, Basch thought as he flicked through the booklet. What to bring, when to arrive, where exactly they were going, who would be in what camp, and so on. His eyes slipped over that last table, uncaring of who he would be sharing a tent with, when he latched onto a single name. It couldn’t be… There was no way Edelstein was that cruel. But he had seen correctly, and would be sharing a tent with Roderich Edelstein.
Perhaps he should speak with Edelstein, drop out of the trip, force someone to trade with him, anything. Certainly he spent an hour on the phone whining to his sister (a soul too kind to even comprehend the magnitude of distaste Basch held), but beyond that couldn’t think of any viable options. Edelstein was an incredibly imposing man, definitely not the kind to take any criticism of a family member well, and it wasn’t like he could separate Ivan from his inexperienced sisters. As for just not going, well, that would be akin to surrender. Basch Zwingli did not surrender. It would be another test, yes, another milestone in the development of his hunting skill. If he could still do well on this trip with Roderich Edelstein staring at him and generally ruining everything, why he could practically be an Olympian.
An Olympian… now that was a dream he hadn’t thought about for a long time. He remembered being a kid, bright-eyed and messy-haired, hunting rabbits on the farm and staying up to all sorts of ridiculous hours to watch the greatest shooters in the world perform at Sydney, knowing someday he would join them. Silly. He was a banker now. A banker who would bag the most game on this hunting trip if it killed him.
His competitive spirit wouldn’t be hard to hide, for Edelstein was just as eager for competition among club members as Basch himself. Every one of these camping trips had featured a small trophy for whoever did best and this time for the two separate groups there would be two separate trophies. Thinking of the other three members in his camp, Basch immediately began to envision this trophy on his favourite shelf alongside the other two he had already collected. But this confidence was cut abruptly short when Edelstein explained that, as the leader of camp two, Roderich would be the one to decide who would win his trophy.
Perhaps it was a good thing the purpose of the trip was to hunt animals, because Basch suddenly had a hell of a lot of anger to release somewhere.
“We’ll go up to that ridge next,” said Roderich, pointing off through the forest.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” replied Basch. “All the tracks we’ve seen so far are leading in this direction.”
“My father said-”
“Your father isn’t-”
A gunshot cut off the argument and made both men jump. Turning to the two Scandinavian brothers walking behind them, Basch and Roderich found that the shorter of the two had managed to shoot a grouse straight out of the sky.
“Shooting seems fine here to me,” the successful hunter said.
“Well… I…” Roderich spluttered for a moment before collecting himself. “We’re going up to the ridge next anyway, and that’s final.” And he began to march off.
The two Scandinavians nonchalantly followed suit, leaving Basch fuming in their wake. Barely two hours in and he was already behind – that dopey Edelstein kid was going to pay.
Basch and Roderich were at odds with each other the rest of the day and while they were busy squabbling over where to go or what to focus on the two Scandinavians started racking up an impressive kill count. The only thing Basch managed to tag was a raccoon, for goodness’ sake, and by the end of the day he was just about ready to take out Roderich.
“This is a terrible camping spot,” Basch announced when Roderich nearly stumbled into a creek just after dinner. “We’ll have to walk for hours tomorrow morning before we find anything.”
“This spot is one of my father’s suggestions,” replied Roderich, shaking the water from his boots. “And there’s not another one for kilometres.”
“We would have that problem if you’d listened to me when you were insisting we head for this stupid ledge,” said Basch. “I could have us sleeping somewhere far more sheltered with a much greater game count, but I can see you’re hardly the type to listen to reason.”
“I’m sorry, who exactly is leading this group?” said Roderich as he replaced his now slightly chipped glasses.
“Well by virtue of some frankly disturbing reasoning, it’s apparently you,” said Basch, dumping his pack to the ground. “But I’d be hard pressed to call you qualified to lead a hunting party.”
“And I presume you’d rather be the leader.” Roderich sat down at the front of his alleged “tent”, which was beyond all hope, nothing more than a pile of plastic and poles.
“Naturally,” replied Basch. “For one thing, I can actually shoot.”
“You think shooting’s all you need to lead? Please, not even William Tell could shoot well enough to compensate for a poor attitude,’ said Roderich. “Leadership is a difficult job and, really, not one you’re cut out for. You’re just too stubborn.”
“Oh yes, my attitude is definitely the problem here,” said Basch, his lip curling. “But say I could shoot better than William Tell, though.” Roderich looked moments from rolling his eyes. “Would you let me lead then?”
“If you successfully shot some ludicrous and arbitrary target for no real reason?”
“Yes,” replied Basch.
“…That I set?”
“Naturally,” said Basch.
Roderich shrugged. “Very well.”
Basch couldn’t help but be slightly apprehensive as Roderich rooted through his pack, searching for a suitable target. After all, that had been far too easy. What was Roderich playing at? He wasn’t going to do something stupid and stick to the folktale, making him shoot something off one of the Scandinavians’ heads? No, Roderich wasn’t entirely stupid, and besides, those Scandinavians would probably pack him full of bullets if he tried something like that. So why was he so confident?
Roderich rose from his pack without a word, holding an apple and the camp trophy. He wasn’t seriously going to…
Placing the apple in the cup of the trophy, he pointed to a tree beyond camp. “See that fork, right up near the top?”
Basch nodded.
“Put this,” he held out the trophy, “in that.”
Basch scowled. “Too lazy to do it yourself?” he asked, taking the trophy.
“…I know my limits,” said Roderich.
Basch made his way up the tree trunk, not sure whether he should take joy in his scathing mutterings about Roderich. Wasn’t it just hilarious that he admitted he was a lazy prick? Wasn’t it just so annoying that he was so incredibly useless? As he placed the trophy and apple in the appointed fork, he turned to look down at the camp. The Scandinavians were sitting quietly in the mouth of a perfectly composed tent, ostensibly examining a pheasant the taller one brought down that afternoon, but Basch could tell they were actually quite fixated on the competition brewing. Never one to disappoint an audience, Basch leapt nimbly from the tree and picked up his rifle.
“Where would you have me stand?” he asked, Roderich beginning to glare.
“Just walk in that direction and I’ll tell you when to stop,” said Roderich, lazily waving a hand to the edge of camp.
Basch sniffed, and did just that.
“Remember,” Roderich called out as Basch disappeared into the trees. “A single scratch on that trophy and my father will guarantee you’ll never shoot in this forest again.”
Basch just rolled his eyes and made a pact to himself that if he did somehow hit the trophy, he’d get the Scandinavians to blame Roderich.
It was only when Roderich called out for him to stop, almost completely out of sight of their campsite, when he realised just how late it had gotten. The sun was almost completely gone, and what was left was shining bright and orange directly into his line of sight. He could barely look in that direction for more than a second, much less find and aim at an apple.
“Fire at will,” Roderich called, and Basch wondered if he could hit him instead.
But no, he had made a bet, and now it was time to make good. He lifted his rifle to rest in his shoulder and strained his eyes against the dying sun. Everything burned and blurred into a great mess of orange, his eyes stung at the sight, but he kept them steady on the tree. The trophy was little more than a lump at this distance, but Basch could still see it. Kind of. It leant against the trunk, the apple only just resting in the cup; maybe if he hit the trunk next to it it’d still be enough to dislodge the apple. Probably would be safer for the trophy, too. Basch nodded minutely to himself, adjusted his aim ever so slightly, fought the urge to blink, and fired.
He squeezed his eyes shut the second he heard bullet hit bark and stood rubbing the sting of sunset out of them for a good while. When he opened them again, the camp was just as it had been before the shot. Roderich still stood between the two tents, staring at the tree, and although Basch couldn’t see the entrance to the Scandinavians’ tent, the silence suggested they were still staring too. Because lazy little Edelstein Jr. seemed to content to just stand there, Basch made his own way to the base of the tree and tried not to think of how he could no longer see the trophy resting in the fork.
Not too far from the trunk, resting in the soft mound of an ants nest, were the exploded remains of an apple and a partially buried trophy. Basch knew far too much about bullets to ever think that the apple had been harmed by anything but the fall but from the sudden, quiet sigh from behind him, Roderich was not so wise.
“You hit it,” he said.
“Well, I certainly hit something,” replied Basch, his compulsive honesty kicking in without his knowledge. “Perhaps it was the trophy.”
Digging said cup from the ants nest, Basch found it to be rather bug-infested but entirely whole. Just some dirt and, maybe if you squinted, the barest hint of a dent around the rim.
Roderich could only stare for a moment, and Basch suddenly felt rather awkward with how anticlimactic the whole situation was.
“I guess…” Roderich muttered, and then sighed. “I’m a man of my word and I made a promise, so you’re the leader now, or whatever. Do what you want.”
With that, he turned on his heel and began to walk back to camp, kicking a clump of dirt as he went.
“Why the hell do want to be the leader so much, anyway?” asked Basch, stopping the other man dead in his tracks. “You hardly seem interested in hunting.”
“Of course I’m not interested in hunting,” said Roderich. “It’s… dirty and boring and outside and difficult . My father’s the one who cares about it.”
Roderich was apparently capable of some measure of speed, because when he resumed his walk to camp Basch had to jog to keep up with him.
“Hey-!” why was he even bothering to have a conversation with this man? He was absolutely ridiculous. But, try as he might, Basch was intrigued and now he had to know. “You didn’t answer my question. Why do you want to be the leader so much?”
Roderich had reached camp and set about randomly attaching various bits of his tent to each other, causing Basch to physically wince at the state of their shelter for the night.
“Give me that,” muttered Basch, grabbing a tent pole from Roderich. “Are you even looking at what you’re doing?” Of course he wasn’t, Roderich didn’t need to put effort into things, he survived off distain and free rides from his wealthy father and whatever he was always listening to on that stupid ipod and mocking Basch and getting lost and-
“I told you, my father wants me to.”
“What?” Basch kept his eyes on the poles he was connecting, trying to keep his bitter thoughts running and his mind off the actual Roderich standing across from him.
“The reason I want to lead this camp,” replied Roderich, a scowl clear in his voice. “Personally I couldn’t give two hoots about any of this but my father says it’s something I have to learn. Responsibility and leadership and all that.”
“Why the hell would he care if you were good at something you hated?” asked Basch. With a soft grunt he planted the finished pole structure in the ground and reached for the tent sheeting. “It’s not like you’re going to apply any of it later on. I’ll bet the second we’re out of this forest you’ll never even look at a rifle again.”
“That’s the plan,” said Roderich, and leant to help Basch fit the plastic to the poles. “But I doubt he’ll let me. He’s still convinced that I’ll turn around one day and become the perfect Edelstein patriarch, where I’ll be drinking beer and shooting things and, I don’t know, building a deck or something.”
Basch couldn’t help but give a little laugh at Roderich’s comment, nothing more than a few little breaths slightly louder than usual, but it was enough to bring a small twisted smile to Roderich’s face. But it was quickly gone from Basch’s sight as Roderich grabbed his pack and entered the now complete tent. By the time Basch also got in the tent, Roderich was already in his sleeping bag with his back to the entrance, and he had to wonder if Edelstein was so slow normally to make up for his apparent super speed when he was avoiding Basch.
Really, Basch didn’t care if Roderich was so keen to ignore him, or so he told himself as he climbed into his own sleeping bag. But despite how he swore to let sleeping assholes lie, his brain kept asking new questions about Roderich, begging him to keep the conversation going, and while he was utterly confused as to where this new fascination had come from, he still found himself giving voice to these thoughts. While keeping his back to Roderich, of course.
“Why do you let your dad push you around like that?”
At first Basch thought that maybe Roderich was already fast asleep, but soon enough there was a slight rustling as Roderich pulled his head upright.
“Some of us have to rely on our parents to support us.”
“Yeah, but…” Basch replied without really thinking. “Can’t he just… give you some money or something? He doesn’t have to drag you around like this.”
“I told you,” muttered Roderich, his face buried in the sleeping bag once more. “He wants me to become more like him. …Doesn’t exactly approve of how I live my life.”
Basch was silent for a while, and almost considered prompting Roderich for more information when Edelstein suddenly picked up the conversation once more.
“I did try,” he said, and Basch suddenly found even his breathing to be too loud for the situation. “I tried to live a normal life, the kind my father wants, but I’m not very good at holding onto… things. You know, like jobs – real ones, career type ones – or cars, or fiancées.”
“I’m sorry,” said Basch automatically, but soon realised he genuinely felt for Roderich.
“Don’t be,” said Roderich. “Wasn’t what I wanted.”
“What do you want?” asked Basch, “that your father doesn’t?”
“Everything?” joked Roderich, and then sighed. “Music, I guess, is the main thing. I want to be a musician. It’s pretty much the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do with my life but my dad thinks it’s stupid.”
“So are you in a band or…?”
“I’m an internationally accredited violin soloist. I got so close to being offered a spot in this big orchestra in Salzburg, but when I didn’t make it at the last round of auditions my father decided I needed to stop trying to pursue it as a career and just… I don’t know. Build a deck.”
“Wow…That’s horrible,” said Basch after a moment’s silence. “Sounds like you really could have made some money out of your music.”
“I know I could have,” replied Roderich, the frustration in his voice almost tangible. “I was so close… But by that point I had pretty much nothing left except my violin, so…”
“Yeah,” said Basch quietly, rolling onto his back to stare at the tent above him. “I know how that feels. I’ve wanted to shoot professionally since I was in school, but…”
“Really?” asked Roderich. “Your parents didn’t approve of that? Sounds like a pretty reasonable plan what with how good you are.”
"Not all of us have parents able to support us,” Basch replied and Roderich made a strange awkward noise in the back of his throat. “I had to get a job straight out of school. Now I work in a bank and only shoot on weekends.”
“Sorry, I, uh…That’s gotta hurt,” replied Roderich.
“Not as much as being told outright that I couldn’t do what I love,” said Basch. “If I were in your situation I reckon I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself from punching your dad in the face.”
Roderich only hummed in reply, completely unreadable with his back to Basch. They lay in silence for some time, Basch staring at the tent moving slowly in the breeze, and Roderich staying completely still and silent until,
“…If it’ll keep your father happy, you don’t have to tell him about any of this.”
At last Roderich rolled over to watch Basch, who kept his eyes on the tent ceiling.
“You don’t have to tell him about the wager or anything, I can say you were the leader the whole time. If you need it, I could even give you a few of my kills, in case you don’t tag anything yourself…”
“Thanks,” said Roderich quietly. “But… why?”
“Think of it as an investment,” replied Basch. “If I help get your dad off your case, you have to promise that you’ll keep trying with your music. Sneak into auditions if you have to, just don’t… don’t give up. Not yet.”
“Thank you,” said Roderich, his voice more solid now. Hesitating for a moment, he leant over the edge of his sleeping bag slightly to get closer to Basch, and finally got him to look away from the ceiling. “But you can’t give up either."
“What makes you think I’ve given up?” asked Basch, a small frown beginning to bloom on his forehead.
“I mean, maybe you should try harder,” said Roderich, not even bothering to hurry to fix his mistake. “Do more than just recreational shooting on the weekends, enter some competitions or something. You’d do well.”
“I think I owe you an apology,” said Basch after a while.
“How so?” asked Roderich.
“I thought you were a real little shit when you first showed up at the rifle club,” said Basch. “I didn’t even consider you might have problems of your own.”
Roderich laughed, quietly, to himself. “Well, you were hardly wrong. But I guess I should apologise for thinking you were a total stick in the mud when I first saw you.”
“I am most definitely a stick in the mud,” said Basch, tiredness beginning to colour his voice and a yawn escaping him. “But still…I look forward to hearing you play for some terrible bratty orchestra someday.”
“And I eagerly await your spot in the shooting team at the 2016 Stubbornness Olympics.”
Basch wasn’t surprised in the slightest when Roderich didn’t show up to rifle club the next Saturday, but he was disappointed nonetheless. Perhaps it was silly to become so attached to someone he’d only had one truly meaningful conversation with, after all, if you counted from when they’d first started speaking they’d only known each other for less than a week. But all the same, Basch wanted to see him again. To hear of how he was doing, maybe learn more about his music, and to just generally be in the presence of someone so languid and unhurried. For how obnoxious it had been in the beginning, Basch had become hungry for Roderich’s laziness. It was the perfect contrast to his own constant worry and need for perfection. He knew it was rude to presume Roderich would return to an activity he disliked so much just to speak to Basch, but he couldn’t help but feel that rifle club did not make him as happy as it usually did.
He returned home to his modest flat prepared for nothing but a small lunch and an afternoon of reading, and found instead a ringing telephone.
“I hope you don’t mind,” came a familiar voice through the receiver. “But I got your number from my father’s club records and I wanted to call you.”
“That was fast,” said Basch, excitement poorly hidden by monotone.
“Well, the least I could do was stay in touch. You did give me a whole deer to pass off as my own.”
“Did your father fall for it?”
“He probably didn’t believe I shot it, but he certainly fell in love with it,” said Roderich languidly, and Basch felt another one of his breathy laughs brewing. “Besides, there is a purpose to this call.”
“What, are you lost?” asked Basch, recalling just how many navigational incidents Roderich managed to have over the course of three days.
“Very funny,” said Edelstein. “Actually, I just got through the first round of audition for an orchestra based not too far from here.”
“And I thought you were being fast with your phonecalls,” said Basch. “But that’s really great, Roderich, I mean it. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” said Roderich. “Oh, and I saw online the other day that there was an open shooting tournament in two weeks down near Leoben, think you can make it?”
“Well, I think I might be able to,” said Basch. “It’s very short notice, though, I might no-”
“Good,” replied Roderich. “Because I’ve signed you up for it. Good luck!”
The phone went dead with no further word from Roderich and Basch was left standing in his kitchen trying to figure out just how that dopey kid at the rifle range turned into the strangest, yet potentially most helpful, friend he’d ever had.
“If only I’d kept my mouth shut,” he muttered, looking about for a map. “Now, where exactly is Leoben?”