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The doctor’s house is a mile from the play-park. I don’t ask why you are driving me there and not to hospital, or how you know where a doctor lives, or why you did your make-up in the rear-view mirror. You say to keep my ankle raised on the back seat as the Morris stammers along the lanes and I cry out with each gear change.
I wait in the car while you knock on the front door, my foot da-dum da-dum-ing as if it has its own heart. The doctor’s wife helps you to take my weight, says they are only just back from church, emphasising the word before leaving the room. The study is cool and smells of leather and stationery, but it’s the display cases of stuffed creatures lining two of the walls that make me forget my ankle: fox, badger, weasel, an animal I don’t recognise, glassed eyes lancing into us.
The doctor enters yet the only noise is the tock-tock of the tall clock in the corner. He sits at his desk, back to us, rolls his shirt sleeves up. Finally, you fill the silence with Please – which I think is for me but isn’t – and when you say it again it sounds as if you might cry. He ignores you and attends to my leg, his hand, although huge as it holds my foot, as soft as yours. You fetch the tissue from beneath your sleeve, dab your face, explain how I am always doing stuff like this. Again, there is no response and you scrunch up the edges of your dress, look around the room. You see the animals for the first time since we arrived and for a moment I think you’ll pick up something heavy and smash the glass, freeing them all.
The doctor lowers my ankle and calls to his wife. You do as the woman asks and hold ice wrapped in a towel against my leg while he fetches a bandage from a drawer. And then in silence the two of them attach it, the doctor winding the gauze as she presses lightly on one end with a finger, then holds the other as he pins it. At no point do they meet your eyes. And so the creatures watch me watching you watching the doctor and his wife.
Years later the doctor will take his life in the field below the house and you will wear black for a week.
I had a great uncle who worked for a big lumber company, and got sick from the poisonous chemicals he sprayed to maintain the grounds. The nerves in his hands died to the extent that he’d drop things without knowing it. Or he’d get pulled over for driving too slow on the highway and when the cop asked him where he was going he couldn’t remember. He died in his late fifties, from brain cancer, and I remember him sobbing a lot in the back bedroom. His wife had to put locks on all the windows so he wouldn’t wander off in the night. I don’t have much else to say about him. I just think he should be remembered. I think people should know what those with money do to those without it. We couldn’t even bury him. It was too expensive. We cremated him and drove him up to the Red River, where he liked to ride four-wheelers in the spring. It was spring then too. The birds had come back. I remember we all took a handful, and lowered our hands into the water, and let go.
The family is off-kilter, their footsteps out of sync. The rope bridge shudders above the stream, a trickle of chocolate milk coiling between the camp and the Savannah.
That first night, a chorus of whooping hyenas swells beyond their tent and the porcelain-skinned child whimpers in his bed. His father curves over him, soothing him to sleep. Outside, a Maasai stands guard. Wrapped in a red checked shuka, his legs are spindly and bare.
The boy’s mother lies alone, remembering the service station en route to the airport; remembering the heat, the whine of cars, the molten blood throbbing at her temples.
“It’s safe,” her husband had said, without curling his body around hers. “Just don’t walk around at night.” His sigh was scalding.
The morning of the game drive, the boy skulks over the dappled grass towards the breakfast table. She wonders if the fear lurking in him is really hers. But by late afternoon, he is laughing as the Jeep bounces across the plains, his hair streaming golden in the setting sun. The bleached grass smells of childhood summers. Venus hovers on the horizon.
Returning to camp, a tyre bursts and they come to a halt. The night sky compresses the vehicle, slinking in through the open windows. They will have to get out and walk.
The guide leads them, armed only with his spear. She shadows his willowy figure, feeling ridged tracks underfoot, sensing shapes scurrying nearby. Cold drapes her shoulders, her skull is leaden, her limbs as if hobbled, but the boy appears taller, striding ahead.
A campfire wavers up ahead and from the dark, her husband’s arm envelopes her. Together, they cross the bridge spanning the strand of dusky water. Swaying. His hand is braided with hers, a floating path unravelling before them.
The children had washed up on the ring-shaped island. It was a pretty island, which one of the kids called ‘blue’, probably because he confused ‘blue’ and ‘green’. They grew hungry, having been accustomed to having their pablum carried by spoon to their gullets for them at regular intervals. They made do for a spell eating the tough, fibrous plants of the island’s western slope, though they bitched and moaned about it. A buncha weeks later they ventured to the eastern slope of the island and came upon a swath of sweet and tender-soft plant, new to them, which satiated their desires and propitiously served to solve the problem of how to fuel their return to the west now that they were east. Soon they were wearing a path back and forth from the one side of the island to the other to consume the plant in great numbers. They found when they returned to the west that they had a great need to defecate. The children felt pleased, if a little discontent with their contentedness, which is normal, something even a dumb kid knows. Weeks passed and the island began to fill with their feces; at the same time, the sweet eastern plant went from grazed to overgrazed. The children squabbled anew and gnawed, butts aloft and teeth at dirt level, at the remaining exposed stems of the eastern plant. They discovered they could no longer tolerate the fibrous western plants and came back to sit in the denuded eastern side and cried and cried among the remaining barren stalks, mixing tears with feces, until they expired.
And no one ever knew.
On birthdays but sometimes not, Ruth lived to fan out the jumbos with her thumb. The dirty work, of course, came first. Her fingers stiffened under the faucet as she extracted the dark, shiny string from the inner and outer curl. Her mother once taught her how to use cold running water to dislodge the grit, purge traces of the past.
Ruth had since developed a trick of her own, but only after the shrimp had been poached and chilled: a 3 to 1 ratio of ketchup to horseradish, lemon to parsley, and plate to mouth, her own mouth. For every three of the treats she spread out for guests, one went bang into the cakehole. All in the name of quality control, and anyway, it was the chef’s goddamn right.
Not that her daughter, out on the sofa, would care. She was the one who used to sneak in a few extras, even get swatted away, but since leaving home she had turned her back on shrimp. This from the same child who begged to inspect them for any slivers of shell the faraway laborers might have missed. Her more recent technique, sharpened with every visit, involved a grating Are you familiar with? right before the rant. The landmark study this. The cockroach of the ocean that.
Ruth was rinsing the last few when her daughter shuffled in to refill her boyfriend’s drink. As she pawed around in the freezer for ice, she asked if her mother knew that deveining actually described the removal of the garbage-impacted digestive tract.
Uncanny, Ruth thought, spotting a tangle of intestines – right there! – in the drain.
And was her mother familiar with the fact that the Bible wasn’t such a fan, to which Ruth muttered Amen! under the hiss of the tap.
But what Ruth wanted to know was why her daughter was so hell-bent on spoiling the cuteness of shrimp. They had every right to paddle along in oily, beaded waters – shimmy through someone else’s trash.
Her daughter leaned against the counter and waited. Ruth bladed her hand on the cutting board and pushed. The slack, fleshy clump blanched as it hit the surface, breaking apart in the churn. She would just have enough time to empty the sink strainer before yanking the shrimp from the heat.
Once, twice, she slammed the strainer on the trash can. Again, harder – the saucepan shuddered and spit. The knot of shrimp guts clung to the steel, and soon it would be too late. The water would seethe and foam, scorch the dead and all the witnesses, but she banged, kept banging, and willed the dark, shiny string to let go.
In the murky world where shadows blend into the even darker shades of espionage and international intrigue, David Bickford, with a past woven deeply into the fabric of British intelligence, unveils “Katya – The Informer.” This novel, marking the second foray into a gripping espionage series, plunges readers into the life of Katya Petrovna, a daring character who straddles the fine line between courage and recklessness. Petrovna’s journey from the Russian Federal Security Service to the heart of the G8 Intelligence Agency is more than a career shift; it’s a dive into a whirlpool of danger and moral ambiguity.
The essence of Katya’s story is her first assignment: to infiltrate a mafia-controlled casino on the Black Sea, a mission that promises to stretch the limits of her resilience and wits. As she navigates through layers of corruption and the terrifying underbelly of human trafficking, the narrative unwinds into a complex web where loyalties are tested and the price of failure could mean death. Through the character of Katya, Bickford not only crafts a tale of high stakes and suspense but also offers a window into the sacrifices and the often unseen battles fought by intelligence operatives.
David Bickford’s background as a former Director of MI5 and MI6 lends an air of authenticity and depth to the narrative. His intimate understanding of the inner workings of international espionage and counter-terrorism enriches the novel, making it not just a story, but a reflection of the real-world challenges faced by those in the intelligence community. The acclaim surrounding Bickford’s work is a testament to his skill in weaving complex narratives that are both thrilling and thought-provoking.
“Katya – The Informer” is not just a novel; it’s an exploration of the human spirit, of the lengths to which individuals will go to fight against the darkness. It’s a narrative that underscores the bravery of unsung heroes and the complexities of a world that thrives beneath the surface of what we see. In telling this story, Bickford invites readers to question, to reflect, and to admire the resilience of those who navigate the shadowy corridors of espionage, making sacrifices that often remain unrecognized. This is a tale for anyone captivated by the allure of spy fiction and intrigued by the moral dilemmas that come with defending one’s country from the shadows.
No single mistake was fatal on its own, so no one person could be blamed. The errors and misjudgements were each small, understandable, and evenly distributed.
It was Catherine’s doctor who’d predicted that after two late births, the third was unlikely to be premature.
It was her husband who’d checked the morning wildfire reports and confirmed their home was safe, but been in a business meeting when news broke that an unpredicted diablo wind had changed the blaze’s course.
It was her technophobe mother who’d left her own cellphone in her car, then knocked Catherine’s charger out while tidying, so that the battery drained and her husband’s warning calls from the city went unheard.
It was Catherine who’d dismissed the first mild contractions as cramp, drawing on memories of her previous induced and agonising births.
A few minor missteps, that was all, right into the snapping jaws of disaster.
When her waters broke, Catherine understood her mistake. The baby was coming a month early.
Rushing through the front door to go to the car, her mother froze, as if someone had paused a movie. They both stared at the black smoke pluming on the horizon, where the only road from the cottage led.
After a brief, frantic discussion they decided to drive. Maybe the smoke wasn’t near the road, perhaps that was a trick of the wind.
Her mother’s cellphone was where she’d left it, still charged and flashing missed calls. As her mother drove, Catherine called her husband back, fingers fumbling, but after a long silence in her ear she checked the display and saw no signal. She surrendered to the panic clawing at her throat.
That earnest young man who’d visited last year to talk about wildfire preparedness had said cellphone towers were fireproofed to withstand all but the fiercest blazes. What else had he said? Why couldn’t she remember?
They were cresting the hill overlooking the next valley when they saw the fire, vastly wider than the road it had swallowed whole. It was a glowering orange wall: angry, hungry, racing. Even from a distance, its heat pushed through the windshield glass.
They u-turned, her mother babbling that help would come, everything would be okay. Catherine didn’t talk at all. She needed to think, be sharp, but then a contraction scattered her thoughts like pins in a bowling alley.
Back inside the cottage, her mother scurried, closing windows and doors. Catherine lay on her back on a rug by the bay windows and looked to the skies. Last year, she’d seen news footage of helicopters rescuing people from fires somewhere nearby. They’d be coming now. They were not on their own. Nobody was alone in the 21st century, not with all their technology, all their devices.
The next contraction came with teeth and in pain’s red flare, Catherine didn’t argue when her mother asked her for the fourth time to please – please, please – take painkillers. Catherine didn’t know how safe they were for her or the baby, but if the pain went away she’d be able to think. Not thinking seemed the most dangerous thing possible right now.
A new contraction attacked – rows of teeth this time, like a shark – and Catherine’s brain curled into a protective ball. She gripped her mother’s hand, surprised by its boniness.
The contraction retreated, the oxys kicked in, and Catherine’s mind calmed and cohered enough for clear thoughts to march through. Thank God the other kids’ school was far away. Her husband would have alerted the authorities. Help was coming.
A tendril of black smoke drifted by the window, finger-shaped, as if pointing the way for a terrible, huge beast to follow.
She could feel how close the baby was. Not now, she thought. We’re not ready.
A memory floated into her mind, something a friend once said. He’d been talking about growing up with abuse, his struggles to leave it behind. “If a baby’s born in a house on fire, it thinks the whole world is on fire,” he’d said, quoting something. “But it’s not true.”
But what if it was true? Not just for her baby. For all of them, all the babies born into a world slowly catching fire. The babies delivered into murderous heatwaves in India, remorseless floods in Libya, devouring blazes in Australia. For the first time, those people weren’t faraway abstractions on half-watched news items. She felt connected to them, one vast family scattered over continents.
Then something shifted inside her and this pain was savage enough to rip through the oxy haze and the baby was coming and all thoughts returned to the brute here, the brute now.
Help will come, Catherine told herself again, even as a smoke twilight fell over the house and she couldn’t see the sky any more.
June, 2015
Sarah woke to green plowing seas outside their balcony, rather than the bustle of the port of Kusadasi, Turkey, as she had expected. She climbed back into the soft king-sized bed with Adam, her husband of four days, and watched the shifting rainbow water patterns on the ceiling of their cabin, felt the vibration of the engines and the gentle movement of the ship.
“For some reason,” she said, “we aren’t in port yet.”
“Good,” said Adam drowsily, draping an arm across her waist, and reaching up under her sexy new nightgown. Sarah turned toward him, her senses blooming awake, with a sharp pull of desire. She touched her lips to his, first gently, then with more urgency. They pulled closer, feeling the exquisite joy of being skin to skin.
Later, as she floated, wrapped in Adam’s arms on a cloud of pleasure, a bell sounded over the ship-wide intercom. She swam with difficulty back to consciousness.
“Attention passengers,” came the Scottish brogue they had come to know so well that week. “This is your captain, Martin Stewart. I would like to make you aware of an occurrence last evening. At about four o’clock we saw people in a small craft on our starboard side, waving, in obvious distress. We turned back. We took them on board and they are presently in our infirmary receiving medical attention. There are six men and one woman. We will take them to safety in the port of Kusadasi, and you will be free to go on with your excursions to Ephesus, delayed only by an hour or so.”
Their captain hesitated, then continued. “Safety at sea in is our first priority in the navigation service so you must understand that this was required.”
This was required. He said it with a clipped finality. The intercom clicked off.
Curiosity and excitement filled Sarah. They had migrants on board!
Both her parents and Adam’s had been alarmed about all the Syrian refugees risking their lives to escape the Syrian Civil War and get to western Europe, and tried to dissuade them from honeymooning in the Greek Isles.
“It’s not safe,” Sarah’s mother had insisted during one phone call. “All the news reports have said that the Greek Isles are inundated. And those people are desperate!”
But Sarah had always yearned to see the Greek Isles. She’d never even been on a cruise. Besides, they could face sudden death in the U.S. by simply driving down their own city’s streets. Was it so much more dangerous on the other side of the world? And would it hurt them so much to see people whose circumstances were less favorable than theirs, to learn first-hand how lucky they were?
Sarah burrowed deeper into the silky sheets and let herself drift. She envisioned the migrants sitting in the captain’s quarters, freshly showered, and wearing white fluffy robes, eating their fill from the midnight buffet and being serenaded by the dining room pianist playing show tunes. She let the movement of the boat rock her back to sleep, but ended up having fitful dreams about the minister and rabbi having a polite debate about forgiveness only minutes before jointly marrying her and Adam. Then she woke to real memories of her parents’ equally polite but hesitant acceptance of their whirlwind courtship and marriage.
“What about your children?” her mother finally asked.
Children seemed so amorphous, so far in the future. Surely all of that could be worked out later. Surely everything was insignificant compared to Sarah and Adam’s desire for each other.
Sarah was drawn to the boisterous warmth of Adam’s family; they welcomed her with open arms. She loved the rituals and holidays, the emphasis on family. Then at the last minute, one of Adam’s orthodox cousins refused to come to the wedding, citing the impossibility of consuming non-kosher food.
“What, are they only coming to eat?” Adam complained, insisting that religion wasn’t important to him. It was important to Sarah, though; she prayed regularly and enjoyed going to the Methodist church, feeling God’s forgiveness as the music washed over her, and being inspired by the minister’s sermons to try to be kind and live a better life. Adam probably wouldn’t care if she continued to go. In all honesty, they had never discussed it.
They met, fell into bed on the third date, and knew within a few weeks that they wanted to be married. Adam claimed that he knew the first night he met her.
In the end, everyone came, except the cousins who kept kosher. At first Sarah had enjoyed choosing which wedding traditions to keep –such as a chuppah and a wine glass to honor Adam’s family. She’d taken pleasure in having the “Lord bless you and keep you, may He make his face to shine upon you, may he be gracious unto you, and give you peace” prayer shared by both Judaism and Christianity. But then the minister had used the wrong prayer, the one used only by Christians, and Sarah wasn’t sure if it was on purpose or not, but there in the middle of her own wedding she found herself gritting her teeth and nearly strangling her bouquet. By the time it was over, she’d been just as relieved as Adam and wished they’d eloped or just gotten married in some vineyard by a friend with a newly minted officiant’s license from the Universal Church of Whatever.
“Attention passengers.” Captain Stewart’s deep Scottish voice cut into her thoughts. Sarah opened her eyes. “We have learned that the Turkish authorities will not accept these individuals, as they were picked up in Greek waters. So we will turn around and go to the Greek island of Samos a few miles from here where we will deliver them to the proper authorities. This will result in a delay of your excursions of about three hours, but be assured we will allow extra time for you to return to the ship at the end of the day. Thank you for your patience and understanding.”
So Turkey would not accept the migrants. Those poor souls must be feeling such panic and fear. Then, she had a more selfish thought: Would their Ephesus tour guide wait for them? It was one of the places she’d most wanted to see. One of her well-traveled friends had told her the ruins were magnificent. An entire ancient city, painstakingly uncovered and preserved to a level that overshadowed Pompeii. Would she give up seeing it in exchange for the migrants’ freedom?
Sarah climbed out of bed, slipped on the new bathrobe that matched the sexy nightgown, and made her way out onto the narrow balcony to see if she could see anything. Once outside, the whistling wind caught her hair and sleeves. She gazed at the shifting sapphire water below, and the faint emerald line on the horizon that must be the coast of Turkey.
“We’ll just miss a few hours of those ruins in Turkey, right?” Adam, awake now, propped himself on an elbow in bed.
“Just those ruins? That’s one of the things I wanted to see the most!”
“Hell, you see one pile of rocks, you’ve seen them all,” Adam, grinning, shrugged into a T-shirt and joined her on the balcony.
“Adam! You’re teasing me, right?”
“Yes,” he said, putting his arm around her. Then, “No. I really do hate ruins. Do you care if I just stay on the ship and catch some rays?”
Sarah glared at him. “You’d let me go ashore in Turkey by myself?”
“You wouldn’t be by yourself. There would be three thousand people from our ship with you.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, then changed the subject. “Imagine what it would be like to be in a tiny overcrowded boat out there in all that water,” she said. That heaving, bottomless water. “Being so desperate to get to a new country.”
Adam leaned against the railing. “My great-grandfather was illegal. He came over with his younger brother Max hiding in the engine room of a cargo ship. He was about fourteen.”
Sarah turned to look at Adam. She loved the deep blue of his eyes. He was the only one in his family who had them. “Really?”
“Yeah, it was just after 1900 sometime, I’m not sure exactly, during the Russian pogroms in Latvia. My great-grandfather was the oldest of seven boys, and they were kidnapping Jewish boys and making them march at the front of the Russian army. So his parents sent their two oldest sons to America.”
“They sent the boys by themselves. To a new continent.”
“Yeah. They gave some guy money to bring them food but the guy took the money and spent it on booze and never brought them anything to eat. So, they were hiding in the engine room for something like three days. They licked the condensation off the engine room pipes to survive.”
“Oh, those poor boys. So, what happened?”
“My great-grandfather used his shoestring to scratch a note on a piece of paper they found, and dropped it down when someone walked by below. The guy picked up the note, then wadded it up and threw it down, and he realized the guy couldn’t read!”
“Oh, no.”
“Right, and so then they had to wait hours until finally another guy came and found the note and brought them some grapefruit juice. And then he smuggled them off the ship when they landed, and they eventually found their way to New Jersey.”
“That’s an amazing story.” Sarah thought Adam’s family had a much more difficult and interesting past than her own, with her mother’s grandfather immigrating legally from Italy, and her father’s great-grandfather coming over from Wales after the slate mines closed. She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead and leaned back against him, admiring Adam’s family all the more.
Adam shrugged. “Probably a lot of people have stories like that.”
An hour later, Sarah stood on the balcony as their ship dropped an anchor the size of a minivan a quarter mile out from the small, anvil-shaped port at Samos. A smoky-looking mountain rose in the near distance. Many of these islands did not have ports deep enough for the cruise ships and visitors had to take tenders from ship to shore. Since they hadn’t originally planned to go to Samos, Sarah had looked it up in the book on the Greek Isles she’d bought for the trip.
“You’ll be fascinated to know that Samos was the home of Aesop,” she told Adam, who was sitting in the easy chair watching the cruise channel on TV.
“As in the fable of the tortoise and the hare?” Adam’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.
“Yes. And it says here he was a slave. I never knew that.”
“Me, either.”
A tender with the blue and white Greek flag flapping bravely in the wind began to putter out toward them from the port. Greek soldiers in their blue hats and gray uniforms stood on the dock.
She and Adam stood on the balcony, gently buffeted by the constant ocean breeze, and watched the dogged approach of the tender as the brilliant sun sparkled on the azure, nearly translucent water.
The tender tied up by the forward door and, while Sarah and Adam and dozens of other passengers watched from thirteen floors of stacked balconies, the white-clad cruise crew escorted the migrants onto the tender. The migrants did not wear the fluffy robes of Sarah’s imagination, but bright orange life vests, and an assortment of hoodies, jeans, and camouflage cargo pants. The one woman wore a light purple hijab. Several carried backpacks, while one simply carried a black trash bag, stuffed full. One of the men wore red low-top Converse sneakers. The people were talking and gesticulating, but because of the wind it was impossible to hear them.
As the tender pulled away from the ship, some of the people on the balconies began to applaud, as if they were witnessing something good and right.
Sarah clapped, too, but then saw that Adam wasn’t.
“Our giant cruise ship gave these migrants a ride for a few hours,” said Adam. “Sure, we’re a bunch of heroes.”
Sarah’s cheeks burned at the thought of having applauded when Adam disapproved of it. Yet a desire to defend herself arose.
“I was admiring the bravery of the migrants,” she said. “And some of the cruise ships don’t even pick them up. They sail right by. Or sail over them. At least Captain Stewart picked them up. And helped them. Like that guy helped your great-grandfather.”
Adam didn’t answer. They watched in silence as the tender carried the exhausted, huddled people toward shore, where Greek soldiers waited. The migrants nearly fell out of the tender onto the cement dock in their joy and eagerness.
Then Sarah felt the deep rumble as the captain began to raise the anchor and the faint vibration as the massive engines re-engaged. In a matter of moments, the port of Samos began to slide away.
A few hours later Sarah and Adam disembarked at the port of Kusadasi and found their guide, a handsome, impeccably dressed, dark-haired young Turk holding a placard saying “Sarah.”
“I am Emir.” He did not smile. He shook Adam’s hand first, then Sarah’s.
“I’m sorry we’re so late,” Sarah said. “I assume the staff told you what happened?”
“Yes.” He gave her an annoyed look. “Please to come along to the car.”
Sarah felt uncomfortable; already she knew Adam didn’t want to be here. And now clearly their guide was displeased by their tardiness. This did not bode well for the day. Sarah and Adam hurried so as not to lose the back of Emir’s fine leather jacket in the crowd of tourists as he walked briskly toward the street, clogged with cars and minibuses cutting from lane to lane, blowing horns. He introduced Ali, the driver of a shiny black car, and they hopped into the back seat and scooted off through the busy, meandering streets, ripe with the smells of gas, leather and kebabs.
“The city of Ephesus used to be on the coast of the Aegean, but because of silt accumulation, after centuries, there was no water access, and the city was abandoned. So now water is two miles away,” Emir explained as they wound through Kusadasi. On the outskirts of town, he pointed to massive columns along the road. “These were part of the aqueduct that was built by the Romans, one of the most advanced of the modern world.”
When they arrived at the ruins, Sarah could see a long road lined with tall, imposing stone edifices.
“Ephesus was originally a Greek city founded ten centuries B.C. Over the centuries it has been conquered by Alexander the Great, later the Romans, destroyed by the Goths, later by an earthquake, and finally conquered by the Ottoman Turks.” Ali stopped the car and Emir jumped out. “See you in three hours, Ali.” Emir slapped the top of the car.
“Ok.” Ali zipped away as soon as they climbed out.
“We will enter here,” said Emir, pointing to the gleaming white stone road. “Please to be careful of your steps. The ruins of Ephesus were discovered in 1874 by John Wood, a British archeologist.” Emir led them down the long street, stopping to show them the Temple of Hadrian, the terraced homes on the slopes of the hill that were occupied by wealthy Romans, and the famous Library of Celsus, with its regal columns. The blazing sun bore down on them and the white stones gleamed. Sarah could not shake the feeling that Emir was rushing them. They walked farther down the street, where Emir pointed out a row of what looked like very public stone toilet seats.
“What would you think these are?” he asked.
“They look like toilets,” Adam said.
“This is correct. These were toilets for the men. They would sometimes have their slaves sit on the toilets to warm them before they sat there.”
“What about the women?”
“Behind a tree,” said Emir, with a quick grin.
Sarah drew in her breath. It was thousands of years ago, but still.
As they made their way farther along the street, Emir pointed out ancient stone food stalls that were, he said, “the Roman equivalent of McDonald’s.”
At the bottom of the hill, they took a turn and came to a field edged on two sides by the remains of what seemed to be merchants’ stalls.
“This is the Jewish section of Ephesus, where the merchants had their stalls. Ephesus was considered a socially advanced city, where strangers were allowed to integrate.”
“Nice of them,” Adam said with a dry chuckle.
“The apostle Paul lived in Ephesus for three years,” Emir went on. “He originally was a member of the synagogue, but later moved his teachings to a church.”
“Oh – I remember — the letters to the Ephesians in the Bible.” Sarah vaguely remembered studying Ephesians in a college course.
“Yes,” said Emir.
She glanced at Adam but he had a blank look. Oh right — Ephesians was in the New Testament. She searched her memory from her class. “I think Paul wrote the letters to the Ephesians from prison in Jerusalem. In the letters Paul said that Jesus’ teachings brought down the walls dividing people and promoted peace.”
Adam shrugged. Sarah realized that she believed this and Adam didn’t. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck.
“Paul had converted many citizens of Ephesus to Christianity,” said Emir. “And it was hurting the business of the artisans who sold the silver statues of Artemis. There was a kind of riot, and he had to leave town. I am Muslim so I do not know any more about Paul.” He headed down the road toward the next group of ruins.
“Religion!” said Adam, as he and Sarah followed Emir. “Every war ever fought was caused by religion.”
“That’s not true!” Sarah said. “I think people use religion as an excuse for wars, but they’re really caused by greed.”
“All religion does is divide people!” Adam shot back, veering away from her.
“Well, religion was made up by mankind, so of course it’s not perfect, because people aren’t perfect,” Sarah said. Sweat was now running down her temples and ribcage as she walked. “But don’t you believe that God is still God?” She heard a new shrillness in her own voice.
“I don’t believe in God.” Adam walked ahead of her and caught up with Emir.
Sarah stood in the dusty road. He’d told her religion wasn’t important to him. He’d never said he didn’t believe in God. Cold shock jolted the center of her chest.
There suddenly seemed to be a chasm between them, when just this morning she had never felt so close to a person.
She caught up with Emir and Adam at the foot of an enormous ancient open-air theatre. She suddenly felt very tired.
“It seated twenty-five thousand,” said Emir. “Do you have any questions at this point? Since we were delayed, I will give you only the highlights of the rest of the site.”
Sarah felt a rise of indignation. “The delay was no fault of our own,” she said.
Emir immediately became very animated, gesturing with his hands. “The captain should never have picked up those migrants! It is up to the captains, they make the decision, and they think they are doing something good, but now see how it affects everyone! I had another tour later today which I must reschedule. It affects my livelihood. We have thousands of migrants in our country. Turkey is completely overrun. They cannot work, they cannot contribute to our society. They are nothing but a drain. It’s an affront to law-abiding citizens of Turkey!”
Sarah and Adam both stared at Emir with open mouths.
“Some people in the U.S. feel the same about immigrants,” said Adam.
“I hadn’t thought about how the delay affected you, or how the migrants affect the citizens of Turkey,” Sarah admitted to Emir. “But still, those people needed help.”
“Outsiders do not understand our situation here.” Emir turned abruptly and walked toward an open area he described as the agora, or marketplace. As she and Adam followed Emir, Sarah found herself wanting Adam to take her hand, but he didn’t. In a robotic, hurried voice Emir pointed out the ruins of the temple of St. John, and then the scanty remains of what was once the Temple of Artemis, once considered to be one of the Seven Wonders of the World. “Artemis was the goddess of chastity, the moon, and the hunt. This temple was thought to be originally four times the size of the Parthenon,” he ended.
It was clear to Sarah that Emir had made up his mind to truncate their tour and there wasn’t going to be anything she could do about it. She glanced at Adam and saw that he was bored, anyway; as far as Adam was concerned, the shorter the tour, the better.
“Now, do you want to go to the house of the Virgin Mary?” Emir said. “It will take approximately one hour. It is on top of that hill.” He pointed to a small mountain in the distance, then glanced at his watch.
“No,” said Adam.
“Yes!” said Sarah.
Emir glanced at Adam and then at Sarah with exasperation.
“Yes, I do,” Sarah said. “I read about it. There’s a wishing wall there, Adam, where people write down their prayers and wishes for the Virgin Mary. I wanted to do that.”
Adam and Emir shared a look.
“We’ll never be here again!” Sarah said with desperation in her voice.
Not far from Ephesus, at the peak of a small mountain, stood the House of the Virgin Mary. Sarah had read that it had possibly been built for Mary by the apostle John. The small stone house had been converted into a one-room chapel with a stone altar, a statue of Mary, and a Turkish rug on the floor. Sarah had read that Mary lived here from the time of Jesus’ death until the time of her assumption, sometime, possibly, between 43 A.D. and 50 A.D. Three popes had visited this chapel.
Sarah stood inside the dark, candle-lit chapel for a few minutes, quietly admiring the gentle, gracious statue of Mary. She’d left Emir and Adam outside waiting, Emir focusing on his cell phone, Adam drumming his fingers on the picnic table. Now she watched as an elderly man and wife, holding hands, went to the altar and lit a candle. The tiny flame leapt toward the shadowed ceiling. Sarah didn’t light a candle; she wasn’t sure but wondered if one had to be Catholic to light one. One of her Catholic friends said she lit a candle for her mother in every chapel and cathedral she visited. Sarah watched the way the elderly couple moved together in synchronous harmony, and wondered how long they had been married and for whom they were lighting their candle. It seemed so clear that they shared a faith.
She gazed at the statue of the virgin for long moments, trying to absorb peace and love from her. At last, reluctantly, she turned to go.
Outside, Adam and Emir rose to their feet as she exited the chapel. Adam looked at his watch. But Sarah still hadn’t made her wish at the wishing wall. The stone wall, seven feet tall, was covered with thousands of scribbled paper prayers. The white papers had been wedged in between the stones and had clung there through sun and wind and rain, blooming like a profusion of fluffy white flowers covering every inch of the surface. Sarah stood still and drew in her breath, taking in the yearning and nearly holy beauty of it. She carefully framed a picture with her phone because the image was one she didn’t ever want to forget.
In a small alcove in the wall were pencils and papers. She held up an extra paper for Adam. “Make a wish, Adam,” she called.
He shook his head.
She watched the elderly couple together wedge their wishes into a chink in the wall, their gnarled fingers touching, and then she scribbled her own.
The male body is an object of fascination in Breaking Kayfabe, Wes Brown’s shapeshifting autofiction on his unlikely career in UK pro wrestling. We begin with the narrator as a child observing his sleeping father, the real-life 1970s wrestling legend ‘Sailor’ Earl Black. Wes looks down on “the wreckage of his body,” his “washed up bulk.” One leg is fused stiff, part of his spine is missing, his “muscular canvas” is painted with faded tattoos, and his teeth float in a glass of water.
Brown poignantly captures the dual sensation of awe and disgust which the child feels on seeing old bodies. Through these eyes there is something mythic and heroic in the broken body. Only an adoring son could see this type of masculinity and dream of becoming it – which, of course, Wes does.
Men’s bodies in this book, like their minds, are battered and bruised, often intentionally. It illuminates the reality of the strange “mythic realm of wrestling”: men throwing themselves around for other people’s – usually other men’s – entertainment. Reading the book, you realise how little this type of masculinity is seen in modern literature and wider culture.
Skip ahead to Brown in his late twenties, after a stalled literary career and an identity crisis, and Breaking Kayfabe sees him live out the childhood dream of following in his father’s Spandex.
The product of four years of real-life wrestling, followed by four years of writing, this is an impressive and distinctive work. Its indie publisher, Hebden Bridge-based Bluemoose Books, is home to the 2019 bestseller Leonard and Hungry Paul by Rónán Hession and was the original publisher of Benjamin Myers’ Pig Iron, earning it glowing write-ups in The Guardian as “a small but mighty literary hit factory.” Brown’s book deserves to be among Bluemoose’s best read and most lauded of the year.
Breaking Kayfabe follows a familiar arc as Brown’s character goes on the journey from a rookie wrestler, or “strawb,” to becoming a UK champion, in the process cultivating his persona as a baddy, or “heel.” The bulk of the story is told in the backroom and in the ring at wrestling shows, with fight scenes which are dramatic, fun, and accessible, and depictions of Brown’s fellow wrestlers full of humanity and humour.
So far, so usual. But the text handles these wrestling tropes in such a considered, thoughtful way that it takes the reader deep into the subculture’s psychology; the effect is enthralling. Bodies sustain real injuries in staged fights. Outside of the ring, wrestling caricatures take over their hosts. To ask if wrestling is real or fake is to ask the wrong question. The right question is, why do we invest so much in fictions and what does it do us?
For Brown’s character, wrestling and writing are inextricable from his sense of self. He writes, “I was always convinced I was never enough and always had to reach to be something else, something that wasn’t me and that was the way to be successful.”
So, this is a book as much about writers and writing as it is about wrestlers and wrestling. Breaking Kayfabe is billed as Brown’s debut novel, but some will recall an ill-fated proto-debut in his early twenties. Ill-fated because he cultivated a “contrarian intellectual” persona which felt false, and he spent time on the literary circuit feeling like “a coward, an imposter” and “a liar, a bullshitter, a charlatan.” This is raw stuff. There is real honesty and pathos in the image: the lost young man who presents a façade to the world, feels a fraud, turns to drink, and implodes.
Contrast that with the assured and grounded writing on the page in Breaking Kayfabe. Brown cleverly allows the reader to draw parallels between the “Strong Style” he seeks in wrestling – a more physical, combative style compared to light-touch staging – and the strong style he aims for in writing. Brown never defines that literary ‘strong style’ for the reader, he leaves it on the page. But we are told that “I had lost faith in novelly novels. In their fake plots, fake events, fake characters.” The prose is no-nonsense, never elevated and overly stylised, nor style-less or macho. This is high-impact prose, unflinching, emotive, and crisp. The preciseness within sentences and across the whole structure is a credit to the writer and editors. And in a text where style constitutes identity, the author’s ongoing search to find their voice has never been so vital.
The parallels between wrestling and writing continue in the middle-lands of kayfabe and autofiction. In wrestling, kayfabe exists in a creative space between fake and real, as the wrestlers code of illusion; in literature, autofiction occupies that obscure place between fact and fiction, or within both. All this metafiction and autofiction could be wearying, if it wasn’t handled so adeptly and set within an irresistibly simple rookie-to-champion arc.
Wrestling drives the story in this book, it’s the source of the protagonist’s dreams and the stage for Brown’s philosophy on masculinity and much else. But he also invites us to see it as a foil, a MacGuffin. Alongside his “Earl Black Jr gimmick,” he writes of creative writing lecturing as his “Mr Brown gimmick.” Naturally, we wonder what constitutes his ‘dad’ gimmick, his ‘boyfriend’, his ‘son’ gimmick. The word gimmick, here, does some unusually heavy lifting in terms of the masks we wear. If every role and relationship in our lives is a mask of sorts, then what of our identity? He writes:
“It was becoming difficult to tell where I ended and Earl Black Jr began, but I didn’t care. I liked feeling his black blood in my veins, like a poison, a Venom symbiote I had invented, made up of parts of myself I had repressed.”
This brings us back to the point of men and their place in the world, or as Brown puts it, our “fictions of masculinity.” Brown writes objectively of how “macho was crude and backwards” and how wrestling gave some men the outlet to perform their fantasies of masculinity. Ultimately, the narrator journeys out of the myth, having come through his childhood awe, seen past the heroic image of his father, and decided that “I didn’t want to live with any more illusion than I had to.”
Brown navigates all this smartly in a fast-paced, entertaining read, leaving the reader with questions and impressions which last long beyond the final page.
Breaking Kayfabe by Wes Brown, Bluemoose Books, May 2023, 290 pages.
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The wall has come together over many generations. First, the flint base, a layer of fist-sized, glassy cobbles. Then stone, boxed chunks of it, the same sickly grey as the Chapel of Our Lady – or what’s left of it in that rubble pile, sprung all over with nettles and creepers, a few fields away. Next is brick: flat red Tudor tiles, sandwich-thick, and ruddy Victorian kiln-fired brick, mottled and liver-spotted with age. Cement-and-rubble-patches plug gaps where the wall has narrowed and sunk. The top is banked up with whatever’s come to hand: shingles of slate, bottles, broken pot. This is not a wall for scaling.
The wall is stitched together with ivy: not so much a climbing plant as a tangle of limbs branching and pushing through the mass. The stems are thick as thumbs. At the base of the wall, the foliage is so dense it’s impossible to see where the plant begins. Layers and layers of suckers have scaled up and pooled back down, rooting themselves in the ground until a second wall, green and glossy and knitted with webs, stands before it. Both wall and ivy cladding are the work of ages.
The wall runs along the edge of the field, bordering part of Hill’s garden. It peters out at the crossroads just below the village, ending in a craggy line where a gate or archway once stood. Hill can see into the field from the upper rooms of the cottage. A thick steward margin stands on the far side of the wall, a wide belt of unploughed soil between the ivy tangle and crop line. Lines of glossy beet leaves crosshatch the field, the damp rows stalked by hunching rooks.
Hill’s garden shears swing long and low in one hand, nudging her shin. Though the ivy hasn’t been trimmed for years, at least there are no brambles. Those spiked limbs have made a season’s headway on the shed, hump-backing the roof with arches of thorn and ripping at the felt. But there are no brambles on or near the wall.
Where to start? Hill scuffs a boot at the lawn’s edge. The grass was knee-high beside the wall before Mr Bailey, the local odd-jobber who’d been helping out, agreed to trim it. Even then there were no brambles. No chickweed or thistles or dandelions. No alexanders. Not even bindweed. Nothing has seeded in the grass; nothing has taken root in the wall. The ivy is like a shield.
Mr Bailey wouldn’t tackle the ivy himself. Hill offered him an extra day’s work to do it, but he said it was best to give the wall a wide berth. Hill said she wanted to make a feature of the wall, and if part of the ivy could be cleared, she reasoned, at least at the near end, then something else could be grown against it. A clematis perhaps. Mr Bailey said that disturbing the ivy would do more harm than good and that if part of the wall should come down, it would be a job and a half to fix.
Hill does not wish to make a feature of the wall. It is hideous. Hateful. She wants to tear it down, knock through it, level it and skip the rubble. The top of the wall is little more than a spoil heap. It is not a scheduled monument; no regulations protect it. But she knows it’s impossible. The wall abuts the field and she would need permission from the farmers to clear and replace it, agree the details of demolition and removal, arrange access for trucks in the field, compensate for any damage or inconvenience.
For now, she can only tackle the ivy, but it’s a start. It isn’t safe to take a strimmer to it, not with all those loose stones and the possibility of hidden glass or metal. It’s the shears or nothing.
Hill gets to work.
The keys have been theirs for a week now. A lot of the furniture has gone. Hill has kept the pieces worth saving: the dresser, built to fit the space; the workmanlike kitchen table; the old fireplace and mantelpiece. The cottage is attractive enough and the setting rustic, even if the village is little more than a residential street now, the shop and single pub long converted to housing. Hill will pitch the place as a get-away, an escape from the bustle, a chance to return to a simpler life. The nearest decent supermarket is fifteen miles away but there’s a small town just up the road with a couple of cafes and a convenience store. There are footpaths to explore and a reservoir for fishing. Robert’s aunt employed a local cleaner towards the end, and Hill has already arranged with her to see to the place between bookings.
Robert is keen for the place to pay for itself; says it’s impossible they will ever live here. Hill has made improving the cottage her project: a place to exert her control, her taste. At first she pictured spending long weekends in the cottage, imagined rambling country walks around the lanes, returning to a casserole in the oven, a stack of logs and a pile of books to read. She saw herself alone here, lying in a bed heaped with blankets, listening in the dark to the creak of frost on the windows, the hoot of a tawny owl hunting. Robert did not feature in those fantasies. Robert did not exist outside the city.
Could she? The longer Hill is here, the more she misses the flat. Not the space itself, but the reassuring trappings of routine. Coffee from the deli at the end of the street. The bus grinding through morning traffic. The grim, silent camaraderie of the daily commute. She will not admit it, but perhaps Robert is right. Perhaps she is not cut out for the cultural privations of country living. But her job is soulless: pointless, purposeless. Her labour makes no discernible impact on the world. Who would care if she never returned? What difference would it make to anyone? She could stay here in the country and let it winnow her to nothingness.
Well, she is here now. She will shape the place and leave this trace of herself, if nothing else.
Hill hacks at the ivy for an hour or so. It’s hot work and every now and then she wipes sweat and dust from her eyebrows. Even so, she hasn’t made much of a dent in the foliage, just a shallow square. Her nose itches. She rubs at it with the back of her gardening glove, smells the bitter crushed juices of ivy, acrid on soft leather.
She’s given up looking for the base of the plant. Anything above chest height will eventually come down when she cuts through the lower layers. She’d hoped to tug out some of the length as she went, cutting the ivy off at the waist and reeling it towards her, but the tangle is so dense she can’t pull anything free. Instead, she is barely sculpting it.
Hill steps back from the puddle of glossy leaves at her feet. Maybe if she waits, the severed lengths will dry out and come free. A week or two of weather might see to it. She studies the thick cobwebs in the flint of the wall: for all these nests, she has yet to see a spider.
Hill tests the depth of the ivy with her arm. She can’t quite reach the stone of the wall, but she’s close. She wiggles her gloved fingers towards it. There’s something small and white in there, resting, just to the right and out of reach, between two stone blocks. Not resting – hanging, suspended in the ivy. Something about the size of a ping pong ball. Hill retreats to pick up her shears and presses back into the mass, parting the curtain of foliage with the tool’s long, scissored points. She wiggles a gap in the ivy wide enough to see the object clearly. A small bird’s skull.
The poor thing must have nested against the wall and died there. The ivy has pushed through an eye socket, threading a bead. Hill can see no skeleton; maybe there is only a head, the abandoned trophy of a cat kill. The cat must have left it on top of the wall and it fell down into the ivy. Or the plant, leafy fingers reaching, picked up the skull and carried it as it grew.
Hill is exhausted. Her head throbs from exertion and concentration. She sneezes; stretches; yawns. It’s already getting dark. She toes the shorn leaves together into a small pile and heads back to the house.
It takes Hill three days to make any kind of hole in the ivy. Robert is back at work, too busy to take more leave. It’s up to Hill to keep going with improvements on her own, which suits her just fine. There isn’t much she can do in the house yet, not until new furniture arrives. It makes sense for her to carry on working in the garden.
Hill feels the woozy fog of an impending cold: it’s typical she should get sick when using up precious holiday allowance. She must have disturbed an allergen of some sort too, because a raised rash has planted itself just above her wrist. The rash has tracked its way, dogged, day by day, along the inside of her right arm.
Hill’s nose streams and her breathing grows ragged. But the cold fresh air is surely good for her, so each day she works a little in the garden, hacks a little more at the ivy. At night she sleeps propped up against pillows, almost seated. Her dreams are gothic: of sinking into a thrashing sea; of dust and cobwebs and sheets draped over furniture. Of a living burial she cannot prevent, a distant rectangle of daylight above her, Robert’s face long and pale looking away as he scatters her with handfuls of soil and leaf mould. She wakes in the early hours, gasping, swollen-mouthed.
Robert calls on Thursday evening. He has a late finish the next day. There is so much for him to clear that he will need to work on Saturday. It hardly seems sensible for him to make the journey to the cottage, not just for one night. He would have to leave again on Sunday afternoon anyway. Hill listens. She holds the receiver away and breathes through her mouth. She does not want him to hear the crackling of her lungs, the thickness of her phlegmy voice, the unspoken suggestion of her not-coping. She hums responses: hmm, all is fine. Huh-hmm, she is making progress. Nuh-hmm, she doesn’t need him to be there.
He doesn’t want to come and she doesn’t need him hovering around, judging what she has or hasn’t achieved, expecting meals, criticising her decisions or her ragged, raw-nosed appearance. They are both keen to keep the call short.
The next morning, Hill stares at the wall through the kitchen window, sipping a mug of coffee she can barely taste. She is not making progress. She will not let him see that. She will not let this ivy defeat her.
Hill applies a layer of antiseptic cream to the rash on her arm. The red bumps are disturbing to touch, the feel of blood so close to the surface, the puckered skin rippling pale then blushing again as she rubs in the cream. The bumps have started to join together, clustering, converging, forming meandering tracks connecting dense constellations of blistering, fluid-filled crimson. The cream stings and sticks Hill’s prickling flesh to the inside of her shirtsleeve. It aches to raise her arm. But Hill is determined. She takes the heavy shears from their hook and returns to face down the wall.
In the late morning she finds a decaying mouse, hanging, like the bird skull, in a looped stitch of ivy. Another cat victim? As the light starts to seep away and the shadow of the wall spills into the garden she finds a dead rabbit, back foot caught in a snare of foliage. It has been there a while, the body parched and leathery, but patches of the underbelly fur and tail are still white in places, still heartbreakingly bunnyish and soft. It must have come from the field and squeezed through a gap in the wall. Did it get tangled and break its leg? Was it sick or wounded, holing up somewhere safe, buried in the dense green to escape a predator? Hill shudders as she cuts the ivy away from the small body and it falls, slight and loose, into a pile of trimmings. She fetches a spade, scoops the creature up, cradled in the wide cup of blade, and carries it to a flowerbed. She digs a hole beside a rhododendron and tips it in.
Hill coughs hard that night: a wet, wracking cough that makes her back and sides ache.
On Saturday morning her glands are swollen. She takes three paracetamol and wraps a scarf around her neck. She stands at the window and looks out at the wall, shifting, unsteady, from foot to foot. Her mouth tastes rusty, astringent. She spits into the sink and turns the tap on hard, looking away, terrified of the poisons exiting her body.
On Saturday evening, Hill finds a fox. At first she thinks it might be a cat, the villain responsible for those smaller kills, but then she sees the orange brush of tail poking through gaps in the plaited ivy. The plant has twined itself round and round the fox’s body like a child wrapping string around a parcel. She tugs at the encircling ivy with her shears. Part of it falls away and the fox’s head droops and swings. She turns aside and vomits onto the grass.
On Sunday morning, Hill’s right armpit is aching and swollen. She has trouble swallowing painkillers. She cannot raise the shears above knee height; cannot bear to remove the fox; cannot bring herself to work on the same patch of ivy. She snips at a low piece of foliage, skirting the grass. She coughs and coughs: and spits blood.
Fear pricks her. She bends over, hands on knees, pinpricks of light clustering in her vision. Standing again she drops the shears, rocks and sways.
Hill lists to one side, striking out her left hand to catch herself. Her gloved palm reaches into the mesh of ivy; through it; meets the wall. She hears the delicate crunch of contact; feels a tearing and searing ripple through her from wrist to shoulder to neck.
The numbing embrace of the ivy supports her torso, cushioning, drawing her in to rest. Her head swims as she sinks in, down, luxuriating. Dust and trapped pollen, soil and wood and sap-spice: she breathes it in, deep. Yes, she thinks, time to let go, time to make peace. She sees the shape of the cottage at the far end of the garden, blurring, beyond the ivy net. It will always be Robert’s cottage. But here it is soft, so soft and shielded beneath the lush dappling, not hostile and other but ageless, timeless. Vegetal. Yes, she will stay. It will always be there to console her, to keep her close to the wall and the earth beneath it; to hold her, comforting and containing, the shallow breaths of grit and greenness slowing, slowing, unfurling into leaf.
Jo entered the field of rough pasture following the footpath signs; the bus revved up negotiating the bends on the way down the hill behind her; then, silence, and the wind in her ears. She looked up at the low clouds and breathed deeply, leaning into the wind, relishing the flecks of rain on her face.
She recollected her husband’s words – “Why on earth do you want to go for a walk on a day like this?” – as if, of course, she was mad to think of it. She knew why, but found it hard to explain.
In the corner of the field an old grey horse shook his mane as if to scatter the moisture. Low grey clouds, chivvied across the sky by a sharp wind, changed shape as they went, fickle as hopes, formless as fears. She trudged up the slope, observing that the field was full of weeds – like those rooted in her marriage – as if fit only to turn an aged workhorse out to grass. Despite her hood the wind lashed hair into her eyes. At length, coming over the rise she was rewarded by the prospect of a green valley, with gently sloping fields bordered by trees. There must be a stream down there, she thought, though as yet she could not see it. Grateful to stretch her eyes over the landscape, she began to assess her route. Once, she had viewed the landmarks of her future – work, marriage, homebuilding, children – as part of a colourful journey laid out before her. Now those milestones were passed, her path seemed less clear.
The going would be easier on the downhill, she thought. But nothing was as easy as it looked. Negotiating prickly entanglements with some brambles, she pulled away, identified the muddy path, and sliding and slipping made her way down to the cover of a sighing wood. As she went, incidents which galled her sprang to mind, one after another.
“Why go out all the time?”
“Because I’m suffocating at home!”
She realised she was shouting. A quick glance around reassured her that no-one could have heard, except for a flicker of feathered rush to a further tree. She spied the red breast of a robin, pertly observing her from a safe distance. With one foot she scraped aside some of the dead leaves carpeting the ground. Then, from a dozen paces away she watched quietly, as the bird returned to forage in the exposed earth. She caught herself planning to tell Ray about the robin on her return.
She pictured him reading the paper, watching afternoon TV, while she attended her art classes, her voluntary shifts at the hospital shop. Activities which it never occurred to him to question while he was working, now had to be justified in an inquisition, belittling, by implication, her friendships and pursuits. Stung, she had once replied, “You should do more yourself, might take off a bit of weight,” and left the room to avoid seeing his face. Hating herself, and yet bursting with irritation, she wondered whether the task of understanding and accommodating their diverse requirements was always to remain hers alone.
Where she sat was sheltered, but the tops of the trees danced, as wildly as teenagers in a night club. She smiled at the memory. Ray had been a real mover; at seventeen, she had been bowled over by his grace and energy. He had not needed her then, with so many admiring female eyes upon him. But now – how could Ray possibly manage without her? Was she staying with him for pity then? Resolutely, she faced the fact that this was hardly adequate for an onward journey.
There was a rich, mouldy smell to the air; branching fungus grew on a long-fallen log. The smell of autumn she thought – a smell of sadness, or perhaps wistfulness; winter lay ahead. Pigeon feathers lay between the path and a low stone wall – the result of a tussle? Or a kill? She rose, finding that her hips ached for a while until she again settled into her stride, through the wood and out into the fields of grass and mown stubble.
Beyond the moving clouds she could see patches of blue sky. Suddenly the world brightened as sunshine turned the mown field to gold. She pushed back her hood and enjoyed the light breeze in her hair and the sensation that unexpected pleasure could still attend her journey.
At the next stile she sat for a moment in the warmth of the sun, watching the patchwork of rainclouds in their steady procession above, and then at the low hills ahead, still in shadow. Beyond them she knew the valley descended hundreds of feet before she would reach home. Now, reluctantly, she faced the fact that she must choose, whether to continue the long walk onward, or cut short her journey, turn back up the path and get the next bus. At a juncture like this Ray would normally reach a rapid decision and head off at a smart pace without waiting to see whether she were in tow or not. She thought about future journeys, and realised that it might be easier to take them on her own. The path passed under a solitary oak, her gaze wandering from the aged limbs spreading in unconstrained vigour to the four winds, up into the glimpsed heights of its rustling crown. Had she reached the heights, or perhaps the breadth, she was capable of?
She had almost decided to abandon the walk, turn back and head upwards, to regain the road before it rained again. She would choose a new path, another day. But she could hear the rush and trickle of hidden water. Beyond the stile, the grassy path ran alongside the stream, sunlight patterning the stones in its brown depths, reminding her of children with nets and jars; of Ray, patiently directing investigations, towelling shivering feet, retrieving slimy waterweed from the brook and setting up a tank with a water pump for the tadpoles in the kitchen. The grandchildren would soon be old enough to enjoy such expeditions.
Ray had spoken of making a pond in the garden. Charming as the tiny frogs had been, and magnificent their leaps out of the tank and onto the lino floor – occasioning shouts and screams in the chase for recapture – she thought a pond might be preferable to the kitchen for future hosting of amphibian life. Maybe other creatures would come, damsel flies and dragonflies. She pictured the dart and dance of shimmering wings. Ray loved invertebrates.
Perhaps in spring… She walked on, and the sunlight came and went. Soon she would again be in gloom. As the path began to ascend once more towards the lip of the valley, a spatter of rain against her face presaged a coming shower. From her pack she checked the map in its plastic cover, traced again her homeward route, and took out waterproof trousers, prepared as well as she could manage, for the rest of the journey.
Chris stirs in the doorway as the early light wakes him. It flows about him, grey and icy. The hip that he lies on is painful but if he shifts to the other side, within a few minutes that will be the same. Lying on his back is worst of all – colder, more exposed, the pain more widespread through his body. He drags a corner of the old blanket over his face, because although the night is difficult, it is more difficult to face the day. He tries to tuck another part of the blanket under his hip, but it will not reach so far. Pain has many shapes and colours, it has techniques and methods, ways and means. He sits up slowly and clumsily, starts to rearrange himself and his belongings. He takes his old trainers from the large carrier bag that is now his wardrobe, suitcase and cupboard; folds the tattered blanket that didn’t quite cover him, and stuffs it into another bag. He pulls out the chunks of old newspaper that he keeps there and stuffs them into his clothes and his trainers where they are damaged.
Chris looks carefully about him. Sometimes he finds bits of food left here in the doorway – a sandwich box, past its date but the contents still edible; a packet of biscuits once, unopened. But sometimes it is just old wrappings, or other rubbish: empty cigarette packets, empty cans,old bus tickets. A pool of vomit, oddly coloured and textured.
He can see a little of the sky from his doorway; he sees a fragment of silver moon there still. Later, the sky is layered, as if an amateur artist had wielded his brush – a long scarlet streak at the horizon, paler clouds above, dusky pink, lemon-green, silver-blue. He notices the colours there, thinks about their names, as if it was the artist’s paint-box.
It’s the best time now, in the early morning, before he is forced to seeonce more that everything close about him is soiled and shameful.
—
“Once upon a time, there was a little girl called Millie. Her real name was Melinda but everyone called her Millie because at first she was much too small for such a big name…” As he reads, the small face beside him changes from serious and intent to round and smiling. “Millie was very special, because she was born on Christmas Day, so that was a very very special day for her. And one year she had a very very very special Christmas present…”
The child presses into his arm, close against him. She is warm in her night-clothes, her copper-coloured hair still wet and dark from the bath.
“…It was from her Uncle Cuthbert…” The name causes a fountain of laughter, and she sits up straight again. “Daddy, there’s no such person as Uncle Cuthbert, you made him up!”
—
But Once upon a time was once upon a time – a time that seems hardly real to him these days, unreal as a child’s story, and long ago. A time before he lost his job, before the drinking, before the slow break-up of his marriage: or was it the job, break-up, the drinking? A time before the long depression, the sleeplessness, the lack of any escape from the problems and the worry, even at night, so that eventually, drink was all that helped. Though it was a brief escape only from the downward track that led to a deeper depression. The depression, the drinking; drinking, depression…
Eventually, after many long months, Emma told him what in some part of himself he knew already. “You’ll have to go, Chris!” She was forcing herself to speak, standing very straight, her back to the kitchen wall, hands clenched by her sides as if for a fight. He saw Millie there for a moment, he saw the same spirit, the same fight. “I tried my best,” Emma said, and he knew it was true. “But this is about Millie – I found her in tears the other day, curled up on her bed. It wasn’t the first time.” Emma had dyed her pale fair hair, he noticed, which was beginning early to turn grey – it was a bright, strong colour now, too bright, like a sunflower. Perhaps she was hoping to find someone else. She wanted another child, he knew, they’d been planning this together before things began to go wrong.
“You’re a waste of space!” she told him, angered by his silence. “Why don’t you SAY something, Chris? Why don’t you DO something, for heaven’s sake!” And still he could find no words to speak, no gesture to make.
“What have you got to offer us now?” Emma asked after a while, more quietly, after another silence, turning away from him – though he heard the tears in her voice when she spoke again. “I’m very sorry Chris – but I think you’ll have to find some place of your own. The sooner the better.”
She told Millie that she wouldn’t see her father for a while, he was going away. But the little girl cried desperately that last time as if she couldn’t stop. Chris could not forget those sounds, the hiccupping, choking sobs and then the hopeless calling.
He’d hardly seen Millie since then.
—
Chris takes very little space these days, and it is becoming less; he doesn’t waste it. He slept in the car for a while, but the windows were soon broken, and he left it where it was. After a few weeks it disappeared. He slept for a few nights on a bench in the park, until it became too cold. Once, he slept on a bus. Now, it is a doorway.
—
Slowly, Millie unwrapped all the paper and opened the big box. What could the present be?
Inside the box there was a beautiful pair of wellington boots, with stripes in all the bright rainbow colours, and just exactly her size! The box said that the boots were magic, but no-one understood why, except Uncle Cuthbert, and he wouldn’t say. After their Christmas lunch they all went out for a walk, and Millie wore the boots straight away because it was very wet and soggy in the wood near their house. It was cloudy and dull, the trees were bare, there were hardly any animals, no birds…
“Oh, I just wish there was something interesting to see around here!” she said to herself.
Then, suddenly, a most wonderful thing happened! It had grown quite dark, but there was silvery moonlight all around, and deep in the wood, Millie saw a lovely unicorn, purest white. Slowly, slowly, she came right out into a clearing, treading softly,and Millie could almost touch the silvery-white mane. And she thought it would be nice to climb on the unicorn’s back and ride with her through the wood and see magic castles and beautiful princesses, and many other wonderful things. She reached out her hand…
“Millie? Millie, where are you? We must go home now!” Mummy called, from somewhere else in the wood.
And everything was gone, all at once, in that second…
Millie wondered if she had just imagined it all. But there was a patch of silver beneath the trees where the unicorn had stood – or maybe it was just a little piece of moonlight that was left behind there.
—
Once upon a time was the past, his thoughts of home, and warmth, family, work; his plans for a future that wouldn’t really be too different – promotion, another child, a new house one day. He is almost forty now. He’d married late, not sure even that it would ever happen for him. He’d had a broken childhood, difficult years, and later, a few false starts; but Emma, then Millie, had changed that. And now everything was gone, all at once…
Autumn seems long ago to him too – the sky and the trees like gold in the mornings, the early frost silver, as if the world’s wealth lay before him. He’d hardly noticed those things then; he remembers them now. That was a form of magic too, maybe.
There is only grey damp and chill around him these days.
—
It is the women he sees here on the streets near to him who are the most pitiful. One has greasy dark hair, red skin, roughened and coarsened – she is like an old crumbling brick. There’s a young girl who rocks back and forth, her eyes blank. There are other men too; he knows that many of them drink, some take drugs at night – he knows the signs, the smells. He thinks about the hidden stories, pushed down like his own beneath the heavy weight of humiliation and failure, pride and guilt.
They glance towards each other, but quickly, furtively, assessingly; they avoid each other’s eyes. They only see themselves there, their eyes are mirrors.
In a shop window, a different mirror, Chris sees another man, his red-brown hair long and dark with dirt, an untidy beard; at first he doesn’t know who the man is, doesn’t recognise him.
—
A few pages of the little volume are almost torn out, a few are marked by Millie’s fingers, or by drops of juice or milk. He’d enjoyed working out the story – it was not so different from many others that he and Emma had read to her, of course, but the drawings and sketches he’d done himself. They’d been a little rough, but Millie had loved them. There were pictures of the family, of Granny and Grandpa, all of Millie’s life that was important. His office colleague, Jen, in the Print Department, had helped him put it all together.
Some of Millie’s own scribbles and drawings are there too, in the margins, or at the bottom of the pages. The book has her scent, the scent of a child – sweet and soft, creams and powder and bubble baths. Or perhaps that is just his memory, or his imagination.
—
A few of the public are generous as they pass, digging into their pockets or bags and handing out a few coins, with a few generous words to match: “There you go, mate. Take care now.” Once, he was handed a pair of gloves when it was raining and his fingers were cold and numb as they received the coins: “Better have these too, mate!” Another time, he found an old plastic mac left in his doorway, and he wondered who might have left it.
But other passers-by wear an embarrassed half-smile and hurry on: “Sorry” – and a quick shake of the head. Some avoid meeting his eye, while scanning the cardboard, the dirty blanket, the plastic bags, their faces disapproving or disgusted. Others skirt round him completely, looking straight ahead, or they cross the road, walking more quickly. Some, the worst, are aggressive: insulting, swearing or spitting. There was a gang of lads one evening, drunk, vicious, kicking and jeering. Chris is tall and fairly strong, and he managed to get rid of them: ways and means. He doesn’t drink so much now. He defends his territory.
A woman and her daughter walk by one day, and Chris recognises them – the little girl is a friend of Millie’s. She stares, pulling at her mother’s sleeve. The woman glances at him, then looks again sideways, sharply, not quite believing. She catches hold of the child, mutters something to her and hurries her quickly by. That is worse than anything she could have said, any insult; worse than a kick, worse than vomit.
—
“You have it, Daddy!” Millie said when he left. “I won’t need it any more, I’m much too big for it now! I want you to have it so you’ll think about me while you are away!” Emma tried to take the little book from her, but Millie was determined. She ran towards her father, her coppery hair wild; she pushed herself close, found his hands and folded them around the book. Then she rushed back into the house again, crying, banged the door shut.
Chris puts the volume under his head at night, between the old newspapers. The makeshift pillow is a little softer then. The words and pictures steal out from the pages and enter his mind; the child there tells her own stories to him and they become part of his thoughts and his dreams and help him to sleep.
In his bag, in the daytime, it is all that he has, and more real to him now than anything else– his memories of his child, the magical stories and pictures that he wrote for her – though he’s not sure now how he managed to write them – his hope that he’ll be with her soon again, somehow.The words are like leaves, like colours, the colours of Millie’s hair: like riches.
—
Then all at once it was the end of the Christmas holidays. Millie went for a last walk along by the river with Granny, and she had to wear the new boots again because it was still very wet and soggy. The sky was grey, and there was nothing to see, only a man in a boat rowing by who waved to them and called Hello.
“Oh, I just wish something interesting would happen round here,” she grumbled to herself. And then, suddenly, the river got wider, and the boat was a beautiful ship with tall white sails and a flag fluttering above the mast. Sunshine lay like a golden coverlet across the waves. “Ahoy there, shipmate!” the Captain called. “Welcome aboard!” And Millie sailed away with all the other shipmates, and she explored unknown oceans and distant lands, and found golden treasure on a faraway shore.
But as she was looking at the golden treasure and wondering if she could keep just a little bit for herself, she heard Granny calling from a long way away, but still quite clearly:
“Millie, where are you? We must go home now!” And everything was gone, all at once, in that second…
Millie wondered if she had just imagined it all. But there were some splashes of gold on the water where the ship had been, as if a little of the sunshine had been left behind there.
Chris looks about his cluttered, filthy doorway – it is strewn with cans and bags and litter blown in from the street,as if all his failures and mistakes are scattered around him. For children, he thinks, there are magicians and wizards to make things possible, to make wishes come true with spells and wands and potions; there are magic carpets, magic doors, magic boots even, so that somehow, children can have wonderful adventures – for a while at least. Magic is somehow, perhaps–a way to move into this different world which they cannot choose for themselves; more hopeful, more full of possibility, more exciting.
But for grown-ups it is not the same – there are no spells or magic carpets, no stories – at least, none that were written for him.
—
There are visitors: sometimes the police come, or drug addiction officers, or community support officers – any number of officers. “Come on now, mate, you know you can’t stay here…” Charity workers come – one brings soup at night, one brings a thicker blanket. Another, Terry, says that he will pray for him, that God still cares for him. Chris finds these things difficult, though the soup is easier to accept than the prayers.
He thinks about kindness and charity, about faith, and miracles – are they only needs and hopes and dreams?
Terry tells him they can help to find a place for him, help him find some work, start again. “You want to call round, Chris, we can talk you through things.” He drops some leaflets in the doorway. “You know where we are,” he says. “Not too far from here, over the other side of the park, across the road – there’s always someone there. We’ll see you through it, Chris, we’ll get you back on your feet again.” But still Chris cannot ask for help, he does not know how to explain or make excuses – all the thoughts he cannot speak remain heavy within him.
The trees were on fire to the end – glorious old soldiers, fighting their last battle, strong to the last, Chris thought. There were dark berries, as if the goodness of autumn, of all the year, was held there, like the last drops of red wine. In the park he could walk away from the world behind the mirror, the depression and the shame; when he was there he could feel that his life had become almost normal again – for a while at least. But the colours are gone now, the leaves are broken and black beneath the trees, trodden by many feet.
And it is too wet for him to walk there now, his old shoes have fallen apart, letting in the mud and rain.
He wonders briefly when Christmas will come – he supposes it must be soon.
—
He is shivering with cold in his doorway, coughing and shaking. As he tries to prepare for the night he thinks of Emma, of the home they shared, the little kitchen, warm and clean, the plans they had for their future; the tears in her voice when she spoke to him last. He touches the small, worn book beneath the newspapers, the magical stories that he wrote for Millie, stories that she loved and gave to him again when he left. He holds it close to his body, huddled and trembling. December stretches endless before him, a trial of endurance in a bleak, bare place. Perhaps this doorway is where it will all end; he cannot walk any further, and there is no other place for him.
He reaches for a bottle, drains it.
—
It is after midnight when he begins to stir again, the moon risen high and full. There is a rough package in the corner behind his head, left there while he slept – at first he hardly notices it among the refuse and the bags. He twists round, manages to sit and open it, only half-awake, his hands still shaking.
—
It is a pair of boots. Ankle-boots: they are a little worn, but solid, plain, real. He lifts them from the package. There is a stripe of faded colour around the heel, and they seem to be the right size, somehow; the soles are firm as he touches them.
There is a patch of silver moonlight in his doorway still. Chris sees the leaflets in the corner there, and he hears Captain Terry as he calls: “Ahoy there, shipmate! Welcome aboard!”
He wonders who might have left the package.
—
Maybe he will get to the park again, after all, if it is not too cold tomorrow – but it seems a long way to him now, and the path beyond, slower and more uncertain. The moonlight has gone, and in the darkness he faces himself and his future: he doesn’t know how he will find his way back, nor how long it might take. He is still shaking, sleepy and confused. Perhaps, after all, it would be easier to stay here, in this doorway – it is more difficult to climb uphill; easier always to slip back downwards.
—
Later, when he has woken fully, he sees drifts of cloud from his doorway– the colours of dawn, smoke-blue, dusty rose, but becoming slowly clearer, sometimes brighter, always changing: the magic of a winter sky.
And he turns, starts to arrange his belongings, clearing away the rubbish, folding the blanket.
He reaches for the boots and pulls them on.
Just next to a football ground and the wide, cobbled yard where men would queue on Saturday for the turnstiles, there was a boundary fence to railway tracks five metres below. There was a hole in that fence, but on a Monday there was no security camera to monitor the crowd, and no fans to witness trespassers on the railway. If there had been a recording it could have been analysed and many lives would have taken a different course. It would have shown two boys slipping through the fence to take a short cut to school; one slightly taller, the other with darker skin. They both wear school uniforms but their trousers have different patches, there are scuffs on the taller boy’s shoes and his school bag is much smaller. As they pass the railway sidings they point to an old guard’s van – a brake van – parked up, probably beyond its useful life. The taller boy runs towards it and mounts the platform, the shorter boy gesticulating to go: they need to go to school. If there had been a camera, and it had zoomed in, it would have seen the boy on the guard’s van laughing as he turns the brake wheel, while the other boy walks away as encouragement to follow. But the taller is now making history, not just a story to brag about to his friends.
If there had been a camera it would have picked up that the guards van is now moving down the incline towards the main tracks. The shorter boy, agitated and confused in his movements, waves his arms at the other to get off the wagon. But it is too late. The event is under way. Still laughing, the boy jumps of the wagon and runs away. The shorter boy starts to walk towards the van, hesitates, then also runs away. The back of the brake van slowly disappears left out of the camera frame, just as a local train arrives from the right of the screen. As it too leaves the screen the camera shakes on its mountings and after a few seconds of fog the image disappears.
But there was no camera, no footage to be used at the accident enquiry, no witnesses to the event, just an engineer’s report that recorded that the brake van was old and should never have been stored in the disused cattle market sidings.
The football ground is now gone, replaced by a large supermarket and car park. Next to the entrance, just below a CCTV camera, there is a bronze plaque commemorating the train crash: the serious injury of 23 people and four deaths. One, Kevin Harvey, was 3 years old, his mother, Lorraine, only 22. Kevin’s twin, Mhairi, survived profoundly disabled. The driver, Jim Reid, lost both legs in the accident and took his own life a few months later. That was all twenty years ago.
Twenty years to the day, Platform 4, Queen Street Station, Greg steps off the train. It is just after rush hour and the station is collecting off-peak travellers heading out of Glasgow. There are CCTV cameras on the concourse and in Vincent Street where Greg walks towards a tall office building. He passes sandwich shops, cut price retailers, shoe shops, and homeless people wrapped in stained sleeping bags on cardboard mattresses. A gap in the street reveals a church in a sterile precinct occupied by drinkers sitting on steps and benches, some prostrate on the damp cobbles. Customers are having breakfast in a café opposite the church, drinking coffee, checking diaries, wondering how so many men have got themselves into such a state. Greg has often been seen talking to the drunks and giving them money. He has listened to their stories of mental breakdown, crime, alcohol and drugs.
Standing, facing the church, with his back to the café, is a man with all the attributes of homelessness: there are stains on his trousers, and his woollen hat is shredded like it is trying to escape. The staff in the café recognise his jacket, a distinctive orange blanket with a Native American motif on the back. Local police would recognise it too as he is known to them for several affrays. There are two takeaway coffee cups in his filthy hands. He offers one to Greg, who it seems he has been expecting. They walk out of view near recycling bins. They talk, some assume, and reappear guiltily a few minutes later, with bowed heads.
In the lift of his office building, Greg looks at his reflection in the mirror: his dark eyes have become darker, he has added a beard in recent months and his hair has grown untidily to his shoulders. It needs washing. He can see why his friends are concerned. They worry about his marriage, that his wife has moved to live with her mother, that he is not moving on with his life, that he lives in cheap rented accommodation and has forgotten how to iron his clothes. They considered him a snappy dresser ten years ago. He seemed alive then. Now he walks as though he is pulling a reluctant mule or being followed by one.
But what is worrying Greg is not reflected in the mirror or what others can see on the outside. Greg’s issues are like the writing in a stick of rock, tightly wrapped, hanging in a seaside shop window. After twenty years the label is faded and the cellophane is unravelling. He knows what the writing says, all the way through. He is coming to a place that he always feared he would, ever since the train crash, ever since he married.
Trains to the Scottish village of Plockton come from Inverness or Glasgow. Either way, it’s a long, slow and beautiful journey to the remote village of only a few hundred inhabitants overlooking Loch Carron and the sea beyond. Plockton Station is small, unmanned, and served by four trains a day. It sits isolated in soft hills greened by the rain and sea air from the Gulf Stream. Clouds frame every view, like a proscenium to a painted world where soft mists mute the colours and smudge the lines. But no one is painting today. If there were, they would see a man, freshly shaven with short hair, alight from a train with a single bag. The man closes the door and squints myopic eyes. No other passenger alights. There is a woman on the platform. She waves and smiles. He waves back. If the painter looks carefully, walking towards the woman in the wheelchair to find more detail, they would see several rings on her left hand, including a gold band and a bracelet with her name – Mhairi.
The man walks towards the woman, puts his bag down, kneels down and hugs her. His head is in her lap.
If there were a painting of the scene hung in a gallery, we would see that the man is Greg. But what would be concluded from his weight loss, his visual decline, and his demeanour? He looks like he has been carrying a great weight that cannot be offloaded. A weight that drove his school friend to drug abuse, depression and homelessness. Is Greg in the final stage of a lifetime of silence, lies and guilt for Mhairi’s life of disability and pain? Should the painter add ghost figures to the context, a train driver, say, or a woman holding a small child?
The painter’s brush darkens the northern sky in the middle of the composition above the man kneeling like a penitent seeking absolution. Greg’s cheek bones are highlighted but his eyes are blank, and Mhairi is still smiling, obviously not knowing what he is about to say.
The painting could record a scene that the camera didn’t twenty years ago. Greg is telling Mhairi about a short cut to school and which boy unleashed the brake and which boy ran away.
Back in Cold-War Bucharest, when I was a young girl, there was a proverb that said “Christmas gorges, Easter’s gorgeous.” But to me Christmas was by far more gorgeous. Christmas was artifice, it was workmanship as opposed to nature, it required a careful assemblage of many small decorations and props, an entire luminous stage set erected in a corner of the modest flat my parents rented in a Soviet-style tower block in the district called Titan. This marvel of transparent luminosity materialised in our home when the nights were long and our surroundings at their greyest and ugliest, whereas the Easter celebrations had the backing of nature: so many hope-inducing blues and golds shimmering in the sky, so many emerging buds with their promises of new foliage and blooms serenading in vast cartoonish choirs outdoors, in the narrow green spaces allotted out to each tower block.
Christmas became even more gorgeous after my brother Alexis was born, just as I started to go to school and found out that Father Frost, the Communist avatar of Santa, didn’t exist. Having a little brother meant I had the chance to cling to his way of marvelling at the festive winter dazzle and ever since Alexis was about one year old I started to see Christmas through both my eyes and his.
Mum, Dad, little Alexis and I put the tree up together. Then we attached loops of green thread to the silvery caps of the baubles, mooted the perfect position for each decoration, tied it to the chosen branch, stepped back to see how it fitted in the cosmos of glitter we were about to kindle in our front room, conferred with each other about any gap or imbalance in colour or form or composition, worked with endless dedication on bringing our constellations of suspended trinkets into more and more complicated harmonies, until ta-da! the tree was ready and we all looked at it in silence – our parents through my eyes, through Alexis’s, then through my and my brother’s combined visions as well, until ta-dee! Alexis and I looked up at our parents’ faces and it was our turn to see everything through their eyes, again, anew, with a renewed happiness brewed by their happiness. Thus we stood by the tree, united in delicate, galvanic circles of reflections, warmth and lightness: 4 demiurges of fondant, aged 3 to 39, then 4 to 40, then 5 to 41 etc, in Block of flats C15, Entrance number 2, Flat number 24, in the Titan district, somewhere near the far end of a Europe broken into 2 by a bunch of ogres with 0 brains.
Our intense and dutiful parents looked after us with loving tenderness yet, like all adults, they disconnected themselves from us at times, they just stopped seeing us while they had to look into something urgent, of major significance to them, of no weight or worth whatsoever to us. Oh, the flares of dismay at finding oneself cut off and rendered invisible to Mum and Dad, as if cloaked and choked by the thickest, heaviest fog. Being six years older than Alexis, I had grown out of such instances of puerile despair but I remembered their sting all too well and so I vowed to be very tactful whenever I wanted to disconnect myself from my little brother and plunge into my own urgent, major endeavour: reading. Alexis and I played many games in which I was supposed to sit in an armchair with a book in my lap while he would look for me everywhere else in the flat, according to complicated routes and maps I drew in colour and handed to him; he’d search inside wardrobes, he’d flash torch lights under the beds, he’d inspect the balcony, the larder, the broom cupboard and then in the end find me and shoot me with one of his toy guns, as I was a nefarious spy staring at secret documents and he was some kind of James Bond. But we also used to play many games of his and, every now and then, I organised puppet theatre shows at one end of the big sofa in the living room while he sat at the other end. We didn’t have proper puppets, I just used toys, making them say things I read in my books, and various other objects. A small Aphrodite of plaster was often a statue in a public square where a bear, a dog and a robot with shot glasses filched from the kitchen and tied to their paws with invisible nylon thread would meet to drink mead and recite ballads; they’d sit around a table made of two encyclopaedic dictionaries under a willow tree: the catkin bearing branches our mum kept in the big crystal vase on the old chest of drawers; at the end of the act, the willow declaimed a poem about its longing for real flowers with proper petals, instead of the infuriating furry pimples of ash it found itself covered in, spring after spring, while I stroked and grated the crystal indentations with a spoon for atmospheric sound effects. That was one of the ways of sharing my slightly portentous thoughts and artistic discoveries with my brother and he always followed my strange rants with interest, even as a toddler. Thus united in our games we developed a poetics of our own, based on absurdity and surprise. It worked by blending various household items into the toy world – upside-down soup pots could be towers, or, when filled with water, they would be the Great Lakes – by mixing cuddly with metallic heroes, turning doilies into hats, and hats into wigwams, making button mushrooms into cups while cups became telescopes, using scraps of textiles or bed linen, pieces of wood found outside, green and dried plants – anything was supposed to be everything in our ambitious if miniature theatrical productions.
During term time, my parents fed us in the morning, sent me to school and took Alexis to the day nursery before heading to their offices. During summer holidays, I took care of him while they were at work, we ate together, I read or told him stories or poems. Little by little, after literally sinking his milk teeth in some of my books, Alexis grew up and took to reading on his own so on most of those scorching summer days we lay in the front room sprawled in an armchair each, keeping cool, plunged in magic journeys around the seven seas, drinking iced water and devouring small round chocolates wrapped in paper decorated with vignettes of characters from children’s literature. I used to save some of my pocket money especially for those treats. One day, though, while stuffing ourselves as usual, we looked in each other’s eyes and agreed that our chocolates had lost any trace of taste or sweetness. Moreover, something unpleasantly sandy in their texture had become an insult to the palate. We tried another brand, and another, only to discover that the same horrible disease contaminated all the chocolate. Then in a short while chocolate vanished from the shops altogether. Tea followed shortly. In the nearby grocer’s, the old style coffee grinder that used to roar with a bitter lively fragrance also vanished – there were no more coffee beans to grind. Coffee in any form vanished into thin air. Instead, we had the memory of its fragrance and an invasion of paper packets filled with powdered oats flavoured with dried root of chicory. People made fun of the brown mixture, called it “Neigh-rich,” drank it, served it in fine porcelain cups at the end of dinners and hoped things wouldn’t get worse.
But of course things got worse.
Insidiously scarcity installed itself everywhere. Not just coffee, but meat and eggs, cooking oil and flour and all the other basic foodstuffs became scarcer and scarcer season after season. Our blocks of flats got shabbier and shabbier, in a landscape rich only in greyness, as if we were living in a world of ruins and shadows, where everything seemed to turn into a pointless sign or mere shell of itself. Ours was a land of lampposts with no lamps. Phone boxes with no phones inside. Playgrounds with child swing frames but no swing seats. Sandpits with no sand. Every day more and more restrictions and cuts were declared, not as such, on the telly they were dubbed “firm, dignified steps towards a golden future,” and they meant that, wherever one found oneself, the light bulbs would fizz and refuse to give light, the taps would cough and refuse to spout water, the radiators wouldn’t radiate, the heaters wouldn’t heat. Every single object one’s hands touched was faulty, every piece of equipment malfunctioned, washing one’s hands, and many other such daily routine gestures were suddenly turned into insurmountable challenges, our lives were turned upside down. Slowly and surely, scarcity, which until then had been like a continuous line ruling under our lives, turned into the very definition of our lives.
Meanwhile the great ruler of our country, the mastermind of scarcity, received signs of copious adoration. Every official channel excelled in feverish odes hailing his exceptional vision and depicting the abundance we wallowed in. Even children’s magazines started to open each issue with a huge portrait and a lead article about him which usually revolved around calling him by his ritual names e.g. guarantor of something like peace, prosperity etc, remarkable thinker, genius architect of peace, prosperity etc, glorious supreme commander until, in a final perfervid metaphoric twist he’d be said to encapsulate an essence of some kind, to be our country’s eternal spring for instance, a spring encompassing the lives of the ancestors, of people living in the present, of their children, and of their future children, some nutty non sequitur of the kind that gets traction with dictators and their sycophants. Hedge-Pig-Spiky-Wig, a popular local cartoon character who supplied the name of a magazine for very young children was phased out. A magazine called The Fatherland’s Falcons was to be published instead. Bored stiff, at first incredulous, both Alexis and I noticed how fast whatever used to be amusingly written and illustrated in the remaining children’s magazines was now making way for headlines such as:
“Achievements and hard work – emblems of our revolutionary patriotism.”
“How the red cravats contribute to the five year plan.”
“Attending the school of life and hard work with mettle and tenacity.”
“Pioneers – in the amphitheatres of diligence and hard work.”
“Is our class a true, functional working collective?”
“Milestones on the highway of communism.”
“Romania – a star in the galaxy of science and technology.”
We never read those things and yet somehow they snuck into our heads. At school, our pioneer instructor asked us to buy yearly subscriptions and read all that nonsense but I decided never to open those magazines, and chucked them in the bin as soon as they arrived. At home, we created our own amusements and antidotes. We made a two-page newspaper, Tee-hee – written by hand in print letters and illustrated in watercolour. Tee-hee’s most prolific hack was Diocletian Dandelion aka DD, a scheming careerist who often stole his colleagues’ ideas and churned out copy chop-chop. Sometimes, in order to keep up with his pace, we only wrote headlines such as “Who put potato purée in every pioneer’s beret?”, then sketched the photos and drew the drivel underneath in the shape of small blocks of straight and serpentine black lines – always scattering the signature of DD everywhere on the page.
Another of our games consisted in placing a pile of magazines between us – specialised ones, covering theatre, health, cinema, houseplants – picking one at a time, leafing through it, and inventing alternative names for the genius ruler they never failed to feature on their first pages: look, Alexis, the best Harpagon in years on the stage of the nation, the slayer of chocolate, the smasher of the breakfast cup of tea and the eradicator of any banal boiled egg in view; look, Stela, the sickest man in a nation of sickos; the greatest make-believer in a nation of dupes; look, Alexis, this is the picture of Him-Himself and he’s beyond doubt the largest, the thorniest cactus in the desert of the whole nation; the fattest barrel cactus, ha, ha, ha; no, he’s the thinnest rattail cactus; look, this Christmas cactus pot here looks just like his head, complete with hair, big ears and tie knot – a miracle! it must be reproduced in a stadium during one of the big shows where thousands of people raise coloured placards to create His enormous portrait!
The poetical retribution for our giggles was to get a cactus instead of a Christmas tree, that year. Not literally a cactus, yet not too far from it. There were no more Christmas trees in the fatherland. Not enough of them, anyway. As soon as a couple of dozen appeared in the outdoor markets, they sold like hot cakes.
The trees had followed the disappearance-pattern of everything else that was enjoyable in our early years: when we were very young, we used to go to the open market with our father, to choose them together. We only decorated them on Christmas Eve, never before, as was the custom in the whole country. We kept them throughout the New Year celebrations, and then sculpted them into swords, very useful for some of the gladiatorial games we played outside, in front of our block-of-flats. Those were the days of the silver firs, which kept their fragrance and leaves a long time. But they vanished into thin air, alongside so many other goods and conveniences, small and big, so dearly missed. Instead, we got a species of odourless spruce, very attractive on day one due to its richer foliage but which was always losing thousands of needles on day two, and ended up looking very naked and discomfited on day three. What’s more, families stopped going to the market to choose together the best loveliest tree. There were so few of those spruces available, and people got so desperate and ruthless in their need, that only fit men dared enter the small improvised enclosures where the trees were delivered. Those were the days of gladiatorial clashes between adults over prizes in tattered spruce. Father took part in those clashes and the possibility of violence over so innocent an object scared my brother and me. But Dad never discussed much about how he got hold of our trees. A fortnight before Christmas, he usually traipsed the markets for hours on end after he finished work, as the ways the trees would be dispensed here or there knew neither timetable nor logic. He returned exhausted, empty handed at first but after persevering for several evenings, he always got a tree in the end and when he brought it into our flat we danced about with excitement, jumping up and down and waving our little hands and bodies gracefully just like two half-lamb half-cat animals.
Once, though, his tactic didn’t work. It was Christmas Eve and we still had no tree. As usual, he came back from work and left to hunt for one, immediately. Five hours later, after ten in the evening, he returned home at last, his face and hands covered in scratches, a bleeding wound above his eyebrow, blood stains and mud spattering his scarf and coat. He was cradling against his chest, the way one would carry a sleeping child, a small silver fir tied with rope, a marvel we hadn’t seen in years.
He had looked for spruce in one place after the other. At last one market had been graced by a delivery – a truck filled with spruce parked next to one of those special Christmas-tree enclosures made out of planks; two men climbed inside the trailer; from up there they threw the trees down, one after the other, in the midst of the crowd of vociferous fathers. The males in the enclosure were as agitated and bellicose as rams squeezed in the catching pen of a shearing shed. The lucky ones who managed to lay hold of a tree had to take it through a narrow corral, adjacent to the wooden enclosure. They handed the payment to a third man who was sitting on a stool with a box of change in his lap at the far end. Once freed, they left with their spoil, grumbling, shivering in the frosty air like sheared animals, their adrenaline still running high. After being scratched by the needles and branches of around a dozen trees he had only half grasped, father had managed to grab a little spruce and approached the paying queue. But last in that queue, empty-handed, stood another man, waiting: a big cat in ambush. He turned round, punched father in the eyebrow, pushed him down, snatched the tree, jumped the queue, planted a note in the money box and then ran away ignoring the ineffectual if noisy interpellations of the other men. By the time father managed to re-enter the main enclosure the truck had been emptied. All this happened quite far away, in a market on the edge of the Titan district. Dejected, he decided to walk back home. All the streets and alleys were deserted. But after a few minutes, he saw a man in a sheepskin coat coming out of his block of flats, with a small silver fir in his arms. Father approached him and inquired politely where he got it from.
“This tree is yours, if you want it,” said the man.
“Oh, please, don’t make such jokes, how can I believe you’re giving a true silver fir away just like that?”
“I’m not joking, here, please have it.”
So father had it for a reasonable price while the other man explained that a couple of days before, a relative of his from the highlands had called in with his wife, who was to be admitted for a week to a big hospital in Bucharest for some tests. They had brought gifts with them: half a slaughtered pig and a splendid tree. Now another relative, this time of his wife’s, also from the highlands, had just popped in with another set of medical problems due to be investigated in another big hospital in the capital, another half of a slaughtered pig and another nice little tree. Now two halves of pig on Christmas Eve were an unexpected blessing – his wife was busy upstairs at that very moment with the sausage making machine, black puddings sat snugly in a tray in the fridge, a huge pot was boiling on the flame soon to transmute into aspic, the man drooled lyrically – but who needs two Christmas trees in one big happy family home? A home can only take one tree, just as in anything alive on this earth there’s only place for one heart, he touched his sheepskin coated breast while for a few seconds all the lights in the windows around them seemed brighter.
Thus Dad lit up the end of his story, while Mum placed a large box with medicine, gauze and plasters next to the Christmas lights box on the kitchen table and, to keep our childish ritual alive, Alexis and I did our half-lamb half-cat dance, and I asked myself which half was going to take over later in our lives, when we’d grow up into adults.
But the following year, not long after our stupid cactus jokes, there was no tree whatsoever. Again, our dad’s method failed. On Christmas Eve, he returned home late after having roamed all the markets, empty handed and miserable. At least he wasn’t hurt, we thought, exchanging glances filled with relief and resignation. But mother wouldn’t permit any hints of resignation on Christmas Eve. The evening’s happy conclusion came from her.
“I made a nice meal, we’ve got stacks of little presents to open and –” she pointed to the lushness of the tallest rubber fig in our front room “– here’s our merry-plant, this year. Will you help me drag it by the window?”
“Are you sure? But how is it going to look?” asked father. The rubber plants were his, actually, he fed them, re-potted them, pruned and propagated them. The largest one he called Mayakovsky, for fun, because the poet hated rubber plants, saw them as potted symbols of the philistine values of the petite bourgeoisie. The smaller plants were his little Philistines. These names weren’t just fun, they were great pretexts for our father to teach us what an antiphrasis was, or tell us stories we wouldn’t learn at school, about Delilah, the Philistine beauty who seduced Samson. Alexis and I enjoyed the stories and liked the plants. We sometimes used the Philistines as jungle vegetation in our theatrical games but, despite our poetics of surprise, we had clearly remained traditional in many other respects, we would have never thought of turning any of the rubber plants into a Christmas tree.
“Gorgeous,” Mum said.
It was: Mayakovsky’s large shiny leaves became enchanted dark mirrors dialoguing with the light and the glitter. When we finished decorating, we all looked at it – our parents through my eyes, through Alexis’s, through our combined visions – united in another of our perennial circles of reflections, warmth and lightness, another growth ring in the diaphanous tree of our love for each other.
There is a list of unpleasant things and a list of nice things that happen during the holidays. I only keep the most important.
The unpleasant things first.
The grownups pinching my cheek and telling me how big I’ve grown.
The grannies kissing me with their beards, piercing like needles.
My cousins breaking my nerves and my toys.
Now for the good stuff:
Grandma’s delicious pastitsio*.
The potatoes without the turkey.
The cookies with whole almonds that my other grandma bakes.
The PlayStation dad promised me.
Unfortunately, in order to get to the good things, I have to experience all the unpleasant things first —and these holidays are no exception. To eat the pastitsio and get the PlayStation, I have to sit at the family table, get pinched, kissed, play with my cousins and end up having the usual fight with them.
It’s New Year’s Eve. I’m lying in a pan of pastitsio, covered in béchamel. Grandma strokes me gently, then grates lots of cheese on top of me before baking me in the oven at 200 degrees. I made this pastitsio just for you, sweetie, she whispers in my ear.
Hallucinations caused by fever, says the doctor, and recommends antibiotics. Acute tonsillitis, he adds. I think of the cookies with whole almonds. The ones I have wolfed down.
I’ve certainly exhausted my list of unpleasant things this year. First of all, I didn’t eat my favourite pastitsio, but chicken vermicelli soup for the sick. Secondly, I was not spared the pinching, kissing and drooling, although I admit they were all more restrained. And worst of all, my cousins secretly opened my present. The adults in the dining room, as always, in their own little world. While I was flickering with fever in my room, the PlayStation screen was filling the room with a flickering light, as my cousins struggled to level up.
*Greek dish with pasta, béchamel sauce, and minced meat.
Kippy Day, 12.30pm
Lior holds his granda’s hand, strokes the back of it with his thumb. Miranda stares at is like it is an open wound. Equal parts fascinating and painful. Her father doesn’t agree with handholding now Lior is thirteen.
“Ye can’t give him pasta bake at Christmas.”
“It’s what he likes,” Miranda says as she takes the meal out of the oven. “I’ll put some brussels with it if you want. He won’t eat them.”
“Yer mother made ye girls eat whatever she put in front of ye.”
Lior senses a change. He drops the hand. He springs forward and lands in the living room. He keeps springing, forward and back, rotating all the time.
“Noisy bugger today aren’t ye?”
“What do you expect Da?”
“Kippy day.” Lior goes up to the tree that his mum and aunt put up while he was sleeping. He peers into a blue bauble, staring at his distorted face. He taps the ball rhythmically with one finger. He rises up and down onto the hard part of his foot, nostrils flaring as he breathes in the smell of tinsel.
“Can’t ye gie him something?” Granda asks.
“I did already,” Miranda frowns. These days she feels like a walking dispensary. Doling out alprazolam, diazepam, lorazepam, in spoonfuls of raspberry jam. Ophelia lays the table and soon Lior is at her side. He touches the Christmas crackers to make the little bells jingle. Ophelia gives Lior a napkin and he flicks it with one hand. His tongue keeps falling out of his mouth. Ophelia sets a paper hat on her own head, and Lior’s. She kisses him on the cheek. He reaches up and the hat tears, and sits lopsided on his head. Miranda steps towards them with a warning on her lips as Lior brings up his leg and kicks the table. The glasses shiver like icicles on the white linen.
“Lior,” Miranda’s voice threatens, “don’t start.”
“Kic. Kic An-tee.”
“Abso-bloody-lutely not boy. On the couch.” With her hand at his back Miranda marches him into the living room. “Legs up.” She puts his weighted blanket on him. His body moves, feverish hot under the blanket.
Miranda fills a glass with water from the fridge. She takes a moment to steady her breathing, running a hand over her naked head. She knows they shouldn’t celebrate Christmas anymore. Lior’s need for it is too heavy. He can’t carry its weight. She has never been able to take it away.
“What are we doing about this turkey then?” Granda says as he sets it down on the table.
“Wait a minute Da. Let him calm down.”
“Och, it’ll be dry as bane by the time your lad calms down.” Granda looks at Miranda. She notices his eyes, red-rimmed, dropping low in his face (getting auld).
Miranda feels as though the house has been shrinking all day. The windows sweat. The air is thick and sticky. Granda always insists on a roast dinner. Fondly, he recalls the Christmases he spent in Scotland. The way Granda tells it, and he tells it with some shine in his eye, Christmas was the only day he knew he’d be properly fed. He and Aunt Ada migrated when they were children, now he’s another forgotten Australian who can’t forget. At the farm school they told him that his mother didn’t want him, and his country didn’t want him, and that they could do what they liked to him. And they did, and did what they liked again.
When Miranda calls Lior for dinner, he comes out and bounces over to his granda. He puts his face close by. Breathing in, he sings, “shouey.” He reaches out and flaps the loose skin around his grandfather’s neck. Ophelia looks at Miranda. They smother a giggle. Ophelia uses her phone to put Christmas music on Miranda’s battered old speaker.
“That’s right Lior,” Granda says, patting him on the back of his hand and then moving the hand away from his face. “There’s a good lad.”
Granda’s palms meet, fingers clasp, his head bows low. Nothing more. The old gesture was long ago put aside.
Between mouthfuls, Lior jumps up and around the kitchen. Miranda thinks his movements are slowing. She detects a looseness, a rolling about the eyes that tells her the tablets she gave him are taking effect. They drink a toast to Mum. Miranda takes a quick sip of her wine. Ophelia finds her hand under the table.
Lior sings along to the music in a garbled voice that mimics the song. Miranda realises that it is the most she has ever heard him say. She wonders if things are getting better. And in the middle of this, Granda goes over to the sideboard for another bottle of wine. An instant slips by, no one sees what happens. The first thing Miranda knows is that her father is on the floor. Lior springs back, over to the window and puts his hands over his ears. There is a series of long, low groans and the sound of Granda breathing heavy like a horse come in from the rain. Ophelia gets up, knocking the table as she does, she reaches his side and tries to help him stand. Her paper crown has slipped and folded in on itself. Miranda can’t stop looking at it. She revolves on the spot, first turning to Lior.
“Kic, kic, kic,” he chants like a child reciting a well-known verse, “kic, kic, kic.”
She stares down at her father, toppled like a chess piece. His body trembles and already the knee is swollen, the leg extends at a wrong angle. She stares at her father’s white face and she watches him gasping. On the floor he is grey. He is grey and cracked, a statue torn from its plinth. Miranda makes no move. She hadn’t realised how close it always was, cleaving to her like unshed skin. She closes her eyes and listens to the rhythmic thud of her child’s foot slamming against the wall.
Kippy Day, 8.30pm
They stand outside, Lior runs around the house; an embodied ghost. He bites his upper arms, leaving red mouth marks in his flesh. Miranda cannot bear to watch him through the windows. She turns away and looks out onto the early evening and the stars emerging in a blind, benevolent summer sky. She can still hear him screaming. Miranda wishes Ophelia had gone with Granda in the ambulance. Instead, she totters on her feet and teeth stained with red wine.
Ophelia clears her throat, “will you be alright?”
“He’ll calm down in a bit.”
“I don’t think it’s safe for you on your own with him. What if he hurts you?”
“I can manage him. And if one day I can’t – well – there’s always the dam.” Miranda clamps her mouth shut but it’s too late. Ophelia arches an eyebrow. Miranda pretends to laugh. As if it’s a joke. She hadn’t meant to say anything about the dam.
“Da told me there’s a place, a house, for people like Lior. He sent you a brochure. Did you get it?”
“I got it. It’s four hours away from here.”
“Have you been to look at it then?”
“It’s four hours away.” Miranda doesn’t want to remind her sister that – well, she can drive – of course she can, but she doesn’t have a licence. Had been too busy to get it when she was a teenager. Back when Lior had been two years old and hadn’t smiled yet, and still looked through her as if she were water.
“I think you should think about –”
“No.” Miranda stands in front of her sister. The woman who drives, works at a hospice like the one their mother died in. One day Ophelia will have her own children. Who won’t headbutt the walls and kneecap their grandfather.
“You looked strange in there,” Ophelia says. The booze has made Ophelia’s eyes luminous and large. Miranda does not look at her. She looks at the sky, blue as veins, and the setting sun. A night like this she had gone to the fair to find the man who span the waltzers. She’s been lying to herself about the man who span the waltzers.
“Strange how?”
“When Da got hurt. You were smiling.”
Miranda remembers looking down at her father, listening to his pain. She had thought about a pain of her own that is always, always there. The stench of his whisky on the breath as he showed her his magazines (there wisnae anyone to teach Aunt Ada). The time he said she should be prepared, should be taught. With her mother gone there was no one to teach her (what’s oot there) except himself. And the world is rough. The next time he’d been mouthless. All hands. Tugging hands. Teaching hands. But that was before, if she’s honest with herself. And she hasn’t been honest with herself. That happened before the man who span the waltzers. Miranda swallows. Her throat is dry, the swallowing hurts. Ophelia offers the drink, but says nothing. Miranda raises the glass to her lips to feel it there. She fills her mouth and swallows the secret before it reveals itself. She stares at an ant hole in the ground. At the dirt piled up around a perfect “O.” “Taxi’s here,” Ophelia says. Miranda does not look up. They’ve known for a while that the taxi was getting closer. Ophelia doesn’t need to say it, but it’s time they both stop pretending. Miranda suddenly can’t wait for her sister to leave (just pish off) so she can sit down in the quiet, roll up a joint, and forget.
Lior paces inside the house. He rattles a flyscreen and shouts, “KippydaykippydaykippyDAY.”
“Will you be alright?”
“Yeah.”
Ophelia takes her glass and expertly tips it into a drink bottle.
“You’re taking a roadie to our father’s bedside?”
“Yeah,” Ophelia grins in a way that reminds Miranda so sharply of their childhood. She reaches out and puts her hand on top of Ophelia’s. When it is time to part, Miranda makes a small noise at the back of her throat, but Ophelia does not hear it.
After Kippy Day
Miranda will wake up before Lior. She will dress in silence while it’s still dark. She will put her boots on and step out into the mist that rises like angels off the pastures. She will wish that she got into the habit of walking on her own. She will walk all the way to the cattlegrid and then she will stop. And it will feel as if her own two feet have turned cloven. She will stare out onto the road for a long time, and imagine Lior waking up and looking for her. Wandering from room to room, signing mummy, opening the cupboards as if she has shrunk to that size. Eating food from the freezer. Eating until he’s sick. When he realises that she isn’t there, perhaps he will cry. Perhaps he will squat on his heels and run his fingers through the carpet and slap his hand on the side of his head and cry and cry and cry.
She will turn back, running. She’ll falter at the threshold to her own front door. Place her hand on the fly screen, rub her face with her sleeve until it hurts. Because she is crying and her breathing is unsure. The only thing she will want to do in that moment is sit by Lior’s bed without waking him. When she is in his room she will take his hand and kiss his fingers. Breathe in the scent of him where it gathers at his hairline, at the nape of his neck. Fluorescent constellations of stars will drift over them. Lior cannot sleep in the dark.
“I’m sorry,” she will whisper, “I’m back now and it’s only us. Granda won’t visit us again.” (but I’m still inside yer heid). “I’m not going anywhere and you’re not either. Because I love you.” She will sit with him while he sleeps. She has half an hour to love him in until he wakes. And she will try to be careful, but her love is made of angry, hungry stuff. It stirs like ghosts even when she holds it between her teeth. Lior will turn towards her as the sun rises. Miranda will stroke his sleep mussed hair and wish she could make him a little less – and a little more –
But instead he will wake up, turn to her, and say,
“Kippy Day?”
Kippy Day, 7.30pm
In an inky corner of the veranda, Miranda rolls up a joint. In the middle of a hot Australian summer, the air is warm as blood. From inside the house, she listens to the sound of plates smashing, and him fist printing his fury onto the walls. She hears to his guttural groans, his mess and his kic kic kic.
“Kic kic kic,”
“Don’t you… don’t you dare Lior.” She sees him through the glass. He stares at his hand, at the fingers on the hand, as they clench and unclench like a sea anemone in shallow light. He rises and falls, bouncing on his forefeet. His hands shake. She stands at the shoreline of his world. She is the tempest and the gatekeeper and all he wants (that you willnae gie him) is his –
“Kippy day. Granda. Kippy Granda.” He lunges closer, the glass in the shadows separates them.
“Kippy day finished.” Miranda crosses her arms over her chest and sweeps them down in front of her. “Granda finished.” Their sign for “finished,” so often used, has changed over the years. It has morphed into a bigger version that uses two arms and the whole torso. And Miranda thinks how strange it is that the sign they make for “finished,” so resembles the sign they make for “love.”
Long Time Yet
Four months earlier, and Miranda woke to the sound of the toilet flushing again and again on an empty cistern. She lay in bed staring at a brown stain on the ceiling. She rubbed a hand over the soft fuzz that had grown over her head. She made a mental note to shave it closer before summer came in earnest. When the toilet flushed again, Miranda got out of bed.
She stepped into the lingering straw smell of Lior’s morning piss. He turned to her with two wet spots on the front of his pyjamas. Sleep clung to him like syrup on a spoon.
“Enough flushing now Lior.” “Enough flushing now Lior.” Miranda took his hands in her own and kissed him on the cheek. She noticed the soft floss of hair that had started to grow on his face in the last few months. She wouldn’t shave it yet. She held him for as long as she could, until she saw a fluke of panic in his eyes and felt his body rise into a jump. She stepped to one side.
“Granda. Granda today.” Lior signed.
“Not today. Granda another day. Let’s get ready.” Sometimes Miranda wondered why Lior loved her dad so much. Perhaps it was only the absence of the father she had never named. He came with the fair, spun the waltzers if you want to know the truth. No one knew the truth.
In the kitchen, Lior ate standing at the breakfast bar, milk slopped over the side of the bowl. Finished, he sent the spoon skittering into the dish and stepped away with his head to one side and a smile on his face.
“Cheeky Lior,” Miranda smiled. “Wash it up.”
He took the dish to the sink and rinsed it, leaving bits of cereal still in the bowl.
“Kippy day?” Lior smiled a gluey smile. “Kippy lights,” he bounced higher, because it might Be, it might Happen today.
“Don’t start that Lior,” Miranda tried to keep her voice playful though it was too early in the year for this. “It’s not Christmas bloody day yet. Okay?”
“Kippy tree.”
“No.”
He stopped bouncing, stood dead still, looked at her with eyes the colour of iron. “Long time yet?”
Miranda stepped away from him. “Long time yet. Let’s get ready. Go for a walk.”
The water was low in the dam, exposing the steep gummy banks. A fish tail slapped in the shallows and it would be perch, Miranda knew, Miranda knew, there was only perch left. She imagined a tessellation of perch in the water, with their sharp spines and their endless eyes. She turned her back on the dam and followed Lior along the walk he knew by heart. Across the empty paddock on the hillside and beyond. The dam was not a place she liked to linger. Lior bounded ahead. Miranda watched his pale legs that had sprouted golden hairs like the roots of a parsnip. He lifted the neck of his Superman t-shirt to his nose and inhaled the scent of his skin in the wind. He beamed and sniffed again,
“Shhooooueeyyy.”
They walked an hour or more before Lior slowed and reached for Miranda. She felt his hand, hot, inside her own. They turned back towards the house, their shadows merged before them.
“Hang on there Lior,” Miranda said, when they arrived home. With a burst of energy Lior ran to the cherry blossom tree. Miranda opened the letterbox, to find a large envelope, bent to fit inside. Lior, crouching low, felt the grass under his palms. The wind drove the blossoms from the tree. They carpeted the grass that would not survive the approaching summer. Not with the dam so low and the rain so fleeting. And the wind was sharp, and Miranda cold without her coat. Perhaps that was why it trembled – the hand that held the envelope. Perhaps it was only that. Miranda opened it to find a pamphlet. Picture of a large, yellow building on the front, empty trellis on one side. There was no note, but she knew who’d sent it, could feel him in her fingertips. She heard him (well it’s nae guid pretending) in her head.
Miranda stood with the pamphlet in her hand watching Lior. He stood under the tree with his face tipped to the boughs. There were blossoms netted in his hair and his hands. His mouth had fallen open in silent joy. Behind him, the house her father built for her Aunt Ada. When Ada died, he allowed Miranda to live there. And it was a place Miranda could hide. A place for Lior to listen to loud music. Where he could take his clothes off in all weathers. And run, screaming his joy and his rage into a world that understood neither.
Lior bounded over to her and took her hand. He closed his eyes, she saw the trust on his face as she kissed him, for she was only, his absolute proof of love. Lior took the pamphlet, slapped it against his hand and pressed his nose into the pages. He assessed its worth by smell and touch, then released it like an undersized fish. They began to walk up to the house but Miranda turned back and picked up the brochure. She couldn’t leave it there to blow away and litter the land. She would put it in the recycling (will ye noo?) or give it up to the fire.
Kippy Eve
The mournful shriek of a black cockatoo cut through a hazy afternoon. Miranda watched the red speck on the horizon getting closer as the car kicked up a cloud of dust. The turnoff led to so few places that few people ever took it. Every now and then the sun glinted off the windscreen. Lior got up from his blanket, agitated, she picked up a toy car and spun the wheels with her finger. Her eyes did not leave the road. He turned to her and signed,
“Granda.”
“One more sleep,” she replied and signed.
Lior sat on the ground and swirled his hands in the dust and dead, desiccated grass. As she watched the car getting closer, she felt her temperature rise. She could almost taste her sister in the air. When she stood up Lior copied her, his hands full of earth. Miranda stepped away as Lior signed Granda again, and garbled the word. He jumped on his feet, getting higher in the air as he signed over and again, each time banging his hands together. In a moment the car would turn into the driveway, and for a moment, Miranda felt she couldn’t bear it. The waiting and the happening. She stood out of sight behind the old wood shed. She listened as the car clattered over the cattlegrid and inched along the track. She heard her sister get out of the car and greet Lior. The moment trickled by as slow as honey. She stepped out from behind the tree.
Ophelia came to greet her, arms wide, “Sorry sis I didn’t see you there.”
As a child, Miranda would pretend she could make herself invisible. Ophelia had believed it, when Miranda said it was her deepest, darkest secret. Miranda thought of this now as she felt Ophelia’s arms around her. She could feel the lightness of her younger sister’s bones, could smell the cinnamon in Ophelia’s shampoo. She could not remember what it felt like to have hair to wash. “Merry fukken Christmas,” Ophelia said.
Miranda opened her eyes. Over her sister’s shoulder, she saw the change in Lior’s face.
“Kippy day? Kippy day.” Lior jumped from foot to foot, his movements sure.
“One more sleep,” Miranda replied. She licked her lips and realised they were dry and sore and after she realised, she could not stop licking them.
Ophelia walked back to her car. She set her belongings on the ground. Two carrier bags overfilled with her clothes. Lior took out a hairdryer and sniffed it all over. He brought the cord close to his face, then let it dangle from his hand.
“He’s pleased to see me then,” Ophelia joked as she leaned her back against the car. She lit a cigarette and held it between her fingers.
“How have you been?” Miranda asked, sidling over.
“Busy.” She put the tip of her thumb in her mouth. The gesture reminded Miranda of their childhood. Ophelia, with little blisters pearled on the tips of her thumb.
“Didn’t you go away last month?”
“Yeah.” Ophelia sighed, “feels like ages ago. Haven’t we spoken since then?” She tipped her face to the sky and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Miranda said, “I’m as bad.” Miranda looked up at Ophelia. “I’ll ring you more. I promise.”
(Ye didna lick your lips since you lied last).
In an innovative approach to highlight the issue of climate change, designers at Publicis Norway have redesigned the United Nations logo. This new design reflects the potential geographical changes that might occur by the year 2100 due to rising sea levels, as per scientific predictions.
The original UN logo, a world map, has been a part of the organization’s identity since 1946. The redesign by Publicis Norway modifies this map, showing altered coastlines and, in some cases, the complete disappearance of countries like the Maldives, predicted to be significantly impacted by rising sea levels. This representation draws on the UN’s predictions that a temperature increase of 2.9 degrees could severely affect global land populations.
The project, launched during the COP28 conference in Dubai, serves not just as a piece of graphic design but as a visual communication tool to spread awareness about the realities of climate change. It specifically points out the vulnerability of areas like the Maldives, the Bay of Bengal, The Bahamas, Alexandria, the Nile Delta in Egypt, and the Netherlands.
Senior creative Ole Andreas Finseth from Publicis Norway emphasizes the immediacy of the climate threat. The design project is part of a broader initiative to encourage more decisive actions against climate change, especially in the context of international discussions like COP28. Thale Riiser, another member of the Publicis Norway team, notes the emotional impact of realizing that these changes could displace millions of people.
The project is not limited to the realm of design; it includes a platform for public engagement and activism. The team has organized a petition to galvanize support for stronger climate action policies, underlining the role of design in societal and environmental advocacy.
This initiative by Publicis Norway illustrates the power of design in addressing and communicating critical global issues like climate change. It serves as a reminder of the potential future we face and the urgent need for action.
For more information and to support the cause, you can visit the project’s website: Publicis Norway: The Climate Changed.
Terminal Five was an assault of gleaming tiles and glass. Sleigh-bells chimed and fairy lights twinkled from the designer stores.
The email arrived as soon as I manged to connect to Heathrow’s free Wi-Fi. I skimmed over the invitation in between rearranging my bags, putting my shoes back on and waiting for the rest of my hand-luggage to pass through the x-ray: ‘I heard you’ll be in Ireland, staying at your grandmothers, tomorrow. Do you want to meet there for coffee?’ Still dazed from the overnight flight from Miami, during which I got tipsy on two glasses of wine and caught snatches of sleep in between romantic comedies, I rolled my eyes to no one, stuffed the phone in my pocket and trundled off with my suitcase.
Terminal Five was an assault of gleaming tiles and glass. Sleigh-bells chimed and fairy lights twinkled from the designer stores. It was a long way from the shabby carpets, vacant units and dusty souvenir shops at La Aurora International in Guatemala City, I had departed from 14 hours previously. The sign leaving security could have read ‘Welcome to the First World.’ With another two hours before my final connection to Dublin, I distracted myself from the pending reply by meandering through thronged shops selling overpriced Slytherin scarves, Gryffindor pyjamas and plastic wands lined with imitation phoenix feathers. The pre-Christmas frenzy was in full swing and I soon succumbed to the lure of a pair of overpriced, but practical, mittens in preparation for a winter I had not experienced in three years.
My consumer urges sated, I edged my way around tables and discarded suitcases in one of those airport food courts where hundreds of strangers eat together, avoiding each other’s eyes by staring into space or at a screen. Unsure whether I was due breakfast or lunch, I ordered porridge in a cardboard cup and the strongest coffee on the menu, then found an empty table in the least populated corner. Only after my belly was full and the caffeine had chased away the worst of the transatlantic lag, did I take out my phone and consider the invitation. The options were reply later, just say no or ignore it altogether. In the end my response was economical but polite: ‘Sounds fine, see you there.’
I did not, however, make it to my grandmother’s for coffee the following day. S_, who was due to arrive in Dublin on a later flight, missed his connection. Neither his gringo nor Mexican visas, nor the ample documentation he provided on every aspect of our trip, including copies of bank statements, credits cards, onward tickets, and my cousin’s wedding invitation, were enough to convince the Spanish migration officers to let him through without a fuss. He was held back an hour for questioning and the airline did not consider it worth their trouble to rebook a flight for a mere Latino. So S_ spent an unplanned night alone in an airport hotel on the outskirts of Madrid, slicing a day off our already short vacation. Everything in our minutely planned itinerary had to be shuffled around and coffee got pushed back to dinner at my aunt’s house in Kerry, where we had already arranged to stay that Friday night. The aunt in question was the peacemaker: she got along with everyone in a family where the siblings constantly alternated loyalties amidst a permanent state of low intensity warfare. Her house was neutral territory.
We were over an hour late for dinner. I texted ahead, blaming my lack of driving practice and the difficulties of navigating the unfamiliar and, often deadly, hairpin bends along the road that drops from Annascaul to Castlegregory. I did not mention we spent nearly an hour chasing waves at Dunquin harbour, thrilled and terrified by how easily we might have been swept away by the deadly swell. Nor our lingering roadside stops to watch the earliest sun set of the year behind the Blasket Islands. I left out our brief detour through a dark and deserted Dingle so S_ might try his first hot whiskey from the town’s most illustrious public house: Dick Macks.
Despite the multiple delays, however, we were the first to arrive. We deposited our bags and were led into the living room, where we waited, perched on the edge of the sofa, while my aunt and uncle asked S_ polite questions about his first impressions of Ireland.
When my father finally showed up with his wife and excuses about traffic we all stood to greet each other. S_ had already realised the Irish were generally more reserved than Guatemalans, where an embrace with an optional kiss was expected between friends and relatives, and stretched out his right hand for theirs. I edged behind him, placing his body between my father and I, so I might avoid any possibility of being forced into a hug. They settled for a nod and forced smile from me. His wife remained at the door with her arms folded, saying little. Before we could linger too long in silence my aunt announced that dinner was ready and we followed her into the kitchen.
At the table S_ acted as a buffer once more, sitting in between my father and I, fielding all his nasal self-aggrandisement. The tip of my nose prickled each time I caught the enthusiastic rise of his voice, or the affected drawl and gesticulated explanations of his research which, no doubt, would change the shape of anthropology in Ireland, if not the world. I focused instead on chatting with my uncle who had married into the family and was known to have ‘delicate nerves’ for which few took him seriously. But, I had always liked his sing-song voice and his fluttering hands and he seemed genuinely interested in our life in Guatemala and my owns plans to pursue a PhD. S_ nudged me once or twice for translations and I obliged. It was the least I could do considering he was saving me from the necessity of any real engagement with my father, other than the answering direct questions it would have been too rude to ignore.
The deadline for Brexit was looming, and everyone wanted to know what insider information my aunt had gleaned from her job at the Ministry for Finance. This allowed us to avoid more sensitive topics such as the fact that I had not spoken to my father in three years. Or why, on my last visit home two years previously, he had ignored my email invitation for coffee. I wondered what was behind the sudden impulse for contact. Did he actually want to see me or could he not bear the idea I would leave him out of the itinerary of family visits? Since he remained as pointedly disinterested in my life and wellbeing as I was of his, I had to conclude it was the latter.
Neither the prolonged estrangement, however, nor simple courtesy to my aunt who had put on quite the spread, were enough to keep my father at the table all night. Between the main course and desert he disappeared to attend a Christmas party at a local pub, with the excuse that he just could not be missed. His wife, a member of the same club, did not feel the same pressing need to abandon the dinner and so remained at the table with us. My father reappeared for the aperitif, regaling us with highlights from the Christmas raffle and who was there, what they said and how pleased they were that he had made the effort to go.
One by one we began to drift towards the sink with dishes that needed washing and then to bed, until it was just my father and S_ left at the table. I became increasingly suspicious at their apparent camaraderie and regretted having accepted the invitation. I was clearly not ready to share space with my father or even engage in the most superficial of conversations. With an overwhelming sense of deja-vu, having tried and failed at this father-daughter dance many times already, I hovered around the sink and washed the remaining dishes. S_ produced a sample of the books he had brought, both his own and those he had edited, designed, printed and bound of others. My father took three before we finally retreated to bed.
‘He paid for them right?’ I could not help but asking once we were alone. ‘You didn’t just give them away, did you?’ S_ might have been a great poet and editor, but he was a terrible businessman, and probably gave away more books than he ever sold.
‘No, don’t worry he bought them off me.’
‘So… what did you think of him then?’ In the four years we had been together, S_ and I had swapped many stories about the multiple ways our fathers had hurt us before disappearing out of our lives. Still, he and my father were both artistically inclined and while S_ could be standoffish, with a sensibility that was hard to impress, my father could be incredibly charming when he wanted. I suspected they would either click or immediately hate each other, but I was not sure which would be worse.
‘Buena onda,’ said S_. My heart sank and he must have noted the disappointment on my face, because he did a slight backtrack. ‘Or anyway, he seemed nice enough, but then I remembered everything he did to you and your brothers and, carajo.’
Carajo was perhaps the only appropriate response. I could not expect S_ to be his enemy for my sake alone, but I could not abide the thought they might become friends either. In the end they never had the opportunity to test their potential bond further, because my father and his wife were gone the next morning before S_ and I, still terribly jetlagged, dragged ourselves out of bed.
The lack of a goodbye was no surprise. I was relieved I did not have to dredge my limited capacity for small talk even further. My aunt and uncle prepared a suitably greasy Irish breakfast and we chatted about our travel plans and their retirement plans, while everyone avoided mentioning the early departure of the other house guests. With the excuse of vanishing daylight we did not stay long over breakfast and set off for another day of sight-seeing along the Wild Atlantic Way. Instead of continuing North towards Clare and Galway, I made a detour back west and drove into the Slieve Mish along the Conor Pass. It was still early and we passed almost no cars on the road. I parked half way up, not daring to venture any further along the narrow mountain pass, and eager to take S_ to the first sight on the day’s itinerary. I led him away from the car and up a stony path that traced around huge boulders. ‘It’s only ten minutes,’ I assured him. ‘And totally worth it.’
We reached Loch a’Duin, or Peddler’s lake as it is known locally, only slightly out of breath. The glaciers which had passed over the Kerry mountains thousands of years previously had carved out an almost perfectly spherical amphitheatre sheltering a pristine corrie lake. Little more than a ripple disturbed the water’s surface. We gave a whoop and heard our joy bounce across the rock face. Turning back to the road the valley below, stretching across to Mount Brandon, sacred to both Celts and Christians, and down to the sea, awed us into silence. Except for the usual cloud on the summit it was a perfectly clear day, the hills around us were sharp with the expectation of precipitation.
Completely alone, we horsed about at the lake edge ten or twenty minutes. The frozen bog cracked under our footsteps as we ran about skimming stones and taking photos to send back to S_’s mother in Guatemala. It was a perfect moment, perhaps my most cherished memory of our three week holiday. But, I could not help admitting my father was the only reason I knew the lake existed. The first time I had been there, 24 years previously, I was eleven and my father had recently relocated from Dublin to Kerry. It was our first Christmas we spent in the Kingdom. The hills were dusted with a light snowfall and my brothers and I delighted in picking icicles from the frozen streams running off the lake. It became a favourite spot of his to take visitors and I had never tired of making the trek up there with friends and relatives.
What did it mean then, to be standing there with S_, the night after a failed Solstice encounter with a man whose presence I could barely tolerate, and whose estrangement had lasted more than 11 years? Though it is hard for me to acknowledge, there things I could be grateful to my father for introducing to my life. These, however, are overshadowed by the understanding that it is easy to entertain children with trips to the swimming pool, afternoons in the cinema and treks up mountains when you only see them for two weekends a month. Or that my drawings, paintings, clay figures and other attempts at making art were not so much for my pleasure as to please him. Or, that a cultural and academic snobbery lay behind the insistence on reading the right books, listening to the right music, watching the right films and studying the right course at the right university.
I wonder would it have been better to avoid the natural beauty of Kerry altogether in favour of the less emotionally charged, but equally spectacular, landscapes of the Burren or Connemara? There was so much to see in Ireland and so little time to see it in, so why take S_ there of all places? It might have been too soon to confront my father but, perhaps, it was time enough to confront the landscapes long haunted by his shadow and create new memories with new people?
In the ever-expanding world of literature, 2023 has emerged as a landmark year for translated fiction. With stories translated from Turkish, Bosnian, Hungarian, and more, Litro Reviews has remained dedicated to its community of international writers and readers. Our wonderful reviewers celebrate the rich tapestry of global storytelling, and examine both the story of the original author, and the words and mastery of the translator. As we bring you our top 8 picks of 2023 translated fiction, we find ourselves not only exploring captivating stories, but also building bridges between cultures and communities. Let’s dive right in!
The Last Pomegranate Tree: The Kurdish Struggle
One such masterpiece that has garnered our attention this year is Bachtyar Ali’s The Last Pomegranate Tree, translated from the Kurdish by Kareem Abdulrahman. A testament to the cultural richness embedded in translated literature, The Last Pomegranate Tree unfolds the story of Muzafar-i Subhdam, a Kurdish veteran freedom-fighter, imprisoned for 21 years. The novel weaves entangled tales of journeys, exploring themes of love, corruption, and the impact of revolutions. Despite some narrative challenges, Kareem Abdulrahman’s translation preserves the soul of Ali’s work, offering English readers a glimpse into the rich Kurdish literary tradition. The story becomes a metaphor for the Kurds’ existential, nomadic struggle, leaving readers pondering the sands of time and the tales that define us.
Body Kintsugi: Pain, Shame and Womanhood
Next up, Body Kintsugi by Senka Marić, translated from the Bosnian by Celia Hawkesworth, is a powerful and personal novella that employs a second-person narrative to delve into the past and present of a woman confronting breast cancer. The use of medical documents and mystical apparitions enhances the narrative, offering an immersive exploration of pain, shame, and the complexities of womanhood. Marić resists a simplistic restitution narrative; she celebrates survival and scars in a dreamy, triumphant close.
The Fisherman and His Son: Wake Up, World
For a book with a strong message, we recommend The Fisherman and His Son by Zülfü Livaneli, skillfully translated from the Turkish by Brendan Freely. The book is a fable-like tale with a strong moral message, tackling issues of immigration, climate change, and industrialisation. Set in a coastal community, the story explores the impact of global concerns on local lives, emphasising the vulnerability of marginalised communities. Livaneli’s novel is a plea for humanity, urging readers to reflect on the consequences of overlooking local interests in the face of global challenges. With current global conflicts and 2023 set to be the warmest year on record, never has a book been as relevant as it is today.
Last House Before the Mountain: WW1’s Forgotten Victims
Last House Before the Mountain by Monika Helfer, translated by Gillian Davidson, is another gem that showcases the power of translated fiction. The novel portrays a family’s life in an Austrian Alpine valley during World War I. The narrative, drawn from Helfer’s family history, beautifully explores love, family, and the enduring strength of women amid war’s unconsidered victims. Through expert translation, Gillian Davidson brings the story to English readers and weaves her way through the shifting chronology and fractured family dynamics.
Siblings: The Personal and Political in East Germany
Staying in Europe, with Siblings by Brigitte Reimann, skillfully translated by Lucy Jones, we encounter a powerful exploration of life in East Germany during the 1960s. The lives of three siblings are torn apart by conflicting views on “Republikflucht” (flight from the Republic) in 1960s GDR. The novel, rooted in Reimann’s experiences, delves into personal and political struggles amid socialist ideals, offering a nuanced view of divided Germany. Jones’ translations brings these nuances to new audiences, and presents them as remarkably relevant to the contemporary geopolitical climate.
All Your Children, Scattered: Four Generations of Rwanda
Across to Africa, All Your Children, Scattered by Beata Umubyeyi Mairesse, translated by Alison Anderson, delves into the aftermath of the Rwandan genocide. Silence, racial identity, and the struggle to convey experiences, the novel delves into the legacy of colonialism across four generations, presenting a multilayered narrative that challenges stereotypes. With all the noise surrounding Rwanda and the Tory policies in the UK today, Alison Anderson delivers a masterpiece that ought to be read by us all.
The Colour Line: Italy’s Postcolonial Landscape
The Colour Line by Igiaba Scego, translated by John Cullen and Gregory Conti, also offers a profound examination of racial identity and the legacy of colonialism. The novel masterfully weaves between 1860s Rome and the present, exploring the lives of Lafanu Brown, an African American artist, and Binti, a modern Somali migrant. Scego, through nuanced translation, navigates Italy’s postcolonial landscape, connecting slavery, colonialism, and contemporary migration issues through vivid characters and the haunting echoes of trauma.
A Mountain to the North, a Lake to the South, Paths to the West, a River to the East: a Hypnotic Quest
Finally, we were struck by the unique novel that is László Krasznahorkai’s A Mountain to the North, a Lake to the South, Paths to the West, a River to the East, translated by Ottilie Mulzet. Within the pages, the grandson of Prince Genji embarks on a quest for the world’s most beautiful garden. The narrative delves into meticulous descriptions, intertwining physical and metaphysical elements with rich language and powerful prose to create a mesmerising, hypnotic experience.
Join the International Literary Community
As we revel in the literary offerings of 2023, let us celebrate the diverse voices that have found expression through translation. The importance of promoting translated literature cannot be overstated: we ought to be grateful for the enriched literary landscape and expanded global community of readers it creates.
As we move into 2024, we remain committed to this community, and ask you to join! If you have a review you’d like to publish, you can find our submissions portal here. In being a part of this community, you not only honour the art of storytelling, but also contribute to the cultivation of a more interconnected and empathetic world – one where the borders between cultures blur, and the human experience is celebrated in its multifaceted glory.
To Our Litro Community,
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As we approach the end of the year, I find myself grappling with one of the most challenging yet rewarding tasks – curating our annual list of must-read books. In a world that never stops changing, books have remained my constant companions, offering a sanctuary of solace, a rush of excitement, and a portal to both familiar and unknown realms.
Narrowing down this year’s literary treasures to just eight exceptional works was no easy feat. The list I’ve put together for you blends the most critically acclaimed and beloved books spanning a diverse array of genres and themes. From fiction that intertwines the deeply moving with the wryly humorous, to non-fiction that I hope enlightens and provokes thought, each book has etched a lasting impression in the literary landscape of 2023.
Whether you’re a voracious reader always on the hunt for your next great adventure in pages, or someone seeking to rekindle a lost love for reading, I’m confident this list has something to reawaken your literary spirit. So, here’s my personal selection of the top four fiction and top four non-fiction books of 2023, a celebration of the enduring power of storytelling in our lives.
Fiction Books
- The Bee Sting by Paul Murray. A tragicomic narrative about an Irish family’s challenges post-2008 financial crash.
- Chain-Gang All-Stars by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah. A dystopian satire in a world where death row inmates compete on a TV show.
- North Woods by Daniel Mason. A sweeping novel about a single house in the woods of New England, told through the lives of those who inhabit it across the centuries
- The Fraud by Zadie Smith. A gripping tale examining 19th-century London’s social controversies.
Non-Fiction Books
- Revolutionary Spring: Europe Aflame and the Fight for a New World, 1848-1849 by Christopher Clark. Delving into Europe’s revolutionary period in the mid-19th century.
- Fire Weather: A True Story from a Hotter World by John Vaillant. Focuses on the impacts of climate change.
- Red Memory: The Afterlives of China’s Cultural Revolution by Tania Branigan. An exploration of the Cultural Revolution and how it shapes China today.
- Master Slave Husband Wife by Ilyon Woo. The remarkable true story of Ellen and William Craft, who escaped slavery through daring, determination, and disguise…
We are looking for a passionate, innovative graphic designer who can make a significant impact in print, digital, and interactive media. If you are eager to apply your game design experience in a creative literary setting, we invite you to join our team at Litro Magazine.
Responsibilities:
Print Magazine Design: Lead the design of our quarterly print magazine, upholding the highest standards of detail, typography, and design aesthetics.
Digital and Interactive Graphic Design: Create compelling graphics for our website, social media, and email campaigns. Your role will encompass conceptualizing and creating interactive and game-related design elements, infusing gamification and interactive storytelling into our digital presence.
Desired: Proficiency in designing immersive environments for VR and AR, pushing the boundaries of visual storytelling. Animation and motion graphics skills are a bonus.
Brand Consistency: Ensure a consistent and evolving design narrative across all media channels, including print, digital, and interactive platforms.
Qualifications:
Diverse Design Experience: Proven track record in graphic design, with a strong portfolio displaying print, digital, and interactive/game design projects.
Expertise in Design Software: Proficiency in Adobe Creative Suite (InDesign, Photoshop, Illustrator) and familiarity with game design tools and software.
Creative and Interactive Vision: Exceptional ability to translate ideas into visually striking designs across various media, including interactive and gaming elements.
Adaptability and Agility: Thrive in a dynamic environment, adapting to changing priorities and meeting tight deadlines.
Knowledge in Print Production: Skilled in print production processes and pre-press procedures.
Remuneration:
Compensation will be discussed during the interview process and will reflect your experience and skills.
To Apply:
Send your resume, cover letter, and a portfolio that includes examples of print, digital, and game/interactive design work to info@litro.co.uk We are excited to see how your unique blend of skills and experiences will contribute to Litro Magazine’s vision.
10 minute read.
Our kind came from the sea.
Webbed hands gripped the smoothed rock. The softened wood of the pier fractured in our fingers. Our taut forearms were strong from life beneath. We dragged our blue-tinged bodies up, scaled – or perhaps furred, with algae – shaking tangled kelp from our hair. And in our blood, the song that drags a man to his grave.
So my mother told me. And her mother told her.
It’s just a story. But that doesn’t stop me listening for the lapping of waves in my pulse, just the same.
*
I go to Venice because that is the place we rose from. Leave my keys behind in London, trace canal edges to a door that is mine just for now. Drag my case up marble stairs, turn the lock twice to open and then remember the raincoat I wanted to bring, still on the kitchen table. He will clear it away come dinnertime. He loves to cook. Sauces, breads, sugared treats. I am so lucky, people tell me. I am lucky.
I text: I’ve made it.
Good, he replies.
*
For months, I have been trying too hard to decipher my lover’s low pulse. He tells me to stop overthinking. Venice is my distraction, a city built on mud and yet still standing. I want to learn its secret. And I am eager to know what other stories this ancient place might offer me. If this blood echoes in our veins, then surely more stories will reveal themselves. Before all this meets the water again.
That sounds like destiny, but I don’t like that word.
*
I throw back the thin curtains and unlatch shutters that are hundreds of years old. I push them hard, revealing the pink-washed sky and teal water below. I think of his words: You don’t know what you want. Trust me.
Maybe. But for now, there’s a cool breeze and the fading sun on my cheeks.
***
Morning light fills the apartment. I find a Mokka pot in the cupboard and a bag of coffee held shut with a yellow clothes peg. To the sound of steam escaping, I watch the canal below. A man passes by in his boat, stacked high with boxes of fresh lettuces, apples, cherries, radicchio. A cigarette hangs loose from his lips. Despite leathered skin, he is beautiful, like the façade behind him; lit in sunrise, edges peeling where the plaster has come unstuck. As if he and the whole city were torn from tissue and layered there just for my pleasure.
I send a quick text but receive no reply.
He told me last week: I can’t fight for you.
I should stop pushing but when you feel something slipping away, the urge is to hold on as tightly as possible. As the shore is swallowed by the sea, my eager fingers cling to life above.
*
I try to write but I can’t write anything other than the story of how I got here. Perhaps because I keep asking myself: How did I get here?
The wind is picking up. When the shutter slams, I try again to latch it open. Peering over the outside edge, a figure appears in the window across the water. A hand snaking out, a perfect mirror, securing the opposite shutter. Our eyes meet.
He smiles.
I smile back.
*
Mother told me the story of those wet webbed hands from the dry comfort of our sofa growing up. At the end of her telling, sister would say, that’s a stupid story. Mother would laugh. My sister is too much a force for such tales, but not me. I fall right in.
I put my head to mother’s chest and listened. Waiting to hear that seashell sound.
And I swear to you I’ve heard it, and all of this is true.
***
It is November, so the streets are quiet. I take a tour to show me what these buildings mean, how they have stood tall despite the ever-shifting seabed. How they defy odds, still.
The sky is bright, but the wind is stronger. I pull my beanie down over my ears the way he hates.
You look like a strange little pixie girl, he’d say.
My guide, on the other hand, is a caterpillar ready for transformation, her coat a brilliant green. Her mouth opens and out spill words, demanding silent obedience. There seems to be no limit to the knowledge at her disposal; she knows every moulding, every windowpane, each arrangement of brick and marble, their source and significance. She knows all there is about the lives of those who looked out from those noble floors.
She knows too about the weather, and tomorrow it will be on us, she warns.
He’s told me before: If only you were more focused, you’d be unstoppable.
All I can do is admire my guide’s passion.
***
My door has a circular ring of iron that could serve as a noose. Footsteps on the cobbles lift my head. It’s the man from across the canal, edges of a grey coat flapping in the wind. He sees me and smiles again. I wave. His face is visible only for a moment before he disappears over the bridge – tense brows, and a clear set of eyes.
*
The sun never quite rises. In the Ca’ D’Oro, I’m sheltered within the first loggia. I scoff at the story of the man who threatened to destroy this place for the sake of a ballerina’s love. He wanted to tear out the old, lay it anew. Sacrilege, perhaps. But it sure is easier to scoff with history’s distance.
The wind is strong now, battering umbrellas out of hands. Nearby, a man holds his lady close, tucks her practically into his coat. Boats rock and strain against their moorings. Screaming for release.
Would I rip historic marble from the walls for the right someone? Destroy history for the present moment?
You shouldn’t trust your feelings, I hear him say. They can change.
But isn’t love a force unto itself? Outside time? Outside space?
***
An old woman sits at the table next to mine. The skin of her hands is so thin, I can watch each vein at work. Decades of sun have sprouted freckles over every inch of her face, layered into the deep folds in the corners of her eyes. Skin loose at her jaw as she speaks. She wears a Barbour jacket identical to one I left hanging in a wardrobe at home. Her dyed red hair reminds me of the way my lipstick looks after I have kissed my lover goodbye. She wears green hiking boots like the ones I use to trudge into Epping Forest. I’d never be caught dead in them here.
I know I am judging her and can’t help it. My eyes meet hers. She tells me her name is Madeleine, from Paris.
At the next table, a young family settles in. They coax their boy into a highchair, and his eyes find mine immediately. His wobbly body leans unsteady over the frame. He wants to say hello. He wants to say a lot of things, the gurgled sounds rising and falling and rising. His mother, who is perfectly rounded the way painted cherubs are, tries and fails to feed him. I ask where they are from.
Bogotà, the father says, you know it?
Never been, but I have heard great things.
Madeleine speaks little English but is entranced by the child. He likes girls, she manages to say, and the parents laugh politely.
I ask her if she has grandchildren of her own.
No, she says. No husband, no children, no sisters, no brothers. Only cousins, and a desire to travel as often as her hard-earned money will allow.
You didn’t want it? I ask her, aware that I’m overstepping.
It never came, she replies, waving her hand at the waiter.
She torments the young man in his apron in indecipherable Italian. He does his best, but she gives up, walks away, finds someone else to hear her better.
I wonder: How long can you believe that good things come to those who wait?
***
When I am finally home, I am soaked. Rain pummels the world into submission. I hang my jacket to dry beneath the air-conditioning unit in the corner. I settle in, drink coffee though I know I shouldn’t at this hour. Across the way, the man holds his own coffee cup in his hand. I call my lover.
We can talk about it in a few years, he says. Not now.
Years? I repeat. And the word bounces around the room and settles into a dark corner.
And maybe even then…
I open the window, desperate for air to fill the sentence he will not finish. The canal and its loud symphony crashes in. Cold wind slices my heart in two.
I need to go, he says.
Just me and the knocking of hulls against the stone walls for company. I try to call again, and it goes straight to voicemail.
*
I risk going out. Battle the cold to eat dinner by the water’s edge. I haven’t eaten enough lately, my hips lose their softness. So, I order baccalà mantecato, the rich cream of each mouthful a meal in itself. I order a rocket salad with chunks of parmesan and a generous dressing of balsamic. I order fried fish and aioli and a small glass of white wine which the waiter overfills. As he pours, he leans in close and whispers that I have a beautiful smile.
I eat and I eat until I do not feel cold.
***
Sleep doesn’t come easy. I let the heat and heaviness of my stomach turn my body into stone. Let it fall down, through ages and rest in the mud. Where it seems to belong.
Down there, I hear a voice: Set me free!
It’s so desperate, so pitiful, I search for it. I cry out, where are you?
Please! It begs.
I turn and turn but there is nobody there.
Of course not. The voice is my own.
***
I see the man from across the canal at the market. He waves at me this time. I am buying the giant curled tardivo radicchio that has captured my imagination.
Can you cook it? He asks, and I am surprised to hear a British accent. Low and gentle. I’m not sure what I expected.
I’ll figure it out, I say, and his laughter rings out like we’re old friends.
That’s the spirit.
He buys two of the purple husks for himself. You’ve inspired me, he says. His is the smile of a boy, at odds with the grey collecting at his temples.
Will you walk with me, neighbour? He asks and then he asks me my name.
And in between the words, I hear it, very softly: a beat. In my chest. Faint, as if arriving from over a great distance.
***
The storm hits harder. Warnings appear on TV, instructing us to protect ourselves from what the water may claim of the city. I try not to watch the man’s apartment from the corner of my eye, lamplight filtering out from beyond a curtain. I smack three mosquitos dead on my wall. Three black smudges remain on my fingers.
What future do we have? I ask my lover, desperate now. The words seem to belong in my throat the way the water does in my stomach. I can only hold it down for so long.
Don’t, he says, again, and then: it’s wrong to keep asking.
Why?
Because. These things come and go.
What things?
Feelings.
I never say: feelings come and go, but not the tide. Certain as it runs out in the morning, it will heave in come noon. Wind may turn and waves may form, but the tide will rise and fall again. Certain as a heartbeat. Certain as death.
Nothing I do is enough. We’re on two different planets.
And I want to scream because I always fall short here – my wanting, in direct opposition to his living.
Either you give me what I want (nothing), or I give you what you want (too much).
Maybe so. After all: Who am I to want a thing?
Finally, he says it: We can’t go on this way.
Over, it’s all over.
***
I open my eyes. The room is cast in blue and grey. There is the roar of a wave – it is coming. Suddenly, water rushes in. Filling the room, filling the bed, filling my clothes. I feel myself rising; I must swim out of here. I must survive. I hold my breath tight, rushing for the window. I reach for the metal latch, but my hand is comprised of strange skin and spindly fingers, slipping and sliding without purchase. I slam my closed fist against the glass. My chest grows tight, my stomach aches. My body screams for air. I slam that fist down, again and again. Across the way, the figure is in the window. Somehow, I hear him: Breathe, he says. Just breathe.
My body burns with the need. Time is running out.
I slam that fist again; the glass begins to crack. It won’t work. It is me, my body, versus a thousand years of history.
I can’t hold it in any longer.
My body gives up. Draws the wet into my throat, down into my lungs. I wait for the death that should come swiftly now.
But instead, I feel warm. Calm. Tension fades from every screaming pore. The hum dampens.
I was made for this water. My body breathes it right in.
***
The storm ends. It’s clear and vibrant and perfect outside, and I am crying in the market. Tears don’t stop as I hand over coins for a rich red nectarine.
I really thought I was certain. That I knew what I wanted.
I must tell myself over and over: I have been wrong before and I will be wrong again.
*
My key doesn’t turn in the lock to my door. I can’t see through the tears to set it right. A warm hand on my shoulder makes me startle.
Are you okay? The man says, coat buttoned to his neck. When I can’t reply he says, you drink coffee, don’t you?
***
His apartment is filled with stacks of books – no shelves. A collection of colourful coffee cups sits on the kitchen table like a centrepiece. It’s the detritus of a nomad, only temporarily rooted.
I am here six or seven times a year, he tells me, but I live in Barcelona. I admit to being a Londoner and he says only, yes of course you are.
I watch him fill his Mokka by the sink, set the pieces of silver tight together as if it’s a magic trick that I am seeing for the very first time. He is not a big man, but there is something sturdy about him; these well-worn actions feel reassuring.
We sit by the window, and I realise my own room, which I thought sufficiently obscured, is in very good view.
You can see my whole apartment, I say, and his face remains neutral. I should close my curtains.
Not the whole apartment, he says at last. There is heat in my face. People come and go there, and I like to give them stories.
What’s mine? I ask.
He smiles but he won’t tell me.
***
I take too many pictures of the Palazzo Fortuny. Dizzied by it, I let its beauty consume me whole. Disappear within each hanging picture, in the reflected light of each object, displayed with the pride that comes from a life lived uncut. A husband and wife made this place a timeless monument to their unity. I am envious beyond belief.
It’s all I can do to stop myself falling apart and crying again, especially when I turn a corner to find a wall-to-wall fresco of a garden tucked neatly into the heart of this house. A whole world! Right here, contained in these walls!
They must have been happy. How could they not be?
***
I agree to meet the man from across the canal for lunch. But as we approach the restaurant, it’s already overflowing with people. A shame, he says. And then, I still have that radicchio.
He cooks it in butter and wine.
We eat by the window, and I tell him more than he would care to know.
I pushed too much, I say. I don’t know what I want.
He looks at me a moment before he says: It sounds like you know exactly what you want.
I laugh. How absurd.
You wanted to have the conversation. And you need two people for that.
Maybe, I say. Maybe so.
Sounds like your heart has been breaking for a long time, he says. His warm hand comes to rest on mine, still holding my fork.
I don’t know how much time passes there. Green glints in his eye. I should look away, but the song inside me is loud enough that I do not hear the tide.
***
On the Rialto Bridge, a man kneels. Right in the damp. His coat is caught beneath his leather shoes. He produces a velvet box from a pocket and the crowd turns. They start clapping, as at last the woman before him realises just what is happening. Her squeal turns the water in my stomach. She kisses his face; yes, of course, yes.
I stare long after others move away. Read the lovers eyes that say: here is a future. You and me and us, together. The ultimate storybook ending.
I should close that book and keep walking. Forget that I know all the words. But how?
***
Don’t even try to sleep. My lover’s old words echo in my ears: We’re perfect. But as soon as the world gets in, we’re lost.
He also said: You never just say what you need.
Which is it?
I want nothing. I want everything.
I let the shutter smash and with each ricochet another piece of anger falls from my chest. I watch it ripen in my hands.
All that wasted time!
***
I bring the man from across the canal a tray of cicchetti, still warm. Set the tray down, search out a plate to arrange them on. He hovers nearby. Just out of reach.
And then I turn.
Let the curve enter my back as I lean into that marble countertop. Tuck my elbows behind me. He watches. Takes a step, and another. His hand meets my waist. With that touch, everything folds. His body meets my arc; his leg, warm between my own, he pulls me into him. When his lips trace mine, heat spreads into my stomach, down into my thighs. I want to live there, in the perfect leaning between us. When he lifts his hand from my hip, cold rushes in, but then that hand lands again, around my wrist. The other trailing up into the tangle of my hair. When our lips part, I stare into the sky of his eyes.
What should happen next? Choices unfurl there. But then I hear it: the song has begun to play. In time with the drip, drip, drip of my heartbeat. I watch him trying and failing to calculate, the blood pumping violently in his neck. Hunger fills his eye, and then his fingers close around my throat as though he is clinging to the shoreline in a storm. His lips meet the ridge of space beneath my collarbone and then I know: He never stood a chance.
*
In the heat of his bed, I tuck myself into the smooth of his chest. Like I belong there. And he tells me about the woman who broke his heart a year ago.
She was everything, he says.
I marvel at such a sentence.
Pain takes time, he says. So much time.
I don’t want to admit that instead of such feelings, all I hear is the roar of unchecked waves and the cold, hard, clattering of antique shutters.
In my smallest voice I say: I want that pain.
And he looks at me, confused, like he hasn’t quite heard. I don’t bother to repeat or explain. This man is just a boat in the harbour.
Coffee? He says at last, for lack of anything else.
Why not.
***
In my room, I toss and turn, twisting the sheets around my legs. I’m hot. I shiver with cold. Inside my chest there is a hollow. And in that hollow, the water rushes in.
I want to know: If you place your ear to my chest now, what will you hear?
A heartbeat? Or a siren’s call?
The call says: set me free.
And I see the face of a young man, pulling his net into his boat. He looks down into my eyes and smiles. Come, he says, reaching out his hand. Come up here.
With his strong grip I feel my body rise. Freed from the dark, colour and light blows in. By his side, in the sweet morning sun, I feel safe. He tells me his name is Orio, and he promises to marry me.
You must also promise, I warn him. That you will not look on me again until that wedding day.
He swears he will not.
But the sun rises again, and I hear him say my name. Melusina! He calls over the waves. My beautiful Melusina!
I try to hide but he is sharp-eyed, a lifelong sailor. And when our eyes meet, I feel my body shift. Form and reform. He sees me for what I am now: a hideous creature from the deep. No, I want to say. Please try to understand.
But my jaw unhooks; my lips widen, my mouth doubles, triples in size, my teeth gathering and sharpening to taste his blood. I slither into the boat, and he is screaming.
He raises the fishing hook high above his head and brings it down, piercing my skin again and again.
My laughter erupts as he drowns in my own blood. Filling the boat and bringing it down.
Serves you right, I say as I meet the water again. Cool, calm, my dark home. Serves you right for loving me.
***
I pack my case, disordered. Leave the key on the table by the heavy door. I see a light on, across the canal. No more words now, not even goodbye. In London, I will have to let the past fall at the feet of another future. I’ll have to write this story anew.
*
When I see my lover, at last, on our doorstep, at the place that was once our home, I realise we are not two planets, that’s not quite it. We are two islands that used to meet in low tide. But not anymore.
He looks at me, eyebrow raised.
What did you do?
Whatever I wanted.
He laughs hard, like it’s a joke. And then he turns away. Good, he says as he goes. So you should.
***
I make my way to the Thames as though its grey and brown surface will fill my need for the water. I long for the teal, the pink sunset. But never mind, it will do. I lean over the edge, reach down for it. My fingers are blue, and my eyes shine green. And my pulse, rhythmic in my chest, sings. I want a pain that strikes down into the very bedrock, and I want to build a house on the shifting mud that I find there.
From the depths I see a cool hand coming to rest on my own. A smile against my shoulder. A distant shoreline, where we make our promises. The crying of a newborn. Dust swept clear of the threshold of our home.
All too much. But I can’t help it. I want and I want and I want.
“Last orders, please.”
Joseph Garson awoke, as he had countless times before, to the sound of a ringing brass bell. His hands shook violently as he checked himself over, ensuring he was entirely there. He belched, scratched his armpit, sniffed his fingers. Raising his pint, he eagerly drained the last few dregs. The Cross Keys was a diminutive drinking hole, hardly there at all, that Joseph had started to frequent following the failure of his marriage. A traditional boozer of a type long lost, the walls were lined with dark wooden panelling, embellished with wrinkled sepia photographs of the local dead. A collection of vandalised chairs and tables stood rooted, scraped and scratched, all covered in a fine layer of silvery dust. The large brass bell hung from a hook next to the counter, reflecting the pub’s dim interior in lustreless gold.
As he squinted into the shadows, Joseph was relieved to see only the regulars in that evening. The Sleeper was in his habitual high stool, his long-haired head resting on a plastic ashtray. Saliva leaked from his mouth, gathering into a glutinous pool on the bar. Eamonn the Irishman looked across from his table and raised two fingers to his brow, before returning to consider an empty glass tankard, a dreamy smile on his lips. The Weeping Widow sat alone, silently sobbing into a handkerchief. Mascara ran away from her red-rimmed eyes, giving her a ghoulish look. Joseph wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his pinstriped Giovanni Rossi suit, purchased in more bountiful times, and picked absentmindedly at a raggedy hole in the forearm where his shirt showed through.
“Last orders gents, if you please,” repeated Cato, the ever-present barman. His impossibly crisp white apron and bronzed complexion were incongruous in the dingy atmosphere, yet for as long as Joseph could recall Cato had been there; offering neither judgement nor condemnation, Cato simply served, made polite conversation, and occasionally reminded his guests of the rules.
Joseph leaned on the bar, rubbing sleep from his gummy eyes. “Cato. A pint of the usual,” he ordered, “Packet of cheese and onion too.”
The barman threw a cloth over his shoulder. “I’m afraid we don’t serve food sir,” he said. “We didn’t see the need.”
“Of course, that was indelicate of me,” replied Joseph, ashamed of having asked.
“Not to worry, sir. Please, your drink,” said Cato, placing a lager onto the counter with a sterile smile.
Joseph avoided his gaze. “Good man. I’ll be on my way shortly,” he said, taking a sip. The brown booze had a calming effect on his tremors, yet his hands still trembled.
“Certainly, Mr Garson, it’s been a pleasure to have you here with us this evening.”
“Quite. I’ll settle up when I’m next in.”
“As you wish, Mr Garson.”
Joseph looked to his wrist but found only a ring of flaky flesh. “What time is it Cato, if you don’t mind?”
“Couldn’t say Mr Garson,” Cato replied, staring at him blankly.
“Oh for God’s sake man!” Joseph bristled. “Is it too much to ask, really?” He wandered back to his table as the barman bowed his head and sat, with some difficulty, in his usual spot. Joseph’s stool was upholstered in purple crushed velvet and there were no others like it. He was sure that one leg was shorter than the other two and was forever turning the damned thing about, flipping it over, trying to discover some ideal position, often needing to extend one of his own legs out for balance. Joseph wobbled as he attempted to light a cigarette and immediately burst into a coughing fit, hacking up a glob of phlegm into a napkin which he folded and slipped into his pocket.
“No smoking Mr Garson, please,” said Cato.
“Mea culpa,” said Joseph, holding up a hand. He extinguished the cigarette on the tabletop and swept both butt and ash onto the floor. Cato winced.
A torturous shriek erupted from behind him, jolting Joseph upright; his back jarred painfully. The Weeping Widow’s mouth hung open, her jaw slack. A low gurgle persisted, bubbling from her lip. Those stained eyes were perpetually fixed on the black door at the far end of the bar, as if expecting someone to return at any moment. Clutching a bottle of Chateau d’Yquem to her chest, she fingered a gold ring hanging from a chain around her neck. Tears dribbled down her face, dangling for an instant from a dimpled, pink chin before dropping into her lap. She must have been a fine-looking woman, thought Joseph, and one of high-class, he was certain.
“Cheer up,” Joseph said, swivelling to face her. “Maybe he’s running late?” He neither expected nor received a response, or any indication she had heard him. She remained as she was, gaping at the door, her face quivering. Joseph leant towards her, his eyes wandering to her breasts, and lowered his voice. “Have we met before…” he jerked his head towards the frosted window “…out there?”
The brass bell rang
*
“Last orders, please.” Cato called.
Joseph turned back to his table to find only the frothy remains of a pint. “Damn it!” he cursed. “What’s going on here Cato? I’ve hardly had a taste and some bugger’s drunk it!”
“I really couldn’t say, Mr Garson,” replied Cato. “Same again?”
Joseph eyeballed him angrily. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d have me here for eternity, eh? You scab.”
“Mr Garson, I’d remind you that you’re free to leave at any time,” replied Cato.
“Anytime Joe!” said Eamonn looking up sharply, a wry smile on his face.
“Right. Well, in that case…” Joseph rose from his stool and marched towards the door. Cato’s eyes followed him impassively. Eamonn smirked. Joseph placed his palm against the rough-sawn wood and felt a chill sweep over his hand. An awful, shivering fever took hold; his skin prickled and twitched, crawled with disease. White lights flashed behind his eyes and he held back the urge to vomit. He looked back over his shoulder. “Anytime you say?”
“Yes, Mr Garson, anytime,” said Cato.
“Anytime Joey, ma boy!” Eamonn echoed.
“I suppose I’ll have one for the road,” said Joseph, looking down again to the watch that wasn’t there. He took a stool at the bar next to The Sleeper.
“For the road, sir,” said Cato, setting a fresh pint in front of him. Eamonn side-shuffled over, his head lurching pathetically to one side, a needy grin on his face.
“Joe, me ol’ chuckaboo,” he said, standing uncomfortably close. He smelt of rotting leaves. “You wouldn’t fancy spotting me a drink now, would you?” He patted his pockets theatrically. “I’m a little short on the readies.” Joseph nodded to Cato who produced another pint and placed it on the bar. The Irishman snatched it and drank a half-pint in one long gulp. “Now that’s the ticket. Thank you, Joey!”
“Joseph, please. And why are you here, Eamonn, if you lack the necessary ‘readies’?”
“Well Joey, now that’s the particular conundrum, you see,” Eamonn said, carefully wiping foam from his upper lip. He raised his eyes to the ceiling thoughtfully. “Why are any of us here?”
“So?” said Joseph impatiently, “Pray, do enlighten us!” He tapped The Sleeper on the arm, keen for some support.
“Well now it’s complicated, I’ll tell you that,” Eamonn continued. “Who could say why Miss Church Bells is here?” he gestured towards The Weeping Widow. “She don’t say nothing to no-one, not since I’ve been here anyway. And old giggle-mug there?” He gave The Sleeper a sharp poke. “Well all he does is sleep, for as long as I’ve known him.”
“So why is he here? You’re not making sense.”
“Nothing makes sense here, Joey, nor should it.” Eamonn frowned. “I might suggestionise that sleepyhead is here to work out why he’s here. And he’s been at it for a long time, I’ll tell you that.”
“And you, Eamonn?” Joseph asked, fast becoming frustrated with the Irishman’s sermonising.
“Now that’s the one question I can’t answer. Some sorta mistake I shouldn’t wonder.” He looked pointedly at Cato who promptly became preoccupied with a smudged wine glass, studiously holding it up in the hazy light. “Surely some error on their part.”
The brass bell rang
*
“Last orders, please sirs,” Cato said quietly. Joseph looked down at his pint.
“Damn you, Cato! Are you fiddling my drinks?”
“Forgive me, I don’t know what you mean Mr Garson,” replied Cato, wide-eyed. “Same again?”
“Hell’s bells no! I’m leaving!” Joseph said, running a hand through his hair. “My wife will be waiting.”
Eamonn laughed. “Don’t sell me a dog Joey! No one’s waiting for you,” he said, gently slapping him on the back.
“I have work in the morning.”
“They won’t be expecting you.”
“My friends?”
“You’re long forgotten. Or at least they try to. Maybe they’ll pour one out for you!” Eamonn let out a barking laugh, striking the bar with a meaty hand. “I may be half-mad by now, but I know that they’re probably all best off without you.”
“I see,” said Joseph, clutching at his temples. “Things do get rather muddled in here, don’t they?”
“That they do Joey, that they do,” replied Eamonn.
Joseph clenched his jaw as pain bolted through his skull. “Same again Cato,” he said weakly. He searched inside his suit jacket for his wallet but found only the lining. “On the tab?”
“Not a problem, Mr Garson. I’m pleased you’ve decided to stay with us a little longer.” He placed a fresh pint on the bar.
Joseph took a sip and eyed Cato suspiciously, then turned to Eamonn. “You must have the time, don’t you?” he asked pleadingly.
“Ha! Cato, pour me another on him, he’s blootered!” howled Eammon. “Now what would you be needing to know the time for?”
Cato placed a firm hand on Eamonn’s arm. “Now now, sir. Best not?”
“Right you are. Sorry, Cato,” Eamonn replied. “I must remember to shut the old sauce box.”
“Ah ha! In cahoots are we?” Joseph exclaimed, jumping to his feet and knocking over his stool. “You two. An Irishman and a uh… where are you from exactly Cato?” he asked, picking up the stool. Cato released Eamonn’s arm.
“Thank you so much for asking Mr Garson. My parents lived in Tivoli, just outside Rome. I was a quiet child but had a fierce determination. I left home at a young age and set out into the world, with nothing but the−“
“Has anyone checked on him?” Joseph interrupted, pointing to The Sleeper. “I mean… is he…?”
“He’s perfectly fine, Mr Garson,” replied Cato, with just a touch of vexation. “Perhaps sir should do what he does best and worry about himself, rather than others?”
“Well, well!” Joseph said, pushing over his stool again, “Finally showing your true colours, eh Cato?” He pointed over the counter, his finger shaking furiously. “And after all the patronage I’ve given you over the years, you parasite!”
“Quite right sir, that was unforgivable of me. I’m truly sorry.” Cato examined the floor. “Same again, on the house?”
Joseph looked to his drinks. “God damn it Cato, you handsome devil!” His forehead throbbed. “I really must be leaving. What time is it?” He caught the bar to steady himself as Eamonn put an arm around his shoulders.
“Would you like me to dispose of these, Mr Garson?” said Cato, holding a pint of lager and a glass of whisky.
“What is that? Glen Caillte?” asked Joseph, eyeing up the twinkling cut glass tumbler in Cato’s hand.
“Twenty-five-year single malt, sir. Hints of toasted oak interwoven with subtle notes of sea mist and peppery aromatic−”
“Yes, yes, damn you! Hand them over.” Joseph grabbed both glasses and thrust the whisky under his nose, inhaling deeply. “On the house, you say?” he murmured from within the rim as he returned to his table. He lit a cigarette and enjoyed the mingling of whisky and smoke over his tongue.
“Mr Garson,” said Cato sternly.
“Christ Cato, what about him!” said Joseph, pointing to Eamonn. The Irishman casually blew a smoke ring towards the dartboard, a cigarette hanging from his hand. “Don’t know how he can bloody afford them either,” Joseph said loudly. Eamonn chuckled and took another drag, allowing the ash to fall onto his stomach.
“Unfortunately those are the rules, Mr Garson. I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Cato, as Joseph reluctantly put out the cigarette on the table. “You could have smoked outside, sir. You could have done whatever you wanted out there.”
Joseph glanced towards the frosted window from the corners of his eyes. The sun was setting and cast an amber hue across the bar, illuminating a pattern of dust motes suspended in the musty air. Beyond the thick glass, blurred forms scuttled in all directions: twisting, bumping, melting imperceptibly into each other. Joseph gripped his table and closed his eyes tightly.
“But what are they all doing, Cato?” he asked, opening one eye.
“Oh, I don’t know sir; living, I suppose. Loving, losing, fighting, forgetting.”
“I’m better off in here,” Joseph said, looking down at his hands, now pale and bloodless at the table’s edge. Cato smiled faintly and resumed his polishing, whilst Eamonn looked on pensively.
“I’m going for a slash,” Joseph announced, fondling his swollen belly. He weaved his way to the icy toilets and avoided his reflection in the mirror above the sink as he entered. Too much guilt, too much grief. He assumed the position in front of the long metal trough that ran along the tessellated tiled wall and grimaced as the pressure built in his abdomen. He stared sullenly at his flaccid penis. How much usage he used to get out of this little prick! And see now how it flopped about in his trousers, a wretched scrap of meat, unable to complete even the most banal of tasks.
Eamonn appeared beside him and let loose a thundering stream of beef stock piss, creating a pungent fog that drifted up into Joseph’s face. He stared ahead and tried not to react to the provocation. The Irishman elbowed him in the ribs.
“You got the morbs, Joey boy?” he said gleefully, looking down at Joseph’s cock for slightly longer than felt natural.
“All good here, thank you,” he replied, willing his bladder to release.
“I think you’re wasting your time there, me ol’ chuckaboo!” Eamonn slapped him on the back and left with a laugh.
“Damn you,” said Joseph under his breath, depositing himself back in his trousers, his midriff still bloated. He made his way through the piss-mist and back into the soft yellow light of the pub. A muffled thumpa-thump from somewhere above his head caused him to pause; he looked up to the roughly plastered ceiling to catch a cloud of falling white powder in the face, sending him spluttering back to his table.
“Party on the first floor tonight, Cato? Any ladies?” he said, massaging his eyes.
“I’m sure there are sir, we’re always fully booked.”
“Any chance I could…?”
“No. Private event, I’m afraid. Invitation only. However, you’re welcome to stay at the lower level for as long as you desire, Mr Garson.”
“Oh bollocks Cato!” Joseph shouted. “All I’m after is a little fun before I go… you know before I ah… head−”
“Home Joey? Is that where y’think you’re going?” Eamonn cackled.
“Oh sod off you old bastard! You think I don’t know where we are?” Joseph said, rising and shoving Eamonn against the wall. “I know all too well, my friend. And I know why you’re here, y’gobshite!”
“Do you now, Joey boy?” Eamonn responded, giving him a gentle push back.
“I do!” Joseph lit a cigarette with trembling hands and took a drag. “You’re here to bloody torment me, that’s what.”
“Sir, if you wouldn’t mind,” Cato said, looking pained. “Your cigarette?”
“Fuck off Cato, you’re the same!” Joseph leaned over the counter. “I’m on to you too! Keeping us in here like this.” He extinguished the cigarette on a bar towel. “How long does this go on Cato?”
“Perhaps you should sit down, Mr Garson, you seem exhausted.”
Eamonn guided him towards his damned stool. “You’re sick Joe,” he said softly, stroking Joseph’s back. “And you’re asking the wrong questions. Let me ask you, did you live a good life? Were you an honourable man?”
“What? I don’t know, I wasn’t the best, I suppose. I tried.” Joseph sat down heavily on his stool.
“Tried what, exactly, me ol’ cocker? Tried to make as much money as you could for yourself, forsaking all others? Got hold of the jammiest bits of jam and ignored her, ’til she hated you? We know all about you, Joseph Garson.” Eamonn’s face was inches from Joseph’s, his eyes wild. “Now you’re grinning at the daisy roots you’re feeling the choices you made, all the poor people you hurt.”
The brass bell rang
*
“I’d like to leave now,” said Joseph, his head spinning from a cracking shot of pain.
The brass bell rang
“Then put down your drink and go, Joe,” said Cato, his face grim and dark. Joseph stood unsteadily and tried a sip of whisky, spilling it down his shirt.
The brass bell rang
Joseph fell back onto his damned stool. He lit his last cigarette, wheezily inhaled, then stubbed it out on the table. Cato winced.
The brass bell rang
Eamonn giggled maniacally, thumping the table with his palm.
The brass bell rang
The Weeping Widow screamed.
The brass bell rang
Joseph’s eyelids drooped, his head nodding. The stench of varnish, beer, sweat and urine overwhelmed him as the bar slipped out of sight. Gasping for breath he struggled, for just a moment, to reach some other dark place. His eyes opened.
“Last orders gents, if you please.”
Barabbas stares at Nothing on his way to work. Nothing is a colourless fog that does not move or smell or make any sound. It can be glimpsed, for a time, during the passage between the heavens and the earth that is the commute of all celestial entities. Everyone hates seeing Nothing. This is because it’s a matte null state whose fundamental property is the suspension of properties. This includes, but is not limited to, physical law, sensory experience, epistemological truth, conscious thought, mathematical certainty, temporality, and the existence of things like small get-togethers or capybaras, which might otherwise make such absences bearable.
Human theology has sometimes vaguely gestured to Nothing as purgatory, where souls are purified without being punished. Yet even the cherubs, who are dumber than cinderblocks, know that far worse than pain is the absence of any feeling whatsoever. Barabbas stares at that repulsively serene fog and feels every microorganism in his body collectively tell it to fuck off. There are three years left. Three years, to get his damnation percentages up to snuff before he is cast into that endless lack of color.
Celestials like Barabbas may be immortal but they are made for purpose, so when they stop doing their jobs effectively it becomes necessary to dissolve their consciousness in Nothing for a few centuries before reconstituting them. Workplace policy guidelines refer to this process as an “employee renewal,” but most celestials just call it “getting scrubbed” since no one ever comes back entirely the same. Folks that have been scrubbed are always a little out of it for the first few years after returning, but are ultimately fine once they develop a personality again. No guarantee it will be the same as the original though.
Barabbas likes his personality. Sure, his sensibilities may be a little archaic, a little over-refined perhaps, for modern damnation practices, but he has a genuine flair for the artistic that’s crucial for his role as a lust demon. You have to be damn creative to creatively damn people after six thousand years of human history and Barabbas thinks of himself as having a spark for the work, at least until recently. Sometime in the late nineteenth century his damnation numbers began to spiral downward.
The problem is every lust demon’s worst nightmare: impotence. It turns out there’s a lot of emotional labour involved in transgression for a demon. Even his manager, Lucretia, knows that his uncooperative nethers are just a physical manifestation of a greater underlying disenchantment with his work. Yet Barabbas is desperately aware of the looming threat of being scrubbed so that his sessions with Eugene, his new therapist, have a frantic undertone to them. When one is used to immortality there is something deeply traumatic to the sensation of time running out. Occasionally he’d encounter mortals – particularly where the Greed Division has been involved – whose longtime spouse had died after secretly running up insurmountable debts, and Barabbas fancies that his anxiety now mirrors their own. Specifically, a sense that what had felt so reassuringly self-evident had, in fact, never been there to begin with.
Nothing is a colourless fog that does not move or smell or make any sound.
Barabbas has moved past Nothing by now and is well on his way to earth. His shift tonight involves an orgy in New York’s financial district. He tries to forage for enthusiasm within himself, rooting through the truffle field of his desires, yet the image of Nothing’s uncoloured fog absorbs anything that he uncovers.
*
Dull. Vanilla. Tedious. Dozens of humans and hell-beings are scattered around Barabbas, inserting foods, liquids, and bits of themselves into each other with extraordinary enthusiasm and elasticity. The penthouse apartment that he moves through is a pheromonal miasma, aware only of the dull roar of boredom within himself and the need to keep an eye out for his supervisor. He squeezes and pushes his way through the heaving bodies of the revellers so that, by the time reaches the bar, he is like an oversaturated rag, soaked in sweat, smoke, and semen.
“Peppermint tea, please.”
The bartender is a tentacled eldritch aberration named Othniel, mixing several cocktails while pleasuring a number of human patrons at the same time. The request causes most of its eyes to swivel towards Barabbas.
“An enema?” Othniel asks hopefully.
“No, in a cup please. For drinking.”
Othniel deflates – the suggestion of a sigh – and resumes its various duties while fetching a teabag and filling a styrofoam cup with hot water. The sharp smell of the mint is an oasis for Barabbas that cuts the reek of his surroundings and he finds solace in the steam it lets off.
“What’s going on with you?” Othniel breaks the tea’s hold on him. Barabbas’s impotence is a known fact among his colleagues, but it is clear Othniel’s question is more holistic than this.
“I don’t know, Oth. It’s been a bit of struggle since the industrial revolution.”
“I get that. I think we all do. But you’re taking it pretty hard. You know it’s not personal right?”
“What’s not?”
“The way things have changed, the focus on quantity of damnations rather than quality, all the stuff that’s come up in the last two centuries.”
“I know that. I do. It’s just…” Barabbas gestures vaguely with the styrofoam cup around him. “It just feels like the mortal realm has gotten to the point where it fucks mortals harder than we ever could, you know?” Othniel seems a little concerned, so Barabbas decides to deflect his own moroseness with a joke.
“I mean this thing may be impressive,” he gestures to the flaccid penis that hangs like an unused firehose between his cloven-hoofed legs, “but it isn’t $150k in student debt.”
Othniel wobbles in a way that connotes laughter. Barabbas takes another sip of his peppermint tea.
“Lucretia is gonna be upset if she sees you taking a break.”
“I know, I know. Just do me a solid and don’t mention I was here.”
A jiggle of assent and Barabbas casts himself off from the bar towards the patio to get some air, still holding his cup as he steps gingerly around the blood, cum, and vomit pollocked across the floor.
The penthouse apartment that he moves through is a pheromonal miasma…
Just as he is about to reach the sliding screen door a handsome pair of older mortals grab at his genitals and excitedly try to heft the bulk of his cock between them. They have supple, blemish-free skin that, at their age, suggests great wealth. They stroke Barabbas and rave about the chiselled crimson muscularity of his upper torso, the lovely chestnut fur of his goat-like legs, and the supple leather of the wings on his back, but after a minute of failing to be aroused, he brushes the pair away with a consoling “Good effort, you two!” before sliding open the door and stepping out onto the ample patio. The duo look upset for a moment before they see someone drinking wine out of a woman’s hair and rush over to participate, forgetting about him.
On the rooftop, Barabbas nestles the small styrofoam cup of tea in his hands and inhales the night air. Lower Manhattan is laid out before him as, no doubt, many of its employees are laid out in the penthouse behind. Barabbas’ musing is cut short by a voice that booms across the stonework.
BARABBAS, ARE YOU ENJOYING THE PARTY?
“Hey, Lucretia.” He turns to address a nine-foot-tall succubus, who stands casually while a dozen human supplicants minister to her. “Full disclosure: I’m struggling a little tonight.”
AH, THAT IS UNFORTUNATE. I KNOW THINGS HAVE BEEN DIFFICULT LATELY, BUT I WILL CONFESS THIS EVENING’S FESTIVITIES ALSO STRIKE ME AS A LITTLE DULLER THAN USUAL. She does, in fact, have a very neutral expression on her face despite the team of men and women focused on her various body parts.
IS THAT TEA?
“Yes, it’s peppermint, would you like some?”
Lucretia laughs and it is like being shelled by artillery.
YOU ALWAYS DID HAVE SUCH A DROLL SENSE OF HUMOR, BARABBAS. BUT DON’T INDULGE YOURSELF TOO MUCH, WE ARE ON THE JOB AFTER ALL.
“Yes of course, I’ll get right back to it.” There is a managerial glint in Lucretia’s eye that scares him. With effort, he plasters a smile onto his face. She plucks a man off of herself, lifting him easily by the neck.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE ME TURN THIS HUMAN INTO A LIVING HAND PUPPET? IT IS ONE OF MY MANY PARTY TRICKS, BARABBAS, IT MIGHT CHEER US BOTH UP.
“I’m good, I think.”
OKAY. Her disappointment alchemises into a teambuilding attempt, WELL, TAKE A MINUTE IF YOU NEED IT, BUT I KNOW YOU CAN STILL COMMIT SOME EXCEPTIONAL ACTS OF DAMNATION TONIGHT. LET’S TRY TO TURN UP THE HEAT ON THESE REVELS TOGETHER! She pumps a fist in the air, sending the human man flying perilously close to the rooftop’s railing, GO TEAM.
“Go team!” He tries to meet her fist pump without spilling tea and is unsuccessful. She nods, satisfied, and stalks away decisively through the patio doors, leaving behind a trail of mortals who scramble to follow her inside like naked ducklings. Barabbas lingers in order to finish his drink and keep feeling sorry for himself.
The urge to stretch his wings to their full length and fling himself into the night sky is almost irresistible. He wants to charge upwards towards the moon, a demonic Icarus fleeing a poor quarterly. Barabbas thinks he would prefer to die as he is, rather than be scrubbed, but alas – his exquisite celestial form betrays him by preventing this. So, when the time comes, he turns around and re-enters the orgy, absent-mindedly holding his empty cup until he can find a garbage can.
*
He is back in his hell-home, lying on his sulphurous couch and drifting on the gentle seas of his own hopelessness.
Sleep is what he wants, but he has an outrageous headache from the fistful of sildenafil pills he had taken at the orgy, enough to defile some mortals with a partial erection. None of them had died during the act but Lucretia was still encouraging. ONE STEP AT A TIME, BARABBAS. KEEP IT UP! She’d said, before apologising for her insensitive choice of words.
A bell rings throughout his home, one long deep note that makes everything rattle. Barabbas sits up. He has forgotten about his therapy appointment tonight. As the reverberations trail away, the mind-shattering vision of an abstract yet unmistakably living entity appears before him, its countless eyes embedded in shifting interlocked wheels framed by heavenly fire. Barabbas groans, dazzled.
“Hi Eugene.”
“Hello, Barabbas. How are you feeling?” The angel’s greeting is a dulcet whisper that arrives in the brain the way a brick arrives in a bowl of spaghetti. Eugene’s words are seared into consciousness forever, literally impossible to forget, outside of being scrubbed.
“I’m alright. My shift in New York tonight was uneventful. It’s still a struggle.”
“I find it interesting that you still respond to my questions about how you are feeling with answers about your work.”
“Isn’t that what we’re here for?”
“Certainly, but have we not agreed previously that each of us is more than our labour? While we might be trying to solve problems around your job performance, the topic of these sessions remains you. We are trying to map, without judgement, the rivers of the self. It is within that deep rushing water of the soul that I expect we’ll locate what ails you.”
Barabbas struggles for a response. He can’t seem to summon any meaningful anecdotes to offer, though this doesn’t worry him. The awkwardness of their initial meetings by now has melted into a pleasant rapport.
The urge to stretch his wings to their full length and fling himself into the night sky is almost irresistible.
Admittedly it does still feel strange sometimes to have an Ophanim, one of the guardians of the throne of God, as his therapist. Yet heaven and hell recognise the mutual self-definition their existence provides each other. Barabbas sees the value of his work in similar terms. The pleasurable disorder that arises from a good lay, a rich meal, or a potent drug is essential to the entire enterprise of mortal life. In transgressing the bounds of something, you affirm the existence of the boundary itself. Without sin, there is no grace.
Their conversation meanders aimlessly for a while before Barabbas mentions in passing his admiration for a plumber named Rakesh he met in Sault Ste Marie in the mid-seventies. Eugene asks for more details, and the lust demon recounts how Rakesh had arrived at a home in the middle of a drug-fuelled swinger’s party Barabbas had arranged. The mortal was completely unfazed, and took a half hour to methodically fix the jacuzzi without being distracted once, despite the numerous solicitations of the partygoers. Barabbas spoke to him a little afterwards out of curiosity and the only explanation Rakesh offered for his concentration is that he had “seen worse,” and that the party “was just some white people shit.” This led to a brief period in which Barabbas had desperately wanted to be a plumber, although he now recognises he had been fetishising manual labour in a problematic way.
“It strikes me as significant that what you admired in this mortal was his inattention, the ability to not be present to what is occurring around him. Isn’t this precisely what you are struggling with in your work?”
“But it feels different. He could focus on his job and I can’t.”
“Yet there’s no difference within the mind. You and Rakesh both disassociate in order to focus on what you feel is important, and you clearly feel there is something more important than your work with the Lust Division. What is going through your mind when you can’t focus on the sensual delights you are supposed to inflict?”
Barabbas takes some time to respond and Eugene waits, their rings in slow rotation.
“I think… I think I am judging them, the mortals I mean. I think I have lost my respect for them.”
“Is it necessary you respect them to do your job?”
“No.” Barabbas frowns. “Perhaps. I don’t know.”
“This seems like a good thing to reflect on. May I suggest the possibility that your judgment of them is a judgment of yourself? That you may, in fact, identify with the mortals? You have often voiced your irritation about the way in which our celestial labour practices have come to reflect their earthly ones. Does thinking of their lives as pointless and painful allow you to safely express what you not dare think about your own life?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I can try to book an appointment if you’d like to talk, although the Trinity rarely descends to its consubstantial elements so getting a timeslot can be a little tricky.”
“No, no. That was just a lot to take in.”
“Of course, and I should be clear that I’m not attempting to be definitive here. But putting out ideas like this and having you consider them can be a fruitful approach. If you’ve experienced an intense response to my statement, then it may be worth following that thread of discomfort to locate your feelings.”
Barabbas is silent, processing.
“I see we’re reaching the end of our time. But I believe it would be helpful for you to consider these questions for our next session Barabbas. Take care.”
“Thanks Eugene.”
Eugene’s apocalyptic visage winks out of his mind and Barabbas is left feeling deeply alone, as anyone does when an angel withdraws their attention. He lies back on the couch, thinking about self-respect.
Heaven and hell recognise the mutual self-definition their existence provides each other.
Certainly, part of the issue is Lust Division’s modern focus on metrics-based damnation, in which a mortal soul is treated more like a number in a spreadsheet than a transcendent shard of sentience, sensation, and experience. Barabbas has to cast his mind back at least two hundred years to recall feeling proud of himself. An inner wave of nostalgia arrives for the artistry of this earlier work.
One of his proudest damnations was of a man named Filibertus, who had been the prior of a French abbey in the Dark Ages. The monk had ultimately been corrupted, but it had taken years of regular temptation to manage it, and Barabbas fondly recalls the various food-based sins he innovated to cater to the holy man’s culinarily oriented fetishes. To this day, the prickly burdock chastity belt he had developed, along with the sinful tea it produced, has never been seen since.
Yet this sort of truly bespoke damnation is totally unthinkable these days. It is a pity the heavenly order is so firmly set, he thinks, otherwise it might be worth pitching a boutique service that seduces only the most upstanding mortals.
Ah-hah. There it is. A shimmer of excitement at this idea. Barabbas folds his attention around that gentle spark within himself. For the first time in several years, Nothing, and the risk of being scrubbed, is absent from his mind.
*
Lucretia is seated across a formidably sized table for his performance review panel. She is flanked by two ethereal wraiths from Demon Resources that can barely be seen. She gives Barabbas an encouraging thumbs up before the meeting begins.
SO! BARABBAS! WE ARE SEEING SOME IMPROVEMENT THIS PAST YEAR. A 17% INCREASE IN YOUR DAMNATIONS IS A GOOD SIGN. YOU ARE ON THE RIGHT TRACK.
“There is still… the possibility… of an employee renewal…” slithers one of the resource wraiths with a voice of frost.
THAT IS TRUE. Lucretia seems irritated by the negative statement. YOU NOW HAVE LESS THAN THREE YEARS TO MEET MINIMUM QUOTAS BEFORE POLICY DICTATES THE NEED TO CONSIDER AN EMPLOYEE RENEWAL. This last word is echoed several times by the wraiths, who seem delighted by it.
COULD YOU OUTLINE FOR THE REVIEW COMMITTEE YOUR PERSONAL STRATEGY FOR MEETING THESE QUOTAS? She holds a pencil expectantly above a paper rubric and offers a fanged smile of genuine warmth and support.
“I’d like to propose that we ignore my minimum quota.” Barabbas is steady before the flutter of outrage this statement causes. The resource wraiths become more visible in their agitation, purple-green smears in the air above the desk. Once things have settled, Lucretia looks at him, no longer smiling, and asks for an explanation.
A PowerPoint slide is turned on. Barabbas begins by reviewing Lust Division’s strategy of taking a volume-based approach to damnation in the 21st century, in which a large number of minor sins are indulged to leverage the deep reservoirs of depravity contained in the internet-addled mind of the modern mortal. It’s a good approach. One that ensures the Division’s underlying contribution to the celestial order is maintained and does not require its employees to exhaust themselves trying to out-transgress the staggering level of filth vomited out by the worldwide web.
“The problem is that the reputational profile of the lust portfolio has fallen significantly among the Seven Deadly Divisions in the last thirty years. Just look at this record of mentions collected by our communications unit.” There are several downward lines coloured a rich unhappy purple. “The other divisions think we don’t need to try anymore. Despite our continued success, there’s a feeling that it’s easier now for us to tempt mortals when they are coming pre-programmed with every conceivable deviance, and this isn’t helped by our aggregated approach. As a result, our work isn’t showcased at the top level and we get less recognition. Good numbers only go so far, you need good stories.” Cautious nods now from the panel.
SO, WE HAVE A PUBLIC RELATION PROBLEM. HOW IS THIS RELEVANT TO OUR DAMNATION UNITS INSTEAD OF DIVISIONAL COMMUNICATION?
“Because we can build a small team to target only high-profile damnations.” Now Barabbas is fired up, excited. “I’m talking about only the most righteous souls on earth: wellness influencers, right-wing economists, people who post in the comments section of the New York Times, Nobel Peace Prize winners, raw food vegans…” He flaps his wings for emphasis as he speaks.
“If we start producing a handful of boutique damnations that emphasise extraordinary individual souls and innovative temptation techniques, then we show everyone that Lust Division still has what it takes to bring anyone to sin. We’re not just mass-processing the souls of investment bankers and men’s rights activists, we’re damning urban gardeners, single moms, Mennonites, everyone!” He has them, Barabbas can feel it. Lucretia is straightening in her seat as he talks.
“We give Communications something they can actually work with. They could include testimonies in our promotional materials, detailed breakdowns of the temptation process, profiles on the demons involved, that sort of thing.”
WHAT SORT OF RESOURCING DO YOU THINK WE NEED FOR THIS?
Barabbas asks for himself to made a full-time project lead, operating under Lucretia of course, along with two part-time staff secondments to assist him as direct reports. He proposes a three-year pilot program, after which – if leadership isn’t happy with his work – he will volunteer to be scrubbed. There is a beat as the performance review panel absorbs his presentation.
“This… could function…” hisses one of the wraiths.
Lucretia makes a six-foot vertical leap from a sitting position, shattering the enormous table into pieces with enough force that fragments are lodged in the drywall. Her fist is raised, triumphant.
EXCELLENT INITIATIVE BARABBAS! SUPERB DATA ANALYSIS! FANTASTIC KEY PERFORMANCE INDICATORS! THIS WILL BE DELICIOUS. She lands on her feet and slaps him on the back, sending him sprawling.
LET’S HEAD OVER TO COMMUNICATIONS RIGHT NOW. WALK WITH ME.
Barabbas staggers to his hooves. As he begins to follow Lucretia’s charge down the carpeted hallway something heavy hits his shin. Barabbas looks down to find a slight, almost delicate, tumescence to his penis.
His sense of calm arrives quietly. It cracks a beer and sits down on the deck-chair of his interiority and makes a single promise to Barabbas: we will not experience Nothing, and that is enough for now.
I never wanted to inherit the house, so I burned it down.
It was filled with crap I didn’t need, wasn’t worth much anyway and all my memories of growing up there were awful. Boring and awful. The best way I could serve the past was to burn it inside, free it and free myself from it. An indulgent act, I’m aware.
The house we had from when I was little. It was our “vacation home,” though it never felt like one. As a kid, I would’ve rather stayed in the city, playing with friends, playing computer games, and later on, chasing girls, instead of there – middle of nowhere – cold even in the summer. I’m not a nature man. Never was. Even now, I prefer the city, the fumes, the greasy food in greasy places. A short life, that’s what I have, stretching forever shorter ahead of me.
So, after all the mourning and the paperwork, I looked at what were the living remains of my parents. Little money. Their old flat. And the house. More of a hassle than an inheritance. Without telling my wife – not that she would’ve cared – I insured the house through a friend who’s a broker. He gave me a good deal on it. I let the place rest and rot until spring and then one day, I went there. I came unprepared. If anything, I was curious about what I’d find there.
The place was stuffed. It could’ve featured in one of those shows about hoarders. Since I’d last seen them, my parents had truly let go, burning through all the money that should’ve gone to me. I checked all the rooms, then went back downstairs.
It took me ages to get the fireplace going. There was a lot of smoke. I choked, then opened the windows and carried on. It occurred to me that I didn’t know how to start a fire. I was never allowed to do it for fear of getting hurt or breaking something or setting the house on fire. The humour of it – here I was, grown up now, struggling and failing to do just that.
Swearing, furious that nothing was in its rightful place, I eventually found some gasoline in the shed and doused the wood with it. I stuffed the fireplace and left my cigarette lit on its edge. If it burns, it’s chance.
I drove down to the village, had a pint, a scotch egg and a crumbly schnitzel in the local tavern. It was a sad little place and I was the only patron there. The host washed dishes and nodded at me every time I looked over. One hour later, I heard the wailing of sirens. I paid and drove back to the house, now a dome of fire. In the car, I waited for a second to think how a person in my standing should react to this.
*
The insurance scheme didn’t work out. I should’ve known. They figured I started the fire and fortunately, my friend convinced them to phrase it as me having “left it unsupervised.” The open windows seemingly fed wind to the fire. A few threatening letters followed, some accusing me of insurance fraud, but all were quelled by my lawyer. No settlement. I sold the land to cover advisory fees. Now it was as if the house never existed, I’d never owned it, I’d never spent my miserable days of adolescence between those walls. Full circle.
Back home, I delivered the news to my wife.
“The house burned,” I said. “It burned down.”
I set the keys on the hook by the door and looked up. My wife was staring.
“All of it?”
“Not a thing left. Besides ashes, of course. And this bottle of wine.”
She smiled, which I found rather inappropriate. Then we sat down at our table, I opened the bottle and poured two glasses. The wine was an expensive gift we had brought for my parents’ 40th wedding anniversary. I’d found it in the house, perched on top of the fireplace behind porcelain figurines and a plastic fruit bowl, collecting dust. They’d kept it. For whose sake, no one will ever know.
“To your parents,” she toasted.
“To them,” I added, clinking my glass to hers.
*
When I was fourteen, a big storm broke through all the seven bridges one must cross from the main road to our house. We were stuck there for ten days. It rained and it rained some more. The water peeled off the mountains and rushed down, pulling trees out of their roots and dragging them into streams. The streams swelled and boiled and forced through everything, the rapids carrying with them cars, stables, even the old mill. It was quite a scene.
Ours, perched atop the hill, was safe and our fireplace worked fine. I sat on the couch, staring at the raging weather outside and reading a Jules Verne novel about adventurers going down the Orinoco River. My mother made hot chocolate. Father watched a game on the TV, clicking his tongue whenever the signal would drop from the storm. I don’t know what time of day it was, but I remember wishing it could’ve all stopped there. That’s my fondest memory of the house, of me as a child and us as a family.
Because the trip had been planned for three days, on the seventh, we ran out of food. We had no way of reaching the village because the stream had cut us off, so we took a path over the mountains to a nearby town, if one could even call it that – the only time I saw my parents hiking. At the shops, the prices were four times what they used to be. We didn’t mind it. Father still had his ophthalmology practice and mother was an anaesthesiologist at a cosmetic surgery clinic. They spent a lot of time at work and made enough not to bother with such things.
Mother baked a cake that evening. It was a spongy one with dried fruit and yoghurt on top. I never even knew she could bake. We ate all of it, just the three of us around the table, then played rummy and they let me have a small glass of beer. It was great. Three days later, the rains stopped. From the nearby village, they organised transport and we went home. Things returned to normal.
*
There was a lot of spite in our family. Time passing made things worse, changed us all. I was away from home for a long time and grew into a stranger. My parents stayed behind and became more of what they already were. Somehow, in my absence, they hoarded as if wanting to fill the space I had left.
On the balcony, we stared at the broken skyline of our city.
Whenever we met, our connection suffered, like a live organism dying a little more each time it became exposed. We fought, mainly about the decisions I took and in turn, I made claims about how badly and absently they had raised me. They never liked my job, my wife, the home we bought, the city we lived in, not even my curtains. Much venom was spilled. In the end, what bothered them most was that I was free, I didn’t care, I went about life as if they were never there. That was always on their mind, I believe.
One time, soon after I got married, we thought we’d make another attempt to see them and spend a weekend in nature at the house. They showed us around, pointed at the changes that they had brought to the place. They craved enthusiastic praises, I knew it, but the home was awful. Crammed already. Old, decaying furniture sitting right next to IKEA plywood crap. On every surface rested cheap trinkets bought from package holidays abroad. The walls were covered in photos, paintings, even framed puzzles. The place was a bazaar. I did my best to keep my mouth shut until my mother came poking around:
“And?”
“It’s nice,” I replied, on my best behaviour.
She nodded at me, as if encouraging me to continue. I didn’t.
Then at dinner, she started again.
“If there were one thing you’d change about the house, what would it be?”
I took a deep breath and tried to pick my words. My wife stared down at her plate, picking vegetables off the pork roast my mom made, knowing full well that Philippa is vegetarian.
“Anything,” my mother added.
“There’s too much stuff. Maybe throw away some of the old things.”
“Like what?” asked my dad, frowning between mouthfuls.
I pointed around, though nowhere specific.
“Some of the old decorations, the ceramic polar bear, those wooden knives I brought from camp.” I shrugged. “That painting.”
“My mom made it,” dad said.
“I know. It doesn’t go really.”
“I told him to throw it away,” mom said, crossing her arms.
“Grandma’s gone. This house is full already. Just give some things away.”
“You’ll do that when we’re gone,” dad said, eyes glassy.
There was a lot of spite in our family.
He’d had quite a bit to drink that day. He was excited to see us, I presume. He even washed my car with the garden hose to show me some brush he bought, then polished the inside with wax. It looked all greasy now, presumably because he’d used too much. He wasn’t one for reading instructions – a more manly, intuitive force possessed him.
“You like it?” he had asked, arms resting on his hips and nodding towards the car.
“Yeah,” I responded. It was still early in the day.
I just wanted to spend time with them, reconnect maybe, not have my car washed and waxed. Mom was inside preparing the roast, dad was wiping the windshield, so in the end, me and Philippa sat on the swing and I told her about that time when the bridges broke. We only got together at dinner and that’s when things turned sour.
My dad said I was ungrateful and never appreciated what I had. How I’m a disappointment. How I should find a proper job. How he’s even surprised I got a woman to marry me.
“Paul, please,” my mom intervened, but he continued.
He told me awful things that night. He spoke slowly, explained to me how some generations gather, build stock, build riches, while others waste it away. My mother disagreed, but not enough to stop him.
“You know which one you belong to?” he asked, cackling towards the others.
Nobody laughed.
I sat there and ate my roast, which tasted good, patted Philippa on the back while she stared at her plate and when I was done, I looked up at him, smiled and promised myself to burn his fucking house down one day. We left that night without sleeping over.
*
Philippa and I finished that bottle the night after the fire, ordered food from a nearby Italian place and cracked open another wine. On the balcony, we stared at the broken skyline of our city. My leg brushed hers under the table and soon we went to bed. I felt lighter, as if something loosened inside.
Then, the other day, in the car, I remembered when I was fourteen and we walked back from the village, our bags heavy with food. The three of us grew tired and stretched at one point on the grass, side by side on our backs under a tree. I remember hearing them breathing next to me. I became conscious then that I won’t have them forever. That they’ll wither, like the rapids, once strong. And that lost in all our sourness, there were also moments of love, shining stars on a dark sky. They tried, and I tried, more than I ever gave us credit for. Now, I could let them go.
One of my favourite comic strips, Calvin and Hobbes, features a strip where Calvin proclaims his latest invention, “a writer’s block – you put it on top of your desk and then you can’t write there anymore.”
Writer’s block has taken on an almost mythical quality, and the image of a writer staring at a blank page is a familiar trope. Perhaps writer’s block is created from a sense of false expectation. Even though we know it’s not true, there is still the image of a writer being visited by a creative muse.
In a study by Yale University in the 1970s, psychologists found that there was more than one type of writer’s block, there were four general types, with different dominating emotions of anxiety or stress. However, the common thread was that they were all rooted in a deep sense of unhappiness.
Writer’s block is a type of creative paralysis. It goes beyond procrastination or distraction. It’s what happens when creativity feels tapped out, when writing itself feels like a struggle. Writer’s block is a mental impediment to the act of writing.
There’s a quote that writer’s block is actually another word for fear, and I think that’s the most accurate way to describe it. It represents the deepest doubts about oneself. It’s a fear of failure, a fear of not achieving perfection.
When faced with these doubts, it becomes easier to do nothing at all.
Writer’s block is psychological. The act of writing, of translating ideas to words on a page, requires permission from yourself. It requires permission to fail. Perhaps the way to look at writer’s block is not to see it as a conflict with yourself, but as a state of mind, an emotion to accept.
Preventing writer’s block
There’s a reason why people like to ask writers about their routines. Establishing a writing routine is one of the best methods to create a writing practice. Develop a writing habit, so that writing feels automatic, without having to utilise willpower. This also means creating the space for yourself as a writer, whether it’s a specific place in the house to work or a certain time of day that is your writing time. Maya Angelou was known to write in hotel rooms with a glass of sherry, while Joyce Carol Oates writes on notepads in longhand.
I’ve heard writers describe writing as being in a trance state. I think that the act of creating requires being in a certain state of mind. A writing routine or an established writing habit means that you can shorten the distance to enter this state. There are things you can do to “trigger” the trance state, whether it’s listening to a piece of music, feeling the weight of a pen in your hand, or taking a walk through a usual route.
Expectations when writing
It’s important to set your expectations as a writer. It is a mistake to expect constant joy when writing. Writing is difficult, it’s challenging. Some days will be better than others. There is no inspirational muse that will bestow its gifts upon you. If you have a difficult day, accept that it’s a difficult day. If you create nothing, find the space to forgive yourself, allow yourself to fail.
Overcoming writer’s block
What if you are in the middle of experiencing writer’s block? The best way to overcome writer’s block is to express yourself in a different way. In the previously mentioned Yale study, the recommendation was to do “low-level” creative exercises to unblock the mind.
Be experimental. Try painting or drawing, make construction paper animals. Try free flow word association exercises, make mind maps of words, keep a dream journal. Write lists for your characters, write letters to yourself from a character, or try writing a letter to a friend in one of your character’s voices.
Try leaving the world of writing for awhile. Take a walk, go for a run, meditate. Listen to a beautiful piece of music, read a great work by someone else. Be inspired.
As a writer, you are an instrument, open to the world. Open your mind to the beauty that’s in the world, pay attention to the details that no one else is paying attention to, unlock yourself, and the words will come.
Catherine Cho’s previous article The Stages of the Writing Process
There was a group of liberal yoga ladies—compassionate women from the same yoga community, each one connecting me to the next via a chain—who offered help at the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic. I had posted on Facebook about how my living situation was tricky given my weak immune system, and one of them shared my post within her yoga circle.
As often happens, acts of liberal altruism came with costs and drama. Before I knew it, I was isolated in the hills of Orange County, California, in a fearful situation and unsure of which yoga lady to trust.
———–
My living situation in March 2020 seemed impossible to manage during the first weeks of the pandemic. I had been staying in a tiny accessory unit that was illegally carved out of the Newport Beach house of a woman prone to screaming that she smelled burning toast. She wasn’t having a stroke; she was smelling the construction next door but blamed me instead. The unit looked and felt itchy. It had no stove, oven, or laundry machine, and I was without transportation. My car was parked across the country at my father’s house.
Still, before Covid, this dreadful little place was an oasis to me. It served a temporary purpose, as it was two blocks from the ocean. Walking on the beach every day was helping me recover from health problems during the year before—a separate chronic illness story for another time. I began genuinely gaining strength while clearing out my system. There were healthy restaurants and juice bars on the beach where I could eat. Relatively speaking, by chronic illness standards, it was the best of times.
By mid-March, the Covid virus was on a nearby cruise ship and, soon enough, California had shut down. Other human beings were to be feared, especially for high-risk people like me. Local restaurants and businesses closed, and even most delivery services paused in the area for a time. We didn’t know if food from outside would be safe to eat or touch anyway. I also didn’t have any close friends or family nearby.
I usually know better than to post outcry messages on Facebook about my health. People might not care, or they might offer useless diet advice and get upset if you don’t fall on your knees thanking them for it. At best, you might get pity, which, for complex reasons, can feel worse than no pity. There are also career risks in exposing poor health. Nobody wants to hire sick people!
Things were different in 2020, though. There was a small window during which caring about sick people was part of the hashtag “resistance.” The virus made everyone feel vulnerable. I took advantage of the moment and shared my situation.
The first yoga lady who reached out kindly connected me to a wealthy woman in her yoga circle who had an empty house in Laguna Hills. The woman was out of the country and offered me her place. I could cook, do laundry, and be safe. I could stay indefinitely, she promised.
Wow. This sounded great!
It sounded too great. Was it a trap? Depending on others is never ideal, even people you pay or marry. It can be especially fraught when you depend on the generosity of a rich stranger. Rich people have a way.
Still, I had some level of hope. This yoga lady sounded extremely sincere.
—————–
In our first conversations, the rich yoga lady was in the manic phase of charitable giving, excitedly telling me how great the property would be for my health, how safe I would feel. She had a tenant in a separate studio on the property who was recovering from cancer, but as long as I kept my distance from that woman, it was fine. “No problem!” she kept promising. “Stay as long as you want!”
I couldn’t leave right away, because I had already arranged to ship my car from the east coast to Newport Beach. I would drive to her house once it came. “No problem!” she said. “Whenever!”
Then, suddenly, four or so days after first talking, there was a problem. “When are you going to go to my house?” she asked, more than once, urgently. I explained the car situation again, but it kept slipping her mind.
Then she explained her sudden pivot: her daughter wanted to stay at her house, which had one bedroom.
“How long do you need it?” she asked, nervously. “I want to make sure you get what you need, of course.” Her tone had shifted abruptly from “whenever, for as long as you need, no problem,” to anxiety and demands, and she didn’t apologize for the shift.
Technically, I needed it indefinitely, as she had promised, but I didn’t say that.
Up until that moment in our conversations, my main job had been to take care of myself, something the rich lady seemed to support. Now, suddenly, I had a new responsibility: I had to tend to her emotional needs. She needed to feel good about reneging on her offer for me to stay indefinitely. She needed me to stay briefly, sound grateful, and leave in time for her daughter to move in. And she needed me to make her feel like this was all my idea.
So I told her I only wanted to stay for a week. I would head down to her house that day and get my laundry done there. I would use her kitchen to prepare some food I could eat back at my place.
“Great! So great! So glad I can help you. So glad you will be able to do laundry and make some food and enjoy the space for a whole week! I just want to help you! So when are you arriving and leaving again?”
In order to get in and out of her place quickly, so that her daughter could arrive, I needed to reroute my car delivery to Laguna Hills. This was the first expense, and it wasn’t cheap. Her house was twenty miles south and way, way up in the winding hills. I also needed to take an Uber to her house, the second expense, also not cheap and a risk to boot. We were all avoiding human contact at that time.
At least, I thought, I will have a nice break for a week in a better setting and take care of myself. I did assume that much would happen. I overestimated how little some people who want to help are willing to deliver.
—————————
I still remember the view from the rich lady’s giant deck. I can still practically taste the clean air. Walking on the beach was one thing, but looking down on the ocean from miles above was another. I sat in her outdoor recliner, while hummingbirds fluttered around the bird feeders above me, as I reveled in the privileged intersection of wealth and health.
The house itself, though lovely, wasn’t large, and it smelled like the dog that had just lived there. I’m allergic to dogs, so I mostly sat outside.
Soon I was greeted by the rich lady’s tenant, the one recovering from cancer. We sat far apart outside while bonding over our health concerns. She ran a virtual meditation and yoga class and offered a free space for me. She also connected me with the fourth, and last, yoga lady to help me. Her friend was going out to get groceries and offered to shop for me too. I would pay extra for the service. I had been starving, surviving on rice paper wrappers, the only food in the house.
I gave the fourth yoga lady a shopping list, based on the short list of foods and drinks that I can normally consume. I mentioned that I had a limited diet. She had my phone number. Any reasonable person would check with me for major substitutions, right?
She did not. Instead, she decided that my list wasn’t really my list. She bought several things I couldn’t eat at all, like “healthy” bars and bread filled with tree nuts and seeds, and a probiotic drink with Stevia, a quick migraine trigger. She didn’t pick up any of the drinks or vegetables I requested, but she did get me a three-pound bag of peeled frozen garlic for some reason. The bag wouldn’t have fit in the mini-fridge back at the beachside unit.
She spent over a hundred dollars on food I mostly couldn’t eat. I thanked her for the kind act of shopping for me during that scary time and didn’t complain out loud. I would eat garlic and rice that week, and at least it would be homemade.
The list of advantages to this trip was shrinking, but there were still advantages, and I kept my focus on them. I spent my first day relaxing to the sunset, ocean winds, and hummingbirds then turned into bed.
———-
Before I could enjoy another day in paradise, I was woken up at six in the morning by a frantic call from the rich lady who owned the house. She was screaming that I had to leave right away. The high-risk tenant had heard me cough.
I did cough, briefly, during the night before. I even recall trying to muzzle it because I didn’t want to worry her. It wasn’t a Covid cough. My lungs weren’t impaired, and I didn’t have infection symptoms. I was coughing because the house was filled with animal dander, and I had recently recovered from a pre-pandemic cold.
The rich lady didn’t want to hear about it. “It’s not going to work out. Just go.” She insisted that it was only to protect her tenant.
“But I haven’t done my laundry or—”
“That isn’t my problem! I didn’t promise you anything.” Hadn’t she though?
She was angry and panicked, and she scared me, not a little. I was vulnerable and isolated during a deadly pandemic, beholden to a rich white woman that acted irrational and unaccountable. She seemed like the kind of woman that wouldn’t hesitate to call police on perceived trespassers. It was still March 2020. I needed to avoid human bodies, especially law enforcement.
At the same time, I wasn’t going to pay to reroute my car again. That felt like too much to ask of me. In a state of both fight-flight-freeze and defiance, I avoided the rich lady’s texts and calls. I told her I would leave as soon as my car arrived, which was the next day, and involved the original yoga lady, who had connected me to the rich lady, as a buffer and witness.
Later that morning, the tenant ran her yoga-meditation class. I didn’t join; there was no peace in sight for me. Even the hummingbirds seemed uneasy.
After her class, the tenant said she heard I was leaving. “I wish you could stay longer!” she said. She told me that she hadn’t been involved in why I was asked to leave.
Come again? The rich lady got the idea that I was coughing from someone. The tenant’s words didn’t make me feel safer. One of these total strangers had to be lying to me.
The reaction by the yoga ladies to a few mild coughs made some sense in the context of the first weeks of the pandemic, but it’s also something that happens to chronically ill people often. People are eager to help you until they are faced with the reality of your body in distress. The rich lady knew I was immune compromised. In theory, she liked that about me. But the tiniest sign of my illness—a spontaneous reflex from my throat’s exposure to an allergen—made me a threat and a bother.
—————
I spent the rest of that second day doing laundry. I had schlepped four loads of laundry to Laguna Hills, and I didn’t know when I would get to wash clothes and bedding safely again. I lay some stuff outside to dry, but there was an unusual-for-California rain that night. I ran the dryer early the next morning so that I could get out of there as soon as possible, something the yoga ladies wanted.
I had miscalculated. The rich lady called me again, from another continent, to yell at me. By doing laundry in the morning, she said, I was disturbing her tenant and needed to stop.
The tenant herself didn’t seem that bothered. “Hey! If you could do it later, that would be cool, but no worries,” she said. “I don’t really mind.” She also told me that it was too bad I had to leave that day.
Was it though? I wondered. As far as I could tell, she kept calling the angry rich lady on me. These two had quite the routine; it was like a passive-aggressive yoga buddy cop duo.
————
My car finally arrived that day, and I loaded it with some still-wet clothes and a few bins of chopped garlic and cooked rice, the spoils of my two-night vacation in the hills. I didn’t say goodbye to or thank anyone. I was out about $350 dollars. The experience with the yoga ladies was an early lesson in how the pandemic would continue making the world increasingly unsafe in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.
I returned to my depressing illegal sublet inside of the beach house, where the owner wouldn’t let me use her laundry and yelled at me when she smelled any food. At least I had signed a contract to stay there. That, alone, made it feel comparatively like a sanctuary.
Within two weeks of my outcry post, nothing had improved in my life. Instead, I needed to recover from all of the traumatic charity.
Cover Artist: Javier Rey
Letter from the Editor by Eric Akoto
Gorgeous by Matthew Perkins
In Pursuit of Family by Rukmini Girish
We Are Near the End Now by Terry Dubow
Baby Clean by Hannah Thorpe
Other Poetry by N/A Oparah
The Smell of Home by Farzana A Ghani
René Magritte’s The Banquet by Dorothy Lune
Tuscany! Tuscany! by GC Perry
Finding Flow by Samantha Pyrah
Maps to Lost Futures by Carella Keil
I Don’t Have a Very Good Memory by Gavin Baird
This is only a taster of our Memory issue. Become a Litro Member to read the whole issue.
“What am I to do with this one life? That is all I think about all day long.” The story of a copywriter and the monotony of life.
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Dorothy Lune's flash piece gives voice to a vibrant René Magritte painting, pushing the boundaries between words and visual art.
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"In going with the flow of the river, perhaps I would rediscover my own." Despite the climate crisis and pandemic, nature heals all.
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Don’t you know, the heart gets lost in so much empty space?
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“Peter imagined himself and the man lying next to each other, the man’s tanned, tentacled leg wrapping around his own.”
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Odd Sights and Attractions in Sweden
Source: Unsplash
Sweden is a grand country, famous for its beauty and cultural heritage. This Scandinavian gem also has a vein of eccentricity, which can be found in many of its hidden tourist attractions. Below, we give three odd sights and attractions to visit in Sweden.
Drive in Bingo
Lidköping is the home of one of the most unique activities you can take part in. Taking the concept of the US drive-in movie theatre and mixing it with bingo, you simply rock up the bingo hall in your car and don’t leave it. You get your books while you sit there, and numbers are called from the front, so you can play along in the comfort of your vehicle. All of this takes place while you are surrounded by the lush and green Swedish countryside, so you are not even confined to a dingy parking lot.
Drive-in bingo is a new trend in Sweden, which has grown popular in the country down to the global presence of online bingo. It has provided convenience, allowing people to play from home or while travelling. With a wide range of bonuses, more people have become attracted to the concept and new ways to consume it, such as online live bingo, have appeared. People now have the social interaction of a real bingo hall but with the convenience of an online one. You get to see and interact with the caller, while still benefiting from all the bonuses and rewards that online play provides. This has been part of a wider trend in which bingo has been adapted into everything from party revivals to speed versions of the game.
Visit the Devil’s Bible
Source: Unsplash
Making its home in The Kings Library in central Stockholm is a medieval tome known as the Codex Gigas or Devil’s Bible. It’s hidden behind glass, is in a darkened room to protect it from light damage, and is rarely opened. However, reproductions and an exhibit can show you the contents.
This book was the work of one unnamed monk in Bohemia, now known as Czechia. It was written in the 13th century at a Benedictine Monastery in Podlažice. The book is handwritten and features both the new and old testaments, along with short essays on medicines and exorcisms to name a few.
If the monk had written six days a week for six hours, it would have taken five years to create. Not only contain does it contain text but is ornately decorated. One of these is a full-page rendering of the devil himself. Add to this that the monk ruled his lines to keep the text straight, and the book is most likely to have been a lifetimes work.
Pressbyrån Museum
Pressbyrån is a chain of Swedish convenience stores, much like 7-Eleven in the rest of the world. While this may seem like a dull trip to make, the museum is a closely guarded secret with a waiting list to rival that of the best nightclubs in the world.
Featuring items from its 100-year tenure, newspaper cuttings of major events, and in-store artefacts like vending machines, you must be on a two-year waiting list to get in. Nobody knows where it is, and some people question if it exists. Only a few official photos online suggest it does.
There are many more, and just being in the beautiful country itself is a sight to behold. Plan your trip carefully and enjoy your visit.
Luxury cruises have long been associated with opulence, relaxation, and indulgence. From gourmet dining to world-class entertainment, these floating sanctuaries offer travellers a chance to unwind and explore the world in style.
However, in recent years cruise lines have elevated the onboard experience by incorporating art into their ship interiors. Art has long been used to recreate luxury brands’ rarity and value, with The Guardian highlighting the rise of luxury exhibitions among brands with a long heritage, such as Gucci and Chanel. Consequently, it’s not surprising that art has seeped into the luxury cruise experience to enrich each cruise line’s sophistication and cultural capital. Let’s take a closer look at the implications of this relationship below.
Curating floating galleries: immersion in aesthetic wonder
Cruise ships have traditionally adorned their walls with artwork meant to serve more as mere decoration than provoke thought or analysis. In a curated art experience, however, expert curators carefully select and display artworks that complement the ship’s aesthetic and ambience.
For instance, forward-thinking cruise lines like Celebrity Cruises have revolutionised the onboard art scene. Their Solstice Class ships feature impressive art collections, including renowned masterpieces by Picasso, Chagall, and Klimt. This ensures seamless integration of art into the overall design for guests to enjoy as they make their way to each cruise destination.
Auctions and art sales: exclusivity and modernity
Luxury cruises have embraced art auctions and sales to offer guests exclusive and modern art encounters. In some cruise lines, such as Viking Cruises, passengers can bid on exclusive art pieces inspired by the regions they visit. These auctions can engage passengers and help them build their art collections and their connections to the cruise line.
However, Norwegian Cruise Line recently took this concept to new heights, auctioning off six Non-Fungible Tokens to celebrate the launch of the Norwegian Prima. These unique digital artworks allow collectors to acquire exclusive pieces, mirroring the exclusivity of the cruise itself. By incorporating such modern art initiatives, cruise lines bring a fresh and innovative touch to the luxury experience.
Distinctive retail experience: artful exploration
Luxury cruises are known for their onboard stores and retail offerings, but there is a unique way they can take this experience to the next level. By integrating art into these retail spaces, cruise lines offer passengers the chance to engage in a journey of discovery, consciousness, and craftsmanship.
Guests can, for instance, explore the handcrafted weaving techniques of handbags at luxury accessories brand Aaks or see the state-of-the-art printing of reusable bags at The Journey. These are unique retail offerings by Explora Journeys, a new luxury cruise line from MSC that promises to deliver exclusively designed art-inspired products onboard. This invites passengers to delve into the creative processes, materials, and cultural significance behind the art, transforming shopping into a personal and transformative experience.
Cultural enrichment: unveiling art movements
Luxury cruises provide a unique platform for cultural enrichment, especially when taking inspiration from art movements. Take the avant-garde movement Surrealism, whose cultural influence has expanded worldwide since 1924. In our previous blog, we illustrated how even the Tate Modern exhibition in 2022 continued to pay homage to what is meant to be a continuous revolution that sabotages traditional art.
Surrealism’s influence on the high seas has reached the passengers and crew of the Seven Seas Grandeur. This magnificent ship houses a captivating collection of notable works by Surrealism artists Picasso and Joan Miró. Building on the impact of using art to draw in guests and heighten a sense of luxury and culture, Regent Seven Seas Cruises, the Seven Seas Grandeur operator, introduces two new Fabergé-themed voyages. This fusion of art and history enriches the luxury cruise experience with cultural significance and deep appreciation for the artistic legacy.
By intertwining with opulence, art helps create an enhanced voyage for guests seeking an elevated artistic journey. For more on the intersection between the arts and culture, check out our other stories on Litro.
New York City was a thriving hub of artistic expression and innovation during its exhilarating Art and Design Week, as art enthusiasts flocked to experience the diverse offerings and thought-provoking exhibitions. From the prestigious Frieze Art Fair to the engaging 1-54 Contemporary African Art Fair and the dynamic NYCxDesign Festival, the city celebrated the transformative power of creativity.
The Frieze Art Fair, held on May 20th and 21st at the Shed in Hudson Yards, showcased a curated selection of 69 galleries, about half its original size. Spanning three floors of the iconic Shed, the fair brought together artists and collectors from around the world to explore a rich array of contemporary art.
Further Uptown, the 1-54 Contemporary African Art Fair made a triumphant return to New York. The 2023 edition took place in a modern venue located in the Manhattanville Factory District of West Harlem. The fair featured 26 galleries representing artists from across Africa, Europe, and the United States, offering a global perspective on African art and culture. With over 80 artists from Africa and its diaspora, the fair was a celebration of diversity and creativity.
One notable participant was Galerie Atiss Dakar, founded by Aissa Dione in 1996. The gallery has been instrumental in nurturing and promoting artists, introducing their talents to an international audience through prestigious platforms such as the Dak’Art contemporary art biennial and renowned fairs like Art Paris Art Fair, 1-54, AKAA, Art Dubai, and Art X Lagos.
Galerie Atiss Dakar showcased the works of five esteemed artists, each with a distinct voice and artistic vision. Congolese artist Ngimbi Bakambana Luve’s captivating pieces beckoned viewers to delve into his exploration of cultural identity and spirituality. With intricate details and vibrant colors, Luve’s art formed a visual tapestry of personal experiences, leaving spectators mesmerized by his storytelling prowess. His paintings are a form of pictorial sociology of the SAPE (Society of Ambience-Makers and Elegant People) culture centred in the two Congos and which is reminiscent of Dandy and Rudeboy cultures found elsewhere.
Another artist represented by Galerie Atiss Dakar, is Mallick Welli Cedric, a Senegalese artist who works in photography, fashion, and spirit. His work captures and represents the human condition, which for him, is a spiritual condition of duality, contradiction, and the path of self-questioning. The multi-disciplinary adept differentiates spirituality, something to be lived, from religion, something to be followed. Deeply researched, Welli’s scenes are carefully selected and composed with models, attire and color chosen for a context and feature landmarks of spiritual significance of a given community. Doubling and masking serve to signify spiritual presence; the prosaic form of the portrait projects an ethereal content.
The 1-54 Contemporary African Art Fair provides a dedicated space for African artists to shine, embodying diversity and creativity.
The week-long celebration of art and design concluded with the NYCxDesign Festival, an annual event that explores cutting-edge design trends and sustainable practices. From May 18th to 25th, the festival transformed New York City’s five boroughs into a playground of exhibitions, installations, trade fairs, and open studios. Architects, interior designers, and design enthusiasts convened to witness the future of design unfold before their eyes.
Ilene Shaw, Interim Executive Director, expressed the festival’s significance, highlighting its role in highlighting the strength of New York’s creative economy. The festival has helped establish New York as a premier design destination and continues to tap into the industry’s brightest minds to create inspiring activations throughout the city.
Frieze Art Week, 1-54 Contemporary African Art Fair, and NYCxDesign illuminated New York City, fostering dialogue
2023 Man Booker Long listed Perumal Murugan’s original short story first published in Litro in 2018, was the first ever story translated from Tamil into English by V. Geetha.
Translated from the Tamil by V. Geetha.
It happened on the fifth day after Kumaresan accepted a part-time job. His place of work was the field-hut that stood on the edge of the byepass road. A small fat bulb emanated light, around which the darkness sat in waiting. He had to spend nights alone at the hut. If a “party” were to come by, at any odd hour, he was to call Valavan on his cellphone and let him know. That was the work for which he had been hired.
The week before. Midnight. He was reading a novel by the light that illumined his house-front and was not aware of what time it was. Nor was he sleepy. Valavan came down the road, raising a din, but stopped on seeing him. His voice rang loud and clear over the thundering of his bike.
“Hey, Mapila! Reading into the night?” He left but not before he had woken up several people who were asleep on the road. A day or so later, he came by again:
“You’re hanging around doing nothing, except reading. So, why don’t you come there and read? Sleep if you wish to. Call me if a ‘party’ comes by. Earn something for yourself.”
That’s how he had landed this job.
Valvan had knocked a piece of wood onto the edge of the road, and hung a tyre with a red lamp attached to it. Inside the hut, covered with broken cardboard sheets for a roof, were a bunch of things to help mend a puncture. Outside the hut was a rope-cot, and a single lamp.
You could lie down on the cot in such a way that the light fell on the page you were reading. Insects that clustered around the light were a nuisance of course. If the light hurt, you could always move the cot into the dark. In four days Kumaresan had got the hang of it all. But he hadn’t got used to the sound of vehicles on the road. Each vehicle that screamed past him filled him with dread. There were a couple of houses in the distance. He was not afraid to be alone. Once he began to read, time passed rather quickly. He had planned to read a book every night.
On that fifth night, the book that he had picked up to read was not interesting enough. One sequence was straightforward narrative, the second was pseudo-philosophy. His mind was not on the book. He put it away and lay on the cot, gazing at the sky. After a while, he got up, and sat on the edge of the byepass, watching the vehicles go by. A skip and his feet landed firm on a covered storm-water drain. He began to walk along it.
In those brief moments when no vehicle came down the road, nothing but walled darkness. If it was the night of the waxing moon, it would have been nicer. Nothing as far as the eye could see. He felt odd, walking alone. He returned and flung himself on the cot. The ropes were frayed and the cot seemed a hanging cradle. He got up, moved it into the dark, and fell asleep very soon.
He did not know what time it was, but he woke up startled at someone touching him. The dark whispered, “Sir, Sir…” He could make out a shape moving. He roused himself from sleep and stood up. His first “party”. The man was probably thirty to thirty-five years old. Regular pants and shirt. A pair of rubber slippers on his feet. But one can’t judge a man by any of this. In these parts, there were folks who had crores of rupees yet managed to look starved and impoverished.
It looked like the man had been to a temple. There was sacred ash and kumkum smeared on his neck and forehead. His bike had developed a puncture. He had parked it at that very spot and come searching for a mechanic. He must have come half-walking, half-running. His neck and face were bathed in sweat. “Come, let’s go,” he said, imagining Kumaresan to be the mechanic. He looked as though he was ready to drag Kumaresan off with him. He was perturbed and in a great hurry.
Kumaresan called Valavan on his cellphone. The phone rang but was not picked up. He tried twice, but still the same. The man was impatient.
“Could we go now?”
“The guy’s got to come,” replied Kumaresan. “Sit down.” He pointed to a stone nearby. Before he could call Valavan again, he called himself.
“Will come,” Valavan said, and switched off without saying anything more. The man did not sit down.
“When will the guy come?”
He asked the same question in many different ways. Kumaresan tried talking to him about other things, but it didn’t help. The man’s heart was not in these attempts at conversation. Perhaps he was anxious at having left his bike there, thought Kumaresan.
It did not take long for Valavan to come. He was there at the tenth minute. His village was not too far from the road. He had got up, fetched his bike and was here. He looked as if he had just had sex. He looked at the man.
“What kind of bike is it?”
The man replied, giving the bike’s name. A regular, heavy vehicle.
“Where have you left it standing?”
The man was unable to tell him clearly. But he said that it was within walking distance.
“What wheel?”
“Back wheel.”
Valavan went into the hut and brought a broken steel chair. He set it outside and sat down.
“Sir, let’s go.”
“What’re we going to do? Tell me! Can’t remove the back wheel. Even if I bring my tools there, there’s not enough light for me to mend the puncture. And even if I do that, can’t fill it with air. You tell me what I ought to do.” He spoke, smiling. The man did not know what to say.
Finally, he said, “Sir, what do you think we should do?” Valavan looked at Kumaresan, now seated on the cot.
“Hey, Mapila! What should we do?” Valavan appeared as if he was deep in thought.
“Uncle! Can’t we go in your vehicle and bring the wheel back?” He wanted to somehow help the man who had come to him.
“Easy enough if it were the front wheel. Not so easy, taking a back wheel off. Especially from this kind of bike. You’d need a workshop to do that.”
“Sir, do something, won’t you? Have left the vehicle all by itself…” The man moved close to Valavan, almost begging him to act.
“You’ve left it on the road?”
“No, on the side. But I am scared.”
“Feel sorry for you. What could you have done all alone? Think you could push the bike to this spot? I could then maybe fix the puncture.”
“I don’t think I could do that. It’s too far.”
“In that case, there’s only one thing to be done. We need to get a minidor, a small van. And get the bike onto it, bring it here, and fix the puncture.”
“At this time of the night? Think we’ll find a minidor?”
“Let me see. Know a couple of chaps who have such a van. But they are probably dead drunk and fast asleep. Don’t know if they’ll pick up their phones. Should I call them, I wonder. But it would cost you something. Do you have enough with you?”
“Sure. Call them, Sir!”
His words came out in a hurry, as if he were ready to hand over his entire fortune to them. Valavan took out his cellphone and handed it to Kumaresan.
“Call Seelan!”
He tried, but no one picked up at the other end.
“Try Chandan!”
No reply. He asked him to try the numbers of a few others, but to no avail. Even Kumaresan began to feel anxious. It seemed to him that even if one of them picked up his phone, the puncture could be mended and done with.
Valavan rubbed his jaw. “There’s a fellow in the next village. Good sort of chap. He’s sure to come if I call him. But it’ll cost something. Should I try?”
“Sir, please try. The vehicle stands solitary…”
Valavan asked for his mobile, searched for the number and called. The man at the other end picked up the second time.
“Chinnava! At home? Could you bring your minidor? There’s a party here. Feel sorry for him. I have no business calling you at this time of the night. But the man looks worried … yes, come, we’ll add that to our bill. No problem. Counting you there’s four of us, and we should be able to roll the bike on to the van. Not to worry about money. Won’t you come, for my sake?”
Valavan hung up.
“He’ll come. If he doesn’t come when I call him out for a job, chances are I won’t call him the second time.”
“The bike stands alone, Sir. Ask him to come soon.”
“Patience. I’ve woken the man up from his sleep. He needs to wash his face, get going. Come, sit down. See this byepass road. Vehicles on it all the time, but not one of them would stop. This is almost a nowhere land. No one’s going to take your bike away. Is it a new bike? First time you are riding it, after you’ve got it? Why this hurry?”
Valavan continued to talk. The man sat down, on his haunches, with his head bent low. He wiped his eyes from time to time. Kumaresan felt sorry for him.
“Brother! Crying? Don’t worry, nothing will happen to your bike. Should you and I go there, and wait for these men to catch up with us. Uncle, should we go, and you follow us?”
Kumaresan tried to console the man.
“You’re such a clown! You’re going to walk all the way? The minidor should be here anytime. Stay quiet!” Valavan sounded angry.
Hearing him yell, it suddenly struck Kumaresan that he and the man whose bike had stopped were being added on as new characters to what was clearly a familiar piece of drama. Valavan must have seen many men, mended hundreds of punctures. These men have obviously worked hard at being theatrical, have trained up for it. Kumaresan got ready to play his part of interested spectator.
Hardly had Valavan quieted Kumaresan, when the light from the minidor came splashing across the inside road that led from the villages to the byepass. Chinnavan parked the van opposite the workshop, got down and lit a cigarette. He looked at Kumaresan.
“How’s he here?”
“He sleeps here to notify me if a party were to come. He’s book-mad. I told him that he could read into the night, and if anyone should come by, let me know. That way, I told him, you tend your goats, and also find a bride for your brother,” replied Valavan, laughing.
“Sir, shouldn’t we go? Have left the bike standing…” The man pleaded and began moving towards the minidor.
“Hey, wait awhile. Tell us how far we need to go, and where your bike stands. I don’t want any haggling later on over costs,” said Chinnavan. The man realized that there was nothing he could do on his own.
“It stands two to two and a half kilometres from here. Will give you whatever you ask for. Let’s just go. The bike’s stood alone for too long…” The man was ready to fly his way to the spot.
Chinnavan threw his smoked cigaretted stub on to the ground and stabbed it with his feet. “Look, five hundred rupees for up to five kilometres. After that one hundred rupees for every kilometer. Three chaps to drag your bike up, and that’s two hundred rupees for each of us. Pay us after the work’s done. But no whingeing afterwards, saying that you have only this much money and so on. If you do, then we won’t hand over your bike. You’d need to bring us the money before we hand it over. Is that alright with you?”
The man pulled up his shirt, put his hands into his pocket and took out a purse. He opened it, and showed it to them in the light.
“Will pay up, Sir. Let’s go. The bike stands by itself.” His purse had several colourful banknotes. Valvan looked pleased.
“Right, let’s go. Why this anxiety, as if you’ve left behind your newly wedded bride?” Valvan smiled crookedly as he got ready to leave.
Valavan sat in front with Chinnavan. Kumaresan and the man climbed onto the back of the minidor.
“Look, the van has to go left for a kilometer, then turn right again. There’s no other way out. One kilometer up, then one kilometer to the right, and that is already two kilometres. And after that, hopefully we stop within a three-kilometer radius. If we go on, then you’ve got to give us the money we asked for. If you’re going to fuss and say this way, that way and so on, that won’t work.”
Chinnavan spoke up loudly from the front. The man shood his head in assent. He must have realized that there was no other way out for him.
In the night the byepass appeared one long whir and blinding brightness. It was not clear how much the man was familiar with the night road. As Chinnavan had noted, the van went ahead for a kilometer, turned right and came back to a spot opposite the puncture shop.
“This is where we started out from” said Kumaresan.
The man kept his eyes fixed on the road on the other side. He must have some marker in mind to identify where he’d left his bike. But he did not say anything. Suddenly, at one point on the road, he yelled: “Stop here! Stop here!”
Kumaresan pushed the small sliding door and put his mouth into the space that opened up to speak to the driver.
“Uncle! Stop!”
The van slowed down and stopped on the side of the road. The man jumped off even before the van had come to a complete halt and ran to the other side of the road.
“Careful!” shouted Kumaresan. A vehicle that appeared far away on the byepass could be upon a man in a trice.
The men melted into the darkness on the other side. He returned after five minutes. “Not here. We need to go ahead.”
“Why do you wake us from sleep and make us go here and there? Tell us correctly. We’ve already done four kilometres,” said Valavan.
“Drive slowly, let me keep my eyes on the road.”
“If we crawl along the byepass road, we’d be thrown off it, remember!” Chinnavan was angry.
“Brother, do you have any landmark in mind? Tell me, I could also look out for it,” offered Kumaresan. The man had at last started to trust him.
“There’s a small temple under a pala tree,” he said. “You hear the sound of spear-bells all the time. On the west side.”
Kumaresan was familiar with the road and all the villages around, but after the byepass road had been built, recognisable landmarks had all disappeared. Thousands of tamarind trees on both sides of the road had been chopped down, and with them went old and well-worn markers. Currently, there was only one marker – the tar on the road.
Kumaresan shut his eyes and thought. Pala tree, a small temple, the sound of spear-bells – his mind summoned all these images. After a while, it appeared as if he knew the place.
“Is there a long fence close to the spot?” he asked.
The man had not registered such a marker, but Kumaresan had actually guessed what place it could be. He should tell Valavan, he decided. He was sure to get scolded, though, for the two in front wanted to literally wander on the byepass.
Kumaresan looked out for the place, and when he spotted it said that they had arrived. The man yelled to the men in front. “Stop!” Only after they slid the small door and shouted into it did the van stop.
The man jumped down and disappeared into the darkness. There was no sign of him afterward.
“Where the hell has he gone now?” Chinnavan was annoyed.
The man returned after five minutes. Yes, this was the place.
“Can’t turn here to get to that place. We’d have to go for a kilometer at least. Remember the rates we quoted?” asked Chinnavan.
“I’ll wait here for you. You go and come back this side,” said the man.
They did not trust him and so asked Kumaresan to get off and stay with him.
The man crossed over, faster than any vehicle could. Kumaresan followed him at a leisurely pace. The temple stood fifty yards away from the road. The pala tree was dense with foliage. The man had already begun to wheel the bike that stood underneath the tree and towards the road. As he had noted, the spear-bells tinkled. They sounded a musical note that you could hear, when the din on the road ceased. The bike was not all that new. Perhaps a few years old. Why did the man fuss over such bike, thought Kumaresan, who was now somewhat irritated.
Kumaresan helped heave the bike on to the side of he road and sat down next to it. The man disappeared again into the darkness surrounding the temple. Must be his stomach churning. All that fear and worrying.
It was not clear how far the minidor had to go before it turned back. Even if they could veer around soon, they would return late, stop at some point and then start again. Valavan had a workshop in a nearby town. This sort of night job probably came his way once in a while. And brought him extra income. He probably had to pay something to the man who owned the land, where he had put up his makeshift hut. The bulb burned into the night, and he probably had to pay for that as well.
Kumaresan looked at every passing vehicle with double lights, wondering if it was the minidor, only to be disappointed. He was reminded – god knows why – of a film sequence featuring the comedian Koundamani. The latter hides from his wife the fact that he can’t see come sundown and continues to drive his lorry: “Two bikes were ahead of me, still I thought I could get in between them!” He laughed silently. Imagine sitting out on the road at that unholy hour and laughing within, surely that makes him a madman. The thought pleased Kumaresan.
At last, the minodor appeared on the road and stopped at Kumaresan’s feet. The man who had gone into the darkness was yet to return. Chinnavan opened the back door of the van. The man returned just then, and helped to wheel the bike towards the back of the van.
“We had to go around for two kilometres. Why would anyone come on this road at this time of night? No one ought to, even in the daytime! What’s the hurry that you should drive during the night?” Valavan had plenty of advice to offer.
Chinnavan climbed onto the back of the van. Valavan lifted the front wheel of the bike and placed it on the incline of the back door. Chinnavan pulled at the front wheel, and the other three pushed the bike from below and without trouble it climbed onto the van.
“Climb up!” called out Chinnavan.
“One minute,” said the man and ran towards the temple. When he returned, they saw a woman walking alongside him, her head bent to the ground.
“The man whined that the bike was standing solitary. Didn’t know he meant this bike!” laughed Valavan.
“Check out to see if it’s a new vehicle. After all, you’re the mechanic!” said Chinnavan.
As soon as they came closer, the woman covered her head with the ends of her sari. A slightly built woman. She looked rounder than she was, clad as she was, in a shining bright sari. Kumaresan was eager to see her face.
“Hey! What’s this? You’ve brought a woman…”
“Not that, Sir. She’s my wife. We’d gone for a function. We have some work in the morning, so we left even though it was late. Didn’t imagine the bike would develop a puncture.” The man sounded as if he was pleading.
“Whatever. In any case, give us your name, address. We don’t want any trouble,” said Chinnavan. The man attempted to absolve himself by providing names of his family, kinsfolk, village… Much of what he said pertained to places that were within a close radius of where they were, yet they could not quite place him.
The woman kept her face turned to the dark. Perhaps he had spoken the truth. But Valvan and Chinnavan spoke as if they suspected him of the worst. Maybe she was that sort of a woman? If so, would Valavan and Chinnavan speak to her? And what should he, Kumaresan, do? He stood, wondering.
“After this byepass was built, all sorts of chaps, drunkards, louts, those who are into debauchery hang around here. The darkness provides them all with the opportunity to do what they wish. Can’t trust a man, these days!” said Chinnavan, and added: “Okay, get on to the back. Pay up for that ticket as well!”
“She’s my wife.” The man sounded weepy. He put his foot on to the door of the minidor and hoisted himself up. He then held his hand out to his wife. She looked as if she was not even breathing. She clambered up and went and stood behind him. Valvan was all set, having shut the back door and was ready to go up front, when he stopped suddenly. He opened the back door and climbed up.
“Brother, I thought you were going to climb up front! But you’ve climbed behind!” said Chinnavan from the wheel.
“I am bored climbing up front all the time. Why not climb onto the back, this one time?” said Valavan, his mouth to the sliding door. Kumaresan heard them both laugh out loud. He was both afraid and worried. His mind searched in the pages of the books he had read, if they featured scenes such as this one. He did not know what to do. He could not also figure out which way his own mind was inclined.
The van started off on the road. The man and his wife stood behind the bike. On the left stood Valavan and Kumaresan. In five minutes they would be at the workshop. But Valvan could not stay quiet even for that short period of time. He started to say this and that. The wind that blew from the opposite end swallowed his words so none could actually hear what he said. Kumaresan asked from time to time: “What, Uncle? What’re you saying, Uncle?” But he could not make out what Valavan was saying. But he realized that his words were spilling over with laughter.
The van arrived at the workshop. The man held out his hand and helped her get down. She adjusted her sari ends that had slid off and went and stood near the van, at its very edge. They brought the bike down.
“Thought it was a new bike? Been riding it for long?”
“No, Sir. An old one. Bought it second-hand. Over a year now.” The man sounded humble.
“You were excited over this old bike? Let me ride it around once, after I’ve mended the puncture. I’ll know the condition it’s in then,” said Chinnavan. Valavan went in to the hut to get all that was needed to mend the puncture.
“You get your cash from the party and leave. I’ll handle this,” said Valavan.
“I’ll go. But what’s the hurry? Let me check this bike out!” said Chinnavan. He was laughing.
“You don’t let a bike be! Broken or old, you try and get on to it. Alright, stay. Good to have someone to talk to. Mapilai here is new. Look at him. One look at the bike, and he’s shivering in his pants” said Valavan.
The man went and stood by the woman’s side, half hidden from view.
“Why don’t you come and sit here? Don’t you want to see what’s happening to your bike?” shouted Valavan. He and Chinnavan sounded excited.
Chinnavan turned to Kumaresan. “Ever mended a puncture? Want to try doing it now?”
“Brother, I don’t know how to.”
“Hey, he says he doesn’t know how to…” echoed Chinnavan. Valavan laughed aloud and Chinnavan joined him. Valavan pulled the tube out and held it in his hand.
“The tube’s frayed and almost gone. You must have rolled the bike along nicely.”
Valavan shouted in the direction of the van, where the man was standing. He came out of the darkness.
“Brother, please mend it somehow. It’s enough if the bike gets me home. I’ll deal with it in the morning.” There was a tremor in his voice.
“Not possible. If there’s a puncture you ought to stop right there. If you roll the bike this way and that, the tube is bound to get this way,” said Valavan.
“Will the tube work or not? Tell us that!” said Chinnavan.
“You feel it now and tell me what you think,” retorted Valavan.
At that moment Kumaresan realized there was not a word in the language that meant only one thing and nothing else.
Let me tell you at this point that things did not turn out as Kumaresan had anticipated. I shall summarise here what actually happened. Valavan said that they’d have to go and wake up the cycle shop owner and get a new tube. He asked the man to go along with Chinnavan. But the man refused. He did not move away from the woman, even for a moment. So Valavan and Chinnavan went along and returned with the tube. They changed the tube and handed the bike back to the man. The cost of renting the minidor, money owed for pulling the bike on to it, the price of the tube, labour costs for changing it: Valavan got this numbers together and demanded a considerable sum of money. Without saying a word, the man gave him whatever he had asked for and then sped away on his bike. She sat behind him, but even then did not show them her face.
Valavan and Chinnavan argued amongst themselves about whether she was his wife or not. They left thereafter, but not before they handed a five-hundred rupee note to Kumaresan. He was, however, disappointed. His mind refused to accept the money – wages of sin, he felt. What was he to do with it, though, now that he had it?
Should he drop it in a beggar’s bowl? But then he was determined never to give money to beggars. Should he send it to an orphanage? On the other hand, was it right to pass on the wages of sin to another? It was best that he dropped it off in a temple hundi. But he did not quite believe in God. At least not that much. After thinking about it for a long time, he decided at last to use the money to buy a book that he had long wanted.
The outdoor thermometer reads impossible numbers, the red hand too far to the right. Women walk in slow motion, their voices low and languid, and when someone drops a folding chair, it falls in a parallel universe where time is just a blur. Cicadas, the only males at the festival, scream and holler for a female, any goddamn female, all they really require is that she isn’t dead, to come check out their bachelor pad and consider their proposal…
Sage Tyrtle
Just in time for the week of International Women’s Day, our latest Podcast is the funny and life-affirming “Midwest Wimmin’s Festival 1987”, beautifully read by Sage Tyrtle.
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Podcast: Embed
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Allison Markin Powell is a literary translator, editor and publishing consultant based in New York City. Powell has been awarded grants from English PEN and the NEA, and has translated works by Osamu Dazai, Fuminori Nakamura, Kanako Nishi, and now, Shiori Ito, whose Black Box has just been released. She was awarded the 2020 PEN America Translation Prize for The Ten Loves of Nishino by Hiromi Kawakami. Powell began working as a translator after completing her master’s in Asian Languages at Stanford University.
Ingrid Petty: Tell me about your background, and how you were selected to translate Black Box.
Allison Markin Powell: I am a full-time freelance literary translator. I mostly translate fiction, but I have translated biography, nonfiction, manga – I’ve even translated embroidery books. I translate all kinds of books from Japanese to English.
IP: Manga?
AP: It’s a form of comic or graphic novel which has a long prehistory in early Japanese art.
IP: And how did you find Shiori Ito’s book?
AP: I’ve worked in book publishing for many years, so I have an extensive network. I’d been looking for a memoir to translate from Japanese for a long time. The thing about memoir is…we know it as this established genre – I mean “we” as in English-language publishing in the US and the UK – memoir as a tell-all form. We just sort of lay it bare. And that’s not really the Japanese way. Memoir has been developing for decades into what it is now a very successful genre for us as English-language readers. Reading other people’s stories resonates. For me, in particular, I enjoy reading memoirs, so I was thinking I’d really like to translate a Japanese person’s story that would resonate. But I found that there just aren’t many available.
And the thing is, if the Japanese do write memoir, they’re not as candid as what we would expect; that’s the societal norm. In Japan, acceptable forms of self-expression, both psychologically and emotionally, are quite different. Writers in English get very personal.
IP: And what are your thoughts on Shiori’s book as memoir?
AP: So, as I said, I’d been keeping my eye out for a memoir. And then I saw Motoko Rich’s profile on Shiori Ito in the New York Times in December 2017. I had heard about Shiori’s story, but that was the first time I learned more about it being put out there; Black Box was published in Japan in October 2017. That’s also when the news broke about allegations against Harvey Weinstein in the US. So it was really by coincidence of timing that Shiori’s story became so symbolic of the #MeToo movement and catapulted her to another level of visibility. I mean, she had been fighting this battle on her own for years already.
IP: Yes, her experience with Mr. Yamaguchi happened in 2015, and she fought the battle with the investigation and the courts and even with the media throughout that time and then more so after her book was published.
AP: I can say, Shiori is singular in the way she lays things bare. What do I think about it? Black Box is not a rape memoir, if there is such a thing. It’s a “tear down the system” manifesto.
IP: That’s exactly what I got from it. Her story is less about her story than it is about her objectives to reveal that there are no supports for women who suffer sexual assault in Japan.
AP: Right. Every institution failed her, even the hotline that was supposed to be the initial source of support. To me, that’s also very emblematic of the way things are in Japan. They set things up, but the structures are not flexible enough to meet people’s needs. I was really drawn to not only her struggle, but to her personality and strength.
IP: How did you come to be a translator of Japanese?
AP: I’ve been working as a translator for a long time. I worked in publishing before that. I started studying Japanese when I was in college. I was eighteen when I started, which is late for English speakers to learn Japanese – it’s a very difficult language.
IP: But you never lived in Japan?
AP: I did. I studied there. I did an exchange program as an undergrad; I spent six months there in different programs. And I spent another year there before grad school in the States to study Japanese literature. I go back to Japan regularly, because really a year and a half is nothing, not at all an extended period of time to have spent immersed in Japanese culture and society.
IP: On that subject, Ito mentions in her book that Japan is a safe place to live, but for women, not so much, because of the practices of men and the fact that women have no voice; they are just meant to take it. Did you have any experiences along those lines that may have been disturbing for you?
AP: You know, the part she wrote on “chikan” – public groping – it was astonishing to me, the way she just laid it out and presented it for readers to make the connections. About how early it begins in a girl’s life, and – I don’t want to say it’s acceptable – but it’s just part of society. And, yes, it happens. That happened to me; it happens on the subway. It’s hard to imagine there is a female there to whom it hasn’t happened. Of course we have that in New York City, too, but you know, it’s just not as prevalent. In Japan, it’s almost like a fact of daily life, but nobody talks about it. And the way that Shiori puts it in at the end of her book…I thought that part was really searing, the way that she describes her own experiences with it. I think Granta is going to excerpt that part of the book, so I’m happy about that.
IP: Tell me about your work with Words Without Borders.
AP: Well, I served as a guest editor for their first Japan issue, many years ago now. Words Without Borders is one of the preeminent online literary journals of international literature. They do amazing work, and I’m always happy and excited to work with them about Japanese literature. I know some of the founding editors and the editorial director. I keep in close contact with the people who work there. I also work with PEN America. I do a lot of advocacy. I was cochair of PEN’s Translation Committee, and now I serve on their Board of Trustees. It involves working with a lot of other translators and organizing events. And I have my database Japanese Literature in English, which is currently somewhat neglected, but I hope to get back to updating soon.
I do a lot of advocacy around working conditions for translators, too…translating is not a particularly lucrative field. Like, for what I do…it took me a long time to acquire enough knowledge in Japanese language and literature in order to do this work; and yet our pay scale is not commensurate with the skill and expertise required of translators.
IP: So, other than the fact that you were looking for a Japanese memoir to translate, how did Black Box come to English language translation? I know it has already been translated into other languages.
AP: The publisher of the Japanese edition was interested in selling the rights around the world, and I know the people in the rights department, I had been in contact with them for other works. In the summer of 2018, they contacted me about preparing a sample translation and other materials. And, as it happened, Shiori was here in New York. It sort of happened at the last minute, and that was really a great opportunity, because we got to meet in person.
And I remember when I was translating the sample – I translated about twenty-five percent of the book as a sample, a pretty big chunk of it – but I was doing that during the Kavanaugh hearings that were going on. And that was difficult, in its own way. We all went through that, as a country. So that was my first experience of what translating Shiori’s book would be like – I mean, of course I realized that translating it would not even compare to the trauma that Shiori has been through and continues to go through. But it was a taste.
And then PEN has its international literary festival in the spring each year called World Voices. Since I work with PEN so closely, I had told them about Shiori and her book. The book wasn’t under contract yet, but when I told them about her, they were thrilled and immediately invited her. She participated in that festival, in the spring of 2019. She came and spoke on a couple of different panels, and while she was here, we met with some editors to try to place it. That’s when we met with The Feminist Press. It has been kind of a slow process, to be honest. Book publishing is not usually very fast-moving.
So, The Feminist Press acquired it in the US, and Tilted Axis Press acquired it in the UK. They are both non-profit publishers. Tilted Axis specializes in women writers from Asia; this is their first non-fiction publication, which is kind of a big deal. They also have a new series called Translating Feminisms, and this was a natural fit for them.
IP: OK, but now I’m confused. When I see the English translation of Black Box on the shelf, will it be published by The Feminist Press or Tilted Axis Press?
AP: Well, you’re reviewing the book for Litro, so you’re reviewing the UK edition. And where are you based?
IP: I’m in Texas.
AP: Then, when you see the book on the shelf there, in the bookstore or in a library, you will see the US edition published by The Feminist Press.
IP: Ah, I see. So, back to when you met with Shiori – you were obviously impressed with her ability to stand up and speak out – but was there anything else about her you’d like to comment on? What were your thoughts on her as a person?
AP: What was noticeably unique about her, as far as Japanese women go, having spent as much time as she did abroad…well, it’s not even that. She writes in her book about being in the hospital when she was a young girl, how it took her out of her school environment and out of that “race” for prestige in Japan. She wants to learn; she wants to be a journalist; she wants to earn a living. She wants to be a part of society, but it’s not so much about acquiring the markers that many other girls her age are traditionally interested in – material things, or stereotypically girly things.
And she has an affinity for older people. I think it’s unusual for such a young person to forge these connections with senior citizens. She sees people’s humanity. I haven’t spent a lot of time with her, but even so, I got that from her.
IP: Well, she seemed awfully determined, and knew what she wanted, even at a very young age, and worked hard to make it happen.
AP: She certainly was very resourceful in finding ways to go about becoming a journalist, you know, going to this university…and then finding this study-abroad program here…and oh, while I’m here, I’ll learn Spanish…oh, I can go to Syria, maybe I’ll pick up Arabic. You know?
IP: She took these detours, but she got a lot of experience.
AP: Yes, she gained something from each one of them. I mean, we see that she is fearless, and I think she was fearless all along.
IP: Maybe not the kind of girl Mr. Yamaguchi expected.
AP: Yeah, one of the things…it took some time to get my contract settled with the publishers to do the translation, so that didn’t happen until right before the pandemic began. And like I said I had translated a quarter of it already – I thought I had done a lot of the hard parts, the incident itself and some of the aftermath. But I was still unprepared for how difficult it was going to be – I mean, it was a very difficult book to work on, period. But even more so, it was a very difficult book to work on during the pandemic.
I’m not in any way equating translating it with the experience that Shiori went through, but it was its own kind of trauma, to sort of be in that book and translate the language. I felt like the book was a vortex. I had to figure out ways that I could get into it in order to translate it, but then step out of it, so I wasn’t carrying it around with me all the time. And obviously, for a victim of assault, they have to live with that all the time. They can’t step out of the vortex, really.
In the other three-fourths of the book that I was working on – the emails between her and Mr. Yamaguchi, and then the investigation, and the prosecution – all along, everybody was trying to gaslight her. And that was really upsetting and disturbing to me. It was a real challenge. I have translated nonfiction before, but I’ve never translated a story that was this traumatic and this difficult. As a translator, you sort of inhabit the work that you’re translating. Black Box was not an easy book to inhabit.
IP: That’s a good point to make, from your perspective.
AP: I can’t wait to see what English language readers think of it.
IP: It comes out June? July?
AP: The Tilted Axis edition comes out June; The Feminist Press edition in July. I don’t know if you saw that the launch event in the US will be with Chanel Miller, who wrote Know My Name? When Shiori and I were talking about the publicity for Black Box, when I asked her who she’d like to be in conversation with, Chanel was her number one, dream choice. We were able to reach her, and she agreed to do the launch, so I’m really excited for that event. Chanel mentioned that when she did publicity for her book in the UK, journalists asked her about Shiori, who was living in London at that time. Chanel was surprised that she hadn’t come across the book – well it hadn’t been translated yet. So, when we sent her the Black Box manuscript, she was happy to be able to support Shiori.
Shiori is currently making a feature-length documentary of her story. A lot of what’s in that film is in the book.
Time named Shiori one of the 100 Most Influential Women in 2020. She and Naomi Osaka are the only Japanese people – Japanese women – on the list.
IP: Well, thank you. You’ve given me the back story I was looking for, and your impressions are helpful as well. Can you tell me about Strong Women, Soft Power?
AP: Yes, Strong Women, Soft Power is a collective of translators of Japanese, all women; Lucy North who lives in the UK, Ginny Tapley Takemori, who is in Japan, and me in the US. We decided to band together to promote Japanese women writers. When you look at fiction writers, Japanese women writers seem to be having a moment now, they have a lot of clout. Many of these women being published in English – there are both long-standing and very well-regarded writers as well as new and up-and-coming writers – are getting a lot of attention. In Japan, they’re winning literary prizes and their books are among the bestsellers. I’ve done the research, I’ve collected the data, and in both of these areas, it’s close to parity with male writers. But then when you look at the books that have been translated into English, the women are trailing – it’s between twenty-six to twenty-nine percent in any given year. So, where is the disconnect, who’s at fault? We’re still trying to figure that out. And we’re working to bring that disparity to people’s attention. We’ve done a symposium, we write articles, we hold events, we’re curating an author/translator event series online right now.
IP: Well, you’re doing good work. I think anything that serves to move things forward for women, and especially for those being suppressed, is well worth the time and effort.
AP: Yes, it’s gratifying work. It’s kind of remarkable how much the problem persists.
IP: And we appreciate you. Thank you for taking time for this interview.
AP: Thank you, Ingrid.
The door to the chamber slides shut; I can take off my respirator. I point to the gestural interface, and browse to select my experience:
solitary immersion >> storyless >> outdoors >>
winter >> woodland
For a few seconds, I’m suspended in shadowless green. Then suddenly I’m in a field, in a squall, on the edge of a stand of tall spruces. Their icy branches roar in the wind, crescendoing, descrescendoing…
*
I know that I’m not really “here,” in this imaginary countryside. That the scene is composed of rendered polygons, plus auditory, haptic, caloric, olfactory, and gustatory stimuli. But I allow myself to be convinced, seduced by the algorithmic drifts, because I want to believe they’re vestigial, a trace of the season we’ve lost. The air smells cold, and is. When the sky clears, the reflected sunlight is bright enough to hurt my eyes. As I walk, the snowpack gives way, but only to a point. Then it’s work to lift my feet.
*
The trees in this part of the forest have lost their leaves, which makes them difficult to identify. I study the dark wet boles, half-obscured by their own rimed limbs, and by the tapering, lustrous rods of ice that hang from the boughs. Each rod is a different length, like the resonators on a xylophone. They’re brittle, I learn. I break one off. It’s the thickness of a mouth.
*
I’ve seen my breath once before. I was on a porch, I’m not sure where—it’s one of those childhood memories that’s hard to place. The atmosphere wasn’t yet toxic. It was night. I think my dad had woken me up, to witness “condensation.” I could see my own exhalations, but they were very faint. My dad inhaled more deeply, deliberately, as if competing with an invisible rival. Then he expelled long, thick, linear clouds across the porch. They looked like fleecy vectors, or tunnels, or steam from an engine. I wish I could experience him, but the simulator isn’t good with people.
*
No one alive can say if this chillscape is authentic. Is this what it actually felt like, to move through a snowy forest? There’s always a clearing ahead, a corridor arranging itself, crossed by shadows. There are numerous patches of scat, and territorial bared owls. They produce a muted whooping (urr, urr, urr, urr-URR) that I’ve only just realized is indignant. Fearless magpies land in my tracks, probing the exposed ground for insects. I wonder, from time to time, if the designers have taken any liberties. Did pines ooze freezing sap? Was holly spined, and did it glitter? Could brooks really run in December? And were they so musical?
*
A chime lets me know that it’s almost over, this unprecedented sequence. Every tracing in the sandbox is strictly unrepeatable. They call it “intentional emergence:” the digital elements are yours to play with. The gales, the frost, the advancing fog, the candle ice barbing the streambanks.
*
As soon as I feel hunger, a meal appears. Scrambled eggs and pinto beans. I find them in a cast-iron pan suspended over a campfire, which, though it’s not exactly blazing, is still throwing sparks, unattended. Its small heat is welcome. As many have observed, it’s impossible to convince yourself that simulated food is “fake;” it’s so complex, and seemingly substantial. I tongue the skin of each bean, and note the smokiness of the eggs, the aroma of mesquite. I eat with my fingers, rinse them in snow, and warm them again. Although it’s not necessary, I spend a few minutes gathering dry twigs. I toss them into flames I know are maintained by a function, a system.
*
Flurries as dusk, then snowfall. I lounge beside a frozen pond, with my back to a tree trunk, entranced by the flakes. Each one stands out against the night sky, like the stars at Unilluminated Island, another storyless experience. But those constellations were static. Here, the flakes descend at different speeds, borne back and forth and even upwards, bunching and dispersing. Their motions reveal that the air is alive with stochastic currents. The little white streaks are countless, like the dead who looked on real snow. If this were my life, I’d have to decide: rise or be buried. I think of the prehistoric transhumanists who froze to death among alpine glaciers. Some of their bodies were later recovered accidentally, by hikers. The corpses were dried out and shrunken, but fleshed—what a privilege. If I perish here, in this nonexistent preserve, I am bound to awaken.
I browsed the bookshop a little listlessly as I really needed a certain kind of good book, but I was aware that my criteria could be tricky to fulfil. I love literary fiction with taut lines, but that day I also needed fiction that was instantly transporting, impossible to put down; the intimacy of the first-person novels I devoured as a teen but delivered with nuance, surprise. I scanned rows of books that offered one thing or another. Maybe I was asking too much. It was then that I remembered reading the first chapter of Raven Leilani’s Luster online. As well as an immediate original voice and sharp control of a sentence, the chapter had been pacy and witty, too. It was so good I felt like I needed to keep my hopes in check. A first chapter is one thing, but how can a debut possibly keep up that level across a whole novel?
I bought the hardback, took it home. Its cover typography was bright, the Zadie Smith quote impressive. The first chapter opened, and once again, I was there, into the narrative, zero effort. The story opens with a young woman having online sex, a risky business in a well-lit publishing office in NYC. The man involved “is fond of words like taste and spread. The empty text field is full of possibilities.” In fact, the possibility of being seen is the thrill; the actual sex is not the point. We soon find out that Eric is middle-aged, Edie only 23. Eric is in an open marriage, and they have yet to meet in real life: “Otherwise, I have not had much success with men. This is not a statement of self-pity. This is just a statement of the facts. Here’s a fact: I have great breasts, which have warped my spine. More facts: My salary is very low. I have trouble making friends, and men lose interest in me when I talk.”
So how will Eric be different? Edie doesn’t hold out, narrating her life as if for the close friend who is significant by their absence, sticking to the good bits, allowing us her private thoughts as the relationship progresses. The intimacy between narrator and reader grows, too, as we realise that Edie is very much alone and seems to have a latent attraction to violence. She wants to be in the art department, rather than in editorial, but that door seems closed. Most significantly, she has some trouble seeing herself and in being properly seen, and is seeking to be allowed to be a person first and foremost, not so easy as one of the few Black women in a white office with a Diversity Giveaway table featuring “a slave narrative about a mixed-race house girl fighting for a piece of her father’s estate; a slave narrative about a runaway’s friendship with the white schoolteacher who selflessly teachers her how to read; a slave narrative about a tragic mulatto who raises the dead with her magic chitlin pies…”
Eric, on the other hand, exists in a simpler world: “And while I never enter a room without wondering what personal adjustments need to be made, it is strange to see something similar happen to this friendly, white, midwestern man. It is strange to see him noticing about himself what I always notice – the optimism, the presumption, this rarefied alternate reality in which there is nowhere he does not belong.”
Leilani makes skilful use of the first-person present-tense; focusing the reader on the minute-to-minute progressions of an uncomfortable first date so that she slows down or speeds up time at will and the effect, combined with the surreal locale of a funfair, is riveting. Eric is an archivist and his middle-aged ennui is catalogued carefully by Edie, given space so that is not stereotypically pathetic but something more. Even so, the pairing is an “asymmetry” that Edie is never unaware of. She is alive to the complexities in life, displays an openness and lack of judgement towards others whilst always remaining aware of the dangers inherent in social structures and their various iterations in a room. This combination of sensitivity and smarts, together with an eye for an off-kilter image and the queasy effect of the guts, is presented in a pithy style that frequently surprises in the way poetry does, invigorating the senses. Leilani has a sharp ear, and her phrases and paragraphs also work at a musical level. Sometimes they’re tight, staccato, but then there may be a sentence that goes on for over a page, this rhythm working to hold our attention, keep us turning the pages.
On losing her job, Edie joins a courier service, pedalling around New York until her wheels are stolen and shrimp soup soaks her shoes. Adversity inspires action, which means that the reader not only roots for Edie but is also infused with the desire to get going, too. After an improbable meeting with Eric’s wife, Rebecca, Edie is invited back to their suburban home and finds herself inhabiting the guest bedroom. Whilst Edie’s motivations are clear – she is homeless, penniless, chronically down on her luck – Rebecca’s motivations are not. Like Rebecca, all the main characters are particular and sometimes hard to parse. This leads to a subtle narrative suspense, as we can never be sure what the characters will do next as the story gathers pace under Leilani’s complete control.
When he’s away, Eric sends Edie pictures, descriptions of the things he has discovered throughout his day, whilst she wanders his house, taking snapshots of the rooms. Edie has put in the work with Eric, he knows her, and now she likes his calls if only because “…there is a record, of a call, of a conversation, of a girl on the other end.” Edie also spends time with Rebecca and Eric’s adopted daughter, Akila, the only Black child in the neighbourhood. Akila’s tween world is busy, full; her vulnerability is also perfectly evoked in her trouble in finding the right help with her hair-care. “She is too young,” narrates Edie, thinking of her own teenage years, seeing them as if for the first time. Yet Akila sometimes seems like the real adult of the house, emotionally, and is a believable character even if her dialogue is sometimes delivered as the grown-up version of what she may be thinking, rather than the naturalistic speech of a thirteen-year-old. That this works is testament to a structure and style where we have learned to expect the unexpected and accept the off-kilter and improbable in a kind of quasi-realism that builds an emotional authenticity with which we become entirely invested.
Throughout, Edie compresses a backstory comprising years of pain into a few paragraphs and drops past horror as an aside, never allowing it to slow down events in the present, which sometimes contributes to the shock, sometimes allows awful things to be presented as simple facts of life. Tonally, there’s an alternative novel that could’ve been written here, a much more painful iteration of the facts. Instead, Edie is deliberate about avoiding self-pity. Maybe because she can’t afford not to be, but also because:
…sometimes you see a black person above the age of fifty walking down the street, and you just know that they have seen some shit. You know that they are masters of the double consciousness, of the discreet management of fury under the tight surveillance and casual violence of the outside world. You know that they said thank you as they bled, and that despite the roaches and the instant oatmeal and the bruise on your face, you are still luckier than they have ever been, such that losing a bottom-tier job in publishing is not only ridiculous but offensive
That “discreet management of fury and pain” is present in Edie, who also suffers the “casual violence of the outside world” – which appears with the police in one case. There are gaps, spaces that are filled with all that Edie is feeling but does not say, contributing to a subliminal depth-charge in the text that is filled with not only anger and pain but also grief.
The difficulties of daily living attacking Edie’s guts are mitigated with alcohol, sex, and the contents of any available medicine cabinet, but they are also assuaged in snapshots, gesso, linseed oil, and pigment. Edie’s time in the suburbs is a space where, despite its indignities, she finally finds the time to practice her art, even if this happens at a critical juncture with her future hanging in the balance. By now, we are rooting for Edie as an artist and person first and foremost, appreciating her succession of images and what they mean to her and us as she tries to realise a self-portrait in trying circumstances: “There is a Nubian drawing of a man, and though the drawing has no perspective, the color of the water around him is carefully preserved, and I think about the resilience of that single pigment, the lapis lazuli, traversing time.”
In some ways this coming-of-age narrative is an old story but in others it is totally new, and I loved all the whip-smart social and cultural commentary and humour combined with Edie’s resilience and artistry and the emotional authenticity in the text. I read the book across that one difficult day and got up energised, impressed with how this debut did that thing all the best novels do as you read them: became quietly more than the sum of their parts, infused with their own particular form of life. I can only urge you to get hold of Luster and save it for that day when you need a really good book.
Luster
Raven Leilani
Picador, 240 pages
The sun beats through the humid air, upon the stone and dirt streets. High cumulus clouds drift above the heavy-forest limestone mountains.
The Sunday lanes echo with the sounds of today’s game. Once more, the Cobán Imperials (the Blues – the home county favourites) and the Guatemala City Communications (the Creams) battle for the championship after last Wednesday’s tied football match.
Gooooooool!
In the sala of the orange hospedaje, the family and beer-drinking foreigners watch. The announcer’s voice reverberates off the white-washed walls.
Gooooooool!
Communications has scored. It’s a tied game.
In a wood-plank store, the man behind the counter doesn’t notice his customer. He leans his greying head close to the staticky radio.
And up on the main street, at the windows and doors of a tiendita, boys, teens and adults watch a flickering TV inside, trying to see above, around each other’s head. The ice cream vendor’s cart is parked, abandoned by its owner watching this game.
Gooooooool!
And others come running to see what happened.
Score: Creams 2, Blues 1
And again, within minutes …
Gooooooool!
Tied game.
A burst of fireworks cracks on the cobblestones.
The clouds are growing. Bodies sweat under this hot sun. Another Super Helados vendor parks his cart, trying to see that TV screen in the shop. A young boy with pale limbs slips between legs, to the door.
A woman walks up the street. She stops and searches amongst the boys. Once she spots her son, she resumes her homeward-bound journey.
A transit truck pulls in. The lot assistant pulls himself away from the game just long enough to guide the vehicle into its place. Women board into the back of the camión. Young men have to leave the game, with barely ten minutes left. As the truck is leaving, one hops off the back and rejoins the audience, just in time to hear …
Gooooooool!
And time is over. Comunicaciones wins three to two.
Some of the teens leave, cursing beneath their breath. The truck returns. More men leave the post-game commentaries. Disillusioned, they board their transport. One of the ice cream men tries to make last-minute sales at the tailgate.
Finally, the woman of the tiendita turns off the TV set. The last of the crowd disperses.
Still, from a few shops, echoes the colour commentary from radios.
The Surreal and Strange: Prose Poetry Competition opened for submissions in May 2022, we received over 233 submissions. The competition asked for prose poems that tapped into the fantastic, or even a version of the mundane; poems that dared to imagine beyond the possibilities and conventions.
Here are the winners of the competition:
For her magnificent piece “Ivy,” Elisabeth Contreras-Moran is the first place winner of “The Surreal and Strange: Prose Poetry Competition.”
In the second place entry to “The Surreal and Strange: Prose Poetry Competition” Derville Quigley’s prose shines.
In the third place entry for “The Surreal and Strange: Prose Poetry Competition,” Callie S. Blackstone’s prose is sure to stick with you. The Moon is Out
Shortlisted entries were read and judged by one of our Masterclass tutors, Jose Hernandez Diaz.
Ivy
I walk alone through the darkened campus, the moon lighting the gothic architecture, the classroom windows reflecting tree branches and shadows and loneliness. I am trying to clear my head, to feel the environment, to be, to be and think and plan and find my courage. In the chilling autumn breeze, the voices of my ancestors whisper their praise, their encouragement, advice tripping at my back
Look, she’ll live in a castle for four years! Can you see the ivy? Isn’t there supposed to be ivy? Study hard, little one, and think of all the things you will learn. Ah, mi’ja, don’t forget to spice your rice with cumin and garlic, just so, when you feel homesick. And toast the rice, toast it properly. Keep your head up high, butterfly, and look them in the eyes. You are worthy. You earned this. We are so proud. I am so proud. Feel the strength of us. We are here, hear us, listen, like this… do this, be that … make us proud. And prouder still. Here, hear, here, hear. Here.
All these voices around me, but all I really hear, on repeat, is the voice of that white boy, with the eyes of turquoise, questioning me, before class: “woman? first generation at an ivy? wants to study science? brown skin? check, check, check, check. holy shit, how many checks can one person have on that affirmative action checklist?”
So tell me. Whose voice should I hear the loudest? Those who are long ago and distant and full of whispers of potential? Or the louder voice right in front of me, who questions my entire being in this whitely and closely guarded world?
please, tell me what to hear.
please. here.
The moon is out
and I’m up to no good. Forget worship. Forget good intentions. Forget positive energy. Forget
good vibes. The moon is out, and I’m up to no good. Dancing-in-the-woods-naked, no good.
Cutting-our palms-and-pressing-the-flesh-and-blood-together, no good. Spreading-my-legs-over-
the-broomstick, no good. Weed-and-herbal-salve-and-flying, no good. Pouring-mead-all-over-
my-face-and-naked-body, no good. Want a taste? Not until you’ve earned it. Are you ready to
open the book? To sign your name? To enter the pact?
A Date with My Favorite Writer
He’s not famous, just someone I know. For argument’s sake, let’s call him Carver. I
went on a date with my favorite writer. He was shy, I was married. He could read my
mind, so that made it okay. Like anyone, we met for coffee by the pier. He wore a
baseball cap high on top of his head. I was glad when he took it off. When he said
everyone sweats. When he looked me in the eye, and we felt an explosive crackle of
electric current zip between us. Something, somewhere made contact. Stars blinked in
approval. The universe opened her arms, drew us in close. Our date was two people
sitting opposite, sipping coffee. Stripping away clothes, flesh, bones, reverb from our
beating hearts and being near. But conversation was taut. I had read Dumbness Is
Everything. He refused to discuss it. There was no need, just want and want. If only I
had a pen. The chemistry came to a head when he slapped ten euro on the table,
placing a silent bet– if he went to the bathroom, would I follow?
Over the clatter of tea things she pursued me humming Wagner and speaking of Crawford.
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We must recognize that painting is not all beauty and life is not always beautiful.
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Experimenting is part of human nature but is perhaps no more manifest than in culture – and specifically the arts.
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A cartoony battle between Highbrow and Lowbrow as depicted in the delightful graphic novelette The Book Fight which presents an imaginary literary battle between genres – a tongue in cheek take on the history of the avant garde lit if there ever were one.
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I’m trapped inside of this prose poem.
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Stepping outside what’s expected is exactly what leads us to unexpected rewards.
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Were flowers on her casket?
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We (and by we I mean Claire (the woman I swore (vow (we still vow, we still pledge ourselves, like honourable (‘honour you’, that’s a wedding vow (there’s that word (words hurt, she said (where did she say it? Was it in the park? (sunlight streaming through the branches by that willow (there were willows by my old school (I met Claire (first time (so many firsts, eroded (standing on the Devon cliffs (a first holiday, funded by pennies (God, we’ll need to divide (promising in front of an obsolete altar (you laughed when I said we should go to church, in case we had kids (the perennial question (how did we not talk about this? Surely we should have talked (we didn’t talk (I never talked (I don’t talk, my therapist (therapist not psychiatrist, that’s a firm line I draw (that’s another issue I have, apparently, drawing arbitrary lines in the sand (the pebble beach, scratty (one of her conjured words (words matter, she said over a coffee in Cambridge (when did we go to Cambridge? Why did we go to Cambridge? That’s gone (sitting for the first time alone on the bed (we bought that bed second hand (the first time we went to IKEA, so proud of being able to buy joint, new furniture, but we never did (despite the years (years gone, years faded, all chucked into a pile of memories (I read an article today that said all memories are constructs (so what do we remember? Seeing Claire in school for the first time, was that real? My mother’s (I should (lots of things I should be doing, instead of standing here (how did I get here? Who are all these people? I can’t recognise (I realised a few days ago that I can’t remember my father’s (a tall man (I’m short, not like him (I don’t even look like him according to the few photos (discovered one wet weekend a few years ago, nestled beneath the coffee table (I wonder if they bought that table together, so proud (he was (is? was? There’s a quiet horror (it was a horrible divorce, I remember that, screaming and hurled plates (I’ve a temper (another reason for Claire to leave (he left, my father, he went one day and that was the end of our relationship (we never had a good (not terrible not violent, but we never truly connected (bar a shared love (I say love, for him it was a deep burning passion while I simply enjoyed casually watching (tucked up on the old green (green was a colour between us – the colour of the countryside we lived in where he’d drag me (I wish I’d gone willingly, wish I’d walked with him knowing how little time (there’s such little time (my whole childhood with my father is nothing but a small book (like the mid-century book of tennis rules he found (I never (like so many (an endless list that stretches (my father stretching out his arms (before he was gone (my parents divorced (my father left me) when I was eleven) forever) for me as I jump over a creek) ever growing before me) things undone) found him) and gave me) of recollections) for us) we had before he vanished) on endless dog walks, Plymouth Argyle kit, his favourite coat) sofa) alongside him) of tennis) in the way fathers and sons are meant to) relationship, mind) in its entirety) in the end) too, like him I suppose, so maybe that’s what passed down) and lawyers, the whole nine yards) in that I’ve no idea) very houseproud, mother says) of buying joint furniture) I had ignored my whole childhood) my mother didn’t destroy), according to my mother with broad shoulders) face, not really) faces) with a glass in my hand gurning like an idiot) call her) face? My father’s smell? Are all these strong held things simply fabrications?) and I realised I was having a panic attack) and tourist tat) we didn’t do so many things) replace the bed) online) and the light was somehow greyer and stiller because she had gone) now, another memory that flickers but vanishes) as rain pounded the windows) that has stolen its way into my vocabulary) sand laced with rough stones that chip the sole) over issues without consulting others), the difference between casual help and medical attention) says, as a way of coping with potential past trauma), I don’t know why) enough about things that mattered) about this?) that tore everything up) and they needed a good school) to remain together until death, that’s a laugh) assets, won’t we?) barely saved from jobs that barely paid) with the wind buffeting, wondering when the whole coastline would evaporate into salt water) into past) seeing her, in the sixth form, just another girl that piqued a teenage interest) at that school), I think, though they didn’t sit over water) by the lake, gold and green and red) In the kitchen? Maybe she said it more than once), words cut deeper than you think) again), isn’t it, that’s one) people, like knights), promise, commit) to remain with until death) and I) got divorced.
YOU'RE HERE FOR THE PINEAPPLE.
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Space does not exist.
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On sunny afternoons, I go out to the street to eat tar.
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And for me, story is an experience that takes us to a place where we ache to go again, and again, and again, to tell our friends.
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Poetry as a rule harms no one. No thing. Poetry only helps, in its purest form, it intends to heal.
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Surrealism: pure psychic automatism, by which it is intended to express . . . the real process of thought. It is the dictation of thought, free from any control by the reason and of any aesthetic or moral preoccupation.
André Breton, Manifesto of Surrealism
International, broad and varied, the Tate Modern exhibition on Surrealism goes beyond the borders of Paris and western countries where the avant-garde movement started in 1924. This inspiring cultural experience expanded and morphed in Africa, Asia, and Central and South America. Over 150 works from 50 countries spanning 80 years give a variegated and multifaceted idea of what Surrealism has meant—and still means—in art. The exhibition features mainly paintings but also some sculptures, films, photography, and magazines. Big names such as René Magritte, Pablo Picasso, Salvador Dalí, Giorgio de Chirico, Joan Miró and others are displayed near minor works of less well-known artists. The effect is interesting as it allows a wider view and traces different routes that revitalise the idea of Surrealism, which was above all a means to challenge social and political systems.
© 2022 Remedios Varo, Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / VEGAP, Madrid. Image courtesy of Gallery Wendi Norris, San Francisco
The exhibition does not follow a chronological order and is loosely grouped in themes. Specific geographical areas are explored in the same room, emphasising affinities and community projects such as the resistance movement in Cairo in 1938 against colonialism and the Second World War led by the group Art et Liberté and the exiled artists who gathered in Mexico City in the 1940s such as Remedios Varo and the Mexican painter Maria Izquierdo. The criss-crossing of renowned artists and less well-known ones may be confusing but is also stimulating. The curators’ choice is not to display only famous pictures but to convey how Surrealism developed, changed and influenced different cultures at different levels.
André Breton’s main ideas, which he expressed in the first Manifeste du Surréalisme (1924), are generally respected by the different artists and are sometimes radicalised. He believed that la vie réelle (real life), based on rational thought and social conventions, contrasts with la vraie vie (true life) that relies on the subconscious and on dreams. Rationality and reality are considered materialistic, oppressive and illusionary. In order to attain individual and collective freedom we need to trust the imagination, a spiritual force that works when our senses are deranged, that is, when we lose control and express our fears and desires freely, as happens with automatic writing. Dreams and reality merge in a ‘surreality’ that is free from censorship and expresses what we really think and feel beyond any aesthetic and moral concerns. Surrealism is meant to be a continuous revolution that sabotages traditional art and societal rules, proposing alternative and unsettling views.
The exhibition explores these concepts thoroughly in the works of different artists and in collaborative projects that imply political commitment against imperialism, colonialism, and class and gender oppression. Therefore, Surrealism is not just escapism in a dreamlike world; on the contrary, it meant, and still means, taking a stance against order and imposed conventions; it looks for a total liberation that starts from the inside, from the unfamiliar and the uncanny, and aims to express our true self who is living la vraie vie.
This ongoing revolution never stops and is articulated well by the artists featured in the Tate exhibition. The famous Lobster Telephone by Dalí and the antler-like shape positioned on a buffalo’s hoof by Artur Cruzeiro Seixas associate two apparently disconnected objects in a playful and unsettling way. It is a provocation that suggests looking at everyday objects in a different way which makes them alive and haunts familiar spaces. The relationship between the elements of the artworks is connected in a poetical and artistic way instead of the common logical or rational way. They express protest and a subverted reality that is considered more powerful and truer than the everyday. According to Surrealists, ordinary reality is biased by the logic of economic profit and imperialist policies. This protest was expressed, for example, in the civil rights movements and in the manifestations against the Vietnam War in the USA. In a similar perspective, the anxiety of some of the narratives of the pictures, such as Max Ernst’s Two Children are Threatened by a Nightingale and the haunting atmosphere of Rita Kernn-Larsen’s Phantoms or Yves Tanguy’s A Thousand Times, convey a space out of time that opposes the artificial constructions of the logic concerning the establishment, focusing on alternative realities.
Some Surrealist artists supported, via their work, movements against dictatorships, such as the graffiti-like picture by Miró of the student revolution of May 1968 and the artwork of some Caribbean artists such as Wifredo Lam who merged Afro-Cuban traditions with a search for freedom. Eugenio Granell is another example of an artist with radical thinking who used Surrealism as an artistic tool to attain personal and societal liberation. He fled Spain after the defeat of the Spanish Republic in 1939, lived in different countries in Central America and founded the group Mirador Azul (Blue Outlook) in Puerto Rico.
References to sexual desire are frequent, as we can see in Konrad Klapheck’s Alphabet Passion, in which the repeated bicycle bells suggest the female sexual organ being penetrated by the ‘male’ propeller painted on top, and in the female figures of Hans Bellmer’s photos. Cage by Alberto Giacometti conveys a sense of the constriction of the individual whose world is restricted to a limited area. The elements of the composition are almost compressed against each other, suggesting suffocation and lack of space. The relation between the internal and the external is prevented by the bars of the cage that do not let the figure go beyond its limits, though the space between the bars suggests the possibility of a way out. The elements inside the cage have geometrical shapes that imply a figure, maybe a female one.
The diverse suggestions that the exhibition conveys give a comprehensive idea of what Surrealism has expressed in almost a century of uninterrupted cultural, political and artistic activities around the world. The different products of this fertile movement invite the viewer to look at our familiar world with renewed eyes and from fresh viewpoints, unleashing the imagination to fulfill its wildest and total uninhibited potential.
Surrealism Beyond Borders is on view at Tate Modern through 29 August 2022.
Media Advertising Sales Executive
Job Type:
Permanent + Part Time roles.
Paid role.
Location: Remote, New York + London
The ideal candidate will have experience in advertising & marketing, ideally in print magazine, with an interest in literature and the arts- with a demonstrated success in driving sales, excellent communication skills as well as a proactive, creative and innovative approach. Proven organizational ability as well as an understanding of sales and budgeting are a must and a confident telephone manner.
Key responsibilities include
Creating and implementing sales plans and campaigns in order to maximize revenue.
Build on and maintain a database of contacts relevant to the sales lists.
Build the Litro brand through partnerships and strategic alliance.
Some travel to the UK + USA and Europe to conferences and events will be needed.
Perks
As part of a small, friendly team, you’ll be included in every discussion, giving you the opportunity to shape the direction and identity of the magazine. You’ll get to work with some of the very best authors active today, and make a real difference both to the global appreciation of their work and to the UK + US literary culture, ensuring that great writing from all over the world is accessible and attractive to our diverse readership.
Closing date November, 1st 2022 at 5pm EST.
To apply, please send your CV and a cover letter to work@litro.co.uk
UK
3 days / week
£11,720
Location: London / Remote work
Who are we?
Founded in 2005, Litro Magazine’s ethos is the discovery of new emerging talent and giving them a platform to be read alongside literary stalwarts. Litro Magazine has been innovating the literary scene for many years and now, we’re looking for an enthusiastic, pro-active creative books lover to help take us to the next level.
You’ll need to keep abreast of what’s happening in the industry, with a constant eye out for new opportunities – organisations to collaborate with, advertising spots in print & online, time-specific happenings for tie-in events & promotions. You’ll also need to be creative, with original ideas for getting the most out of a small budget and helping Litro Magazine to continue to stand out from the crowd.
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- Proven experience in a relevant role
- Exceptional ability in copywriting and editing
- Proficiency in English
- Working knowledge of online platforms like WordPress and SEO concepts
- Abilities in planning and coordinating people and operations
- Excellent organizational and leadership skills
- Outstanding communication and people abilities
- Reliability and efficiency
- Attention to detail
- BSc/BA in journalism or relevant field
Perks
As part of a small, friendly team, you’ll be included in every discussion, giving you the opportunity to shape the direction and identity of the magazine. You’ll get to work with some of the very best authors active today, and make a real difference both to the global appreciation of their work and to the UK’s literary culture, ensuring that great writing from all over the world is accessible and attractive to our diverse readership.
Currently 3 days per week, for the right candidate there will be the opportunity to transition to full-time. Flexibility around distribution of hours, training and work-shadowing are all possible, however weekend work is not encouraged.
To apply, please send a 1-page CV & cover letter to work@litro.co.uk by May 1st, 2023
Ted broke Melinda again. Snapped her right in two. She must have lashed out and bitten off his face. She likes to do that. After it grew back, he would have sneaked up on her late at night. Also: not the first time. She’s twice his size, or was. He then ran the length of the cage they call home and smashed into the wall. Couldn’t have survived more than a couple of impacts. Now he’s a powdery chewing-gum sludge drying against the glass. He’s not the priority, though. Melinda’s broken. At least there’s more left of her. I have to decide if repairs are worthwhile. I should just order new ones.
*
They come in all sizes. No one knows how they’re made, or quite where. Best not to ask questions, not in this day and age. Everyone has one or two even if they deny it. Most have more. They’re not expensive. They’re quite lifelike. Most can talk, unless they’re programmed just to scream. There are theories that they’re aliens, or fae. Intended as a remedy for loneliness, the brittles will watch TV with you. You can put them on the sofa. If you squash them, get replacements. Or you can watch them in their little habitats just like you’d watch TV, or you can feed them to your cats. They’re not especially nutritious. Don’t ask me if I’ve tried one. Of course I have. I’ll tell you a secret: it’s never nice when dinner bites your uvula as you swallow. Not everything tastes like chicken.
You can order softer ones too. They’re a bit like cream cheese that can move. They’re spreadable. But they leave your fingers sticky. Little trails on the floors of their enclosures. They smudge the glass. And if you leave the lights on too long, they get melty. My friend James likes to slice them up and serve them on crackers. Depending on who his guests are, he lets them do the slicing. There’s a trick to it. They stay alive longer if you start with the feet. Work your way up. There are no genitals to speak of, no alimentary canals. You’re not eating their shit, not like shrimp. You can order some that are high in fiber if you like, but that seems like overkill. If you eat a few small ones, they’re like little brooms. You’ll feel clean inside the next day, and also dirty. I never order the ones that can talk, just the screamers, and only sometimes.
*
Melinda sits there, watching me. Glaring, although it’s hard to be sure what her expression is meant to convey. Their faces don’t move much. Their mouths can form little Os of horror when they’re torn to pieces. Or you can buy the kind that crack and crumble into powder. Those are fun. I’ve stapled Melinda back together. Is she glad to see the last of Ted? I scrape him off the glass with a special spatula designed just for that purpose. It’s understood that the brittles commit suicide. It’s entertainment; it’s part of the fun. For people who feel squeamish about using kitchen utensils to scrape the muck off the sides of the cages, there’s a whole range of appliances. The spatulas I mentioned. Special callipers if you’re fond of flinging at the wall but don’t want to get bitten when you pick them up. There’s even a solution to dissolve the remains. (Or you can just drop live ones in and watch them squirm into clouds of nothingness.) If you really want to go a little nuts, there are little incinerators that reduce them to ash you can sprinkle on your plants, and biodegradable envelopes if you’d rather toss them in the compost bin. It’s a whole ecosystem. Recycling is important.
Somehow I’ve run out of cat food. Ted will do. I’ll sprinkle some dry chow on the muck. Miss Mittens will love it. Yes, I think Melinda’s glaring at me. It almost makes me wonder what she’s thinking, but of course we all know they can’t think.
*
I splurged a bit and bought three. Melinda won’t kill them, I’m sure. The first one out of the shipping tube, I name George. He has a bluish cast, almost purple. These designer colors are so gourmet. I’ve heard they taste better than the plain ones. George looks up at me. His little eyes blink. Although he can’t talk, the other sound he can make is half croak and half gasp. It’s louder than I expect. In fact, it startles me. I give him a thump and his head snaps off. God damn it, I mutter, and mush it back on. Seems like I did it just in time. The connection re-formed, or reset itself, or whatever it does. I don’t quite understand how it works. Still, it did work – that’s what counts – and now he’s in the enclosure with his back pressed against the glass. Melinda advances toward him, stalking like a cat. No! I yell down at her. Do you want me to pinch off your arms and make you eat them?
The next one out of the tube is pale pink. I name this one Suzie. She’s larger than the other two, Melinda’s size. Perhaps she’ll restore order to my brittles. A new balance. But I can’t help thinking how she looks like a walking piece of fruit. It’s so tempting to cut her open just to see. She’d look like a strawberry inside, or maybe a melon. Yes, I think my little Suzie will bring some normality to the scene. And if she doesn’t, I’ll put her in the blender with some blueberries and make a smoothie.
The last of the three, I’ll name Alex. There’s a legend. If you’re lonely, take a brittle with you to bed. Put it under your pillow like you’re five and it’s a tooth. If it survives the night (most don’t), it’ll be with you for a long time to come. You should treat it well. Get it a second enclosure. Keep it separate from the others. Don’t even let it see them. Naturally most of them get squashed while you sleep, or they break into pieces. If that happens, mush them down and use them as toothpaste. Add mint if you’d like, or some clove oil. The tooth fairy may steal molars at night but the toothpaste you make out of brittles puts the bitch out of work. It’s useful if you’re older and don’t want dentures. I’ve flossed all my life but I like this idea. Never tried it. I know what’s going to happen to Alex tonight.
The brittles are the best things since bitcoin and Netflix. Melinda’s got a few more weeks left in her. She’s looking a little worn out. According to the catalog online, I can replace her for half what I paid. I’ll get two next time. Plus some of that new strain of kombucha that dissolves them and makes a healthy tea. I spend my last half-hour or so before bed talking to my little collection. It’s so important to remind them I love them. They’re so useful. They try to hide in the little huts I’ve given them, so I take those away and smack them around a bit. George’s arm comes off. I put it back on, but backward, to teach him a lesson. I’ll tear it off and reattach it in the morning. They make me so happy. They’re so much fun. Best of all, you’re never really alone.
On the first day of 9th grade Biology, Mr. Melzer let us know what to do in case he had a heart attack in class. “Don’t bother contacting the school office, just call 911 directly. That’s what they’ll do at the office anyway.” Though he was certainly old, Mr. Melzer didn’t seem particularly infirm. He stood especially straight and looked like he could hold his own in a fistfight. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he’d spent time in the military. If a history podcast mentions a king who continued to command his forces in person late in life, I’ll still sometimes picture him as Mr. Melzer.
We never ended up needing to call 911 for him. He retired halfway through the year. On his last day, he handed out light green pieces of paper on which he’d printed all the life lessons he hoped to impart to us. I remember taking the paper with a certain amount of awe. Right here in my hands was the rare opportunity to skip levels in life. Mr. Melzer was so old that he half expected to drop dead in front of us. Just for us, he’d condensed those years—no—decades of experience down into one double sided piece of printer paper with 14pt sans-serif font. Just by reading, I could get the benefit of a whole life’s experience without having to live it; I could be fifteen and sixty-five at once.
I have rarely read anything with such urgency. If the bell had rung to go to the next period, I would not have gone until I finished. The first few points felt a little obvious and general, but I continued on. When I got to the bottom of the first side without any revelation, I turned the page over and began the second side with a little more apprehension. When I finished that side I put the paper down, unchanged by what I’d read. The epiphany I’d been looking for was not there. These were a lifetime’s worth of wisdom. Why were none of them any good? The only one I remember now was something like, “Religion is a connection to the divine in a community. Spirituality is a connection to the divine alone.” Those were solid enough definitions, but they taught me nothing new.
The lesson I ended up getting from that list was not one printed on the page. It was how difficult it is to share your own personal realizations with another person. By now, everyone has heard about the value of kindness, the wonder of everyday life, the power of belief in oneself, etc. They’ve been repeated so many times that the meaning has been trampled out of them. What began as a shattering revelation congeals into a cliché.
Worse than being non-transferable, epiphanies are also exceptionally fragile. For example, a therapist once told me that one’s mistakes are actually quite valuable because they make you a better person. To me, this wasn’t so much an observation as it was a kind of alchemy: where previously they’d been shameful accidents, now my past mistakes were transmuted into hard won lessons. Later that day I gleefully repeated the idea to my sister over the phone. She did her best to sound as enthused as I was. Even so, as soon as I spoke the words aloud, I could feel the revelation dissolving. What had sounded inspired and obviously true when my therapist had said it now sounded trite and just plain obvious when I said it. If mistakes made me a better person, why did I keep making so many similar ones? And if I was making so many of them, was I really as good a person as I thought I was? Mistakes actually had the potential to make you a much worse person, now that I thought about it. Just like that, the epiphany had gone out like a candle in a gust of wind. My mind was a little darker without it. After that, I learned to wait to share these things until their luster has worn off and they aren’t so breakable anymore.
But while I’m careful with my own revelations, I’m always in search of other people’s. When I read, I’m looking for what I didn’t find in Mr. Melzer’s list. Why? At the end of his life spent turning down everything that might make him happy in order to concentrate on his work, Kafka wrote in a journal, “As if despair were not just as much of a distraction!” This is the kind of thing I would like to know before I’m about to die of tuberculosis. In fact, I’d like to know it as soon as possible.
Our personalities are composed of accumulated epiphanies like this, though most aren’t quite as big as Kafka’s. This is never as clear as when you look at an old picture of yourself. You see the haircut you had and the old jacket you’ve since given away. But you see more than that too. You’re separated not only by time, but by all of the realizations between yourself now and yourself then. You know the mistakes that person is on their way to making, the ones you could have avoided so easily if only you’d known what you know now. It’s like watching a horror movie. You want to scream at the characters not to go into that room, not to split up, to turn back now. But your younger self can’t hear you anymore than the movie can.
Mr. Melzer must have had a similar experience. I actually saw him once more after he retired. It was after a graduation ceremony. He was there for his students, I was there for my older sister. I was studying for the Biology SATs at the time and he told me, “If you remember half of what I taught you, you’ll be fine.” I remember thinking—I may have even said it—that, “Yeah, but have I remembered half of what you taught me?” At fifteen, I was only marginally more attentive than a photograph or a character in a horror movie. This must be one of the difficulties of being a teacher, of being any adult trying to teach students. You want to pass on everything you worked so hard to learn, Biology or otherwise, but it’s harder than it looks. You can give all the life lessons you want, but what really changes a person isn’t lessons, it’s life.
Once, the summer before my senior year of college, I was on a walk with a friend when we decided to lie down in the middle of a concrete walking path to look at the stars. There were plenty of pebbles in the concrete and it wasn’t especially comfortable. It happened to be alumni weekend and soon a man, maybe from the class of ‘92, came walking along and nearly tripped over us in the dark. I remember the look the man gave me. It was clear that he knew something I didn’t. He knew that one really ought not lie down in the middle of a concrete walkway, especially when there was grass not six feet away we could have sat down on instead. But there was something else in his face too. Nostalgia. He remembered when he used to lay on concrete or do things just as unaccountably foolish. He missed laying on the concrete, however uncomfortable it may have been.
The man walked on without comment. He knew, I imagine, that our only problem was that we were young and a few words from him weren’t going to change that. He knew that there is only one reliable cure for youth: age. We’d have to do a lot more dumb things before those dumb things taught us not to do them any more.
The ushers at Clowes Hall were making this fucking impossible. Every entrance to the theater had a team of them, with more just milling around in the lobby. This squadron of geriatric volunteers was hellbent on being helpful, and any time Chris stopped moving he could feel their eyes turn toward him as they wondered if he was lost, if he needed help, if he would like to show his ticket. These weren’t senior citizens. They were wolves wearing cardigans, and they could smell the stink of his desperation from halfway across the hall. Here came one now, white haired and deadly, dentures exposed in a smile.
“Do you need any help?” the usher asked, and Chris tucked his tablet a little tighter beneath his arm. So far tonight he hadn’t used the app once, hadn’t dared to even wake up his device. It took fifteen minutes to administer a survey, and the only time he’d got any privacy was when he’d been in the bathroom. And he knew, from experience, that no one wants to answer questions in the bathroom.
“No, thank you,” Chris said, and he stood up a little straighter and tried to look friendly. He felt very aware of the scuffs on his shoes, and that his button-down shirt was not as crisp or as clean as he’d thought. “I’m waiting for someone.”
The usher checked her watch, a tiny gold face on a tiny gold band, and she frowned. “The performance starts in five minutes. Once the doors close, no one’s allowed in or out until the intermission.”
They stood outside the east balcony. Chris hoped this spot was enough out of the way he might find some privacy here. But no such luck.
“I’ll go see if I can find my friend,” Chris said. “We don’t want to be late.”
The usher was close enough now Chris could smell the lavender of her hand lotion, which he’d seen her use after touching each ticket. Chris did not have a ticket. He was not here for the show.
There was a shout from downstairs. Chris looked past the edge of the veranda to see a security guard pulling Thatcher through the lobby by his elbow. When Thatcher spotted Chris he yanked free.
“They got us!” Thatcher yelled. “Run for it!”
The usher took a step back, eyes wide. “May I see your ticket, please?”
There was a second guard down in the lobby, and now he made a break for the stairwell. Chris pulled out his tablet, opened the survey app, and threw a hail mary.
“Sure,” Chris said, “but maybe I could ask you a few questions first?”
*
Thatcher swore it would be easy money if they could just stick it out to the end. That’s where everybody always went wrong, he said. This was a binary gig, it was all or nothing: When you got one-hundred surveys turned in and approved, the company paid you five-hundred dollars. And of course Chris got on board, because what else could he do?
Easy money.
Now Thatcher wouldn’t look up from his beer. He kept dipping an index finger into the head and scraping the foam off on the lip of his glass.
“Sorry, man. I really thought that would work. That place was packed.”
Chris had his tablet on the table between them. On screen was his personal dashboard, displaying his survey approval numbers in a Kindergarten-simple pie chart. Two-thirds of it was green, about ten percent yellow, and then there was that last quarter – the only piece Chris really cared about – which shone a bright busted-lip red.
“My rejection rate is up,” Chris said, looking at his stats. “I’m at two to one.”
“Well fuck,” Thatcher said. “That’s pretty bad.”
It wasn’t just bad, it was terrible. When the company rejected a survey, it didn’t count toward your goal. That was the catch, the part Thatcher left out. You didn’t get paid after you turned in a hundred. You got paid after a hundred were approved. And now here was Chris, sunk fast in the swamp of his quota, with a rejection rate so bad he’d have to interview seventy-five people just to get enough through approval. And who knew? It could get even worse. The whole thing was a mess, but it was too late to quit now. He was this close to the money, and he didn’t have time for a Plan B.
“How’s yours look?” Chris asked. Thatcher pulled out his tablet and opened the app. His dashboard looked a bit better: seventy-four approved, twelve in the queue, and only fourteen rejected. But his rejection rate was going up, too.
“This shit has to be rigged.”
“Come on,” Thatcher said. “No. No way. Remember Gary? And Sarah? I’m pretty sure they both got paid.”
Chris didn’t feel any better. “They recruited you. Maybe they’re in on it.”
“You’re overthinking. It’s not like we paid money to do this. It’s not a pyramid scheme. We just have to …” Thatcher tried to think of the words. “Get better. Your phone’s ringing.”
Chris checked his pocket. Sure enough, Thatcher was right. The guy had a weird sense of hearing, said that sometimes in a quiet room he could hear people’s heartbeats. Chris took the call outside.
“Hey kiddo.”
“Dad, did you know dimetrodon, pteranodon, and ichthyosaurus aren’t dinosaurs?”
“I think I heard that,” Chris said. “They’re birds, aren’t they?”
“No,” said his son. “It’s dinosaurs that are birds, and they aren’t dinosaurs.”
“Ah, shit. You might have to draw me a diagram.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you coming to my birthday?”
“I’m trying,” Chris said. “I need to get some money together. I got a job I think’s going to help.”
“Where you ask people questions?”
“Right. But not everybody likes talking to me. It’s taking a while.”
“Okay. Do you want to talk to Mom?”
Chris glanced over his shoulder, then took a couple more steps down the sidewalk. “Sure.”
“Hi, Chris.”
“Hey Mina.”
“Did you actually want to talk to me?”
“I don’t not want to.”
“It didn’t sound like you said ‘yes’ to the birthday question. Are you going to be here?”
“I’m working on it. There’s no direct flights out of Indy. It’s an expensive round trip.”
“Just don’t wait til the last second,” she said. “If the answer is no, tell him no, so he’ll be done being sad by his party.”
“It’s just, it might take me to the last second,” Chris said. “I can’t control whether people talk to me.”
“Don’t make him sad on his birthday,” Mina said.
“Yeah, well. I can’t control that either.”
*
The survey job was shitty, but it was about the only second job Chris could fit around his schedule waiting tables at Ruttle’s. You never knew your hours more than a week in advance, and sometimes not even that much if someone called in. If he owned a car it’d be different, maybe he’d drive for a rideshare, but he didn’t. Shitty or not, the survey job was the best he could do.
But it was Thatcher who’d found the gig. He worked in the kitchen. On a smoke break together he gave Chris a survey, then recruited him.
“I get a fifty dollar bonus if you sign up,” Thatcher said. “I’ll split it with you.”
Chris would have done it for free. Five-hundred dollars was a big prize, and Thatcher made it sound simple. He told Chris about Gary and Sarah, the couple who recruited him, and how the app handled everything for you. So Chris signed up, and within the week the restaurant manager put up a memo in the break room that forbade any form of “survey, census, or questionnaire” on the job. The memo was thumbtacked over the company drug policy.
Although Chris and Thatcher couldn’t always work together, it was nice to have someone else with you when you were giving our surveys. You felt less lonely, for one, and less desperate. You weren’t really competing, either — Chris always seemed to get more people to stop on the nights they worked together when he was working alone.
The night after Clowes Hall, the restaurant was quiet. Chris and Thatcher took as many smoke breaks as they could get away with. They sat on a cement bench that was obscured from the parking lot by a pair of overgrown shrubs. Finches built their nests in these shrubs and gathered their food from the trash. Finches were supposed to eat seed, Chris knew, but this breed ate French fries, having adapted to their environment like Darwin’s finches to the Galapagos.
“We haven’t tried Walmart,” Chris said, watching small shapes shudder inside the shrubs. “There’s the twenty-four hour one, we could go there after work.”
“Eh,” Thatcher said. “Remember when I sold DishTV? They stuck me at Walmart, and people there won’t even look at you. Or they just waste your time because they’re lonely.”
Chris scratched his chest, took a drag. “The bars, then. It’s Friday night, they’ll be busy, we might get away with it longer.”
“Maybe,” Thatcher said. He spat toward the shrubs. “There’s got to be a way to just fake them.”
This was the bone Thatcher couldn’t stop gnawing. He’d tried it dozens of ways, but no matter how he took his own surveys the system would catch him, and kick the forgeries into the reject percentage. Chris figured there was some algorithm behind it, powerful AI that could catch whatever tell gave Thatcher away. Chris never tried to cheat the system himself, but he kept hoping Thatcher might figure it out.
“Let’s just try Walmart,” Chris said. “Just try it. Bars after.”
Thatcher dropped his cigarette into the mulch. “I guess I’m resigned to pretty much anything.”
Chris nodded. “That’s the spirit.”
*
The price of plane tickets went up. Chris couldn’t believe by how much. He could still afford them once he cashed in his surveys, but he’d gone from comfortable margin to just barely. If he had to wait much longer, they might climb out of reach.
“Did you clear your cookies?” Mina asked, when he called her. “They track you. They see you looking at the same tickets over and over and they jack up the prices to get you to buy.”
Chris wasn’t in a panic, exactly, but he was not feeling calm. His mouth tasted bad. He kept doing push ups.
“I don’t know how to do that,” Chris said, feeling stupid.
“Try looking incognito,” Mina suggested. “That does the same thing.”
He put her on speaker and did what she said. Sure enough, the prices went down. Not down where they’d been, but definitely lower.
“I think that worked,” Chris said. “Jesus. They really fuck you however they can.”
“Where are you at with the surveys?”
“I still need twenty approved. But my rejection rate dropped, that’s been good.”
“Where’ve you been going?”
“Nursing homes,” he admitted. “We say we’re from the census.”
“I think that might be a felony.”
“It’s fine,” Chris said. “They like talking to us. Thatcher’s good, he can be pretty charming. He gets us past the desk people.”
“Your son wants to talk to you.” Mina handed off the phone.
“Dad?”
“Yeah kiddo?”
“Mom said I could invite five friends to my birthday.”
“Dang. I wish I had five friends.”
“You have me, and mom, and your work friends. I wanted to invite Jordan but Mom said he probably couldn’t come since he lives in Indianapolis. Do you know if you’re coming yet?”
“I’m working on it, buddy. Are you sure you still want me to? I don’t want to take a spot from one of your friends.”
“You don’t count, Dad.”
“I know,” Chris said. “That was the joke.”
*
The VFW was a disaster.
“That ain’t the fuckin’ census,” said a man in a Desert Storm hat. “Who’d you say you were?”
“We’ll come back at a better time,” Chris said, and he motioned to Thatcher. The man in the hat wasn’t satisfied.
“Chuck! Hey CHUCK!” he shouted, but Chris and Thatcher beat a retreat before they learned who that was.
“That didn’t go well.”
“Maybe we should try a hospital.”
They were past any consideration of ethics. Slipping into nursing homes, impersonating government representatives, they did whatever it took to get answers. Thatcher wasn’t under a deadline the way Chris was but the urgency seemed to rub off on him. Or maybe he was just getting sick of it. Either way, neither of them wanted to be the first to suggest they were on a bad road. If it was the shorter one, how bad could it be?
*
Chris worked dinner rush the next night. Thatcher was coming off day shift. It wasn’t his fault, he had no control over scheduling, but Chris resented him anyway. Evenings were always better for surveys, and Thatcher was going to reap the benefits while Chris was stuck hustling for tips. If he wore a brace or limped, would people give him more money? It didn’t matter. To earn enough for a plane ticket he’d need a full body cast.
He had fifteen surveys to go, and two days to do it. Being stuck here tonight could break him. But he still forced a smile when he took menus to a table of six. He smiled when he served up their plates. He smiled when he said, “Who had the Wowzarella sticks?” and he smiled when he passed across the hot basket.
Somebody asked for ketchup. Somebody else asked for ranch. Chris had his tablet tucked in his apron. “I’ll get that right out. And while you wait for your entree, I’d just like to mention we’ve got a quick survey you can take for ten percent off.”
The diners shrugged at each other. Chris opened the tablet and set it down on the table.
“Won’t take you a minute,” he said. “I’ll be back with your sauces.”
And the thing was, it worked. It worked really well. When he rang up the bills, he included a discount. Ten percent was the most he could offer without calling a manager, a way to save face if something went wrong with an order. But tonight Chris offered it up to everyone, and almost everyone took it.
By the end of his shift, Chris had collected twenty-one unique responses. If his luck held with approvals that might just be enough.
When he got home that night he looked up the plane tickets. Incognito. The prices had fallen by nearly a hundred dollars. He was going to make it.
*
Chris and Thatcher worked lunch together the next day. The soup-and-panini shift. So did their manager, who stayed in his office running receipts. It would not have been hard for Chris to be caught. His receipts all showed the ten percent discount, and they all had Chris’s name at the top. But he felt strangely blasé. Whether his pay got docked or he even got fired, it didn’t matter that much. That money was all coming too late. What mattered was money right now.
Thatcher summoned an Uber at the end of their shift and it took them to the Indiana State Fairgrounds off 38th Street. It was the week of the home and garden show, where there’d be a hundred different vendors and booths selling windows and patios, arbors and mulch. There would be a lot of people with clipboards. There would be a lot of salesmen making pitches. It seemed like a good place to blend in.
“How’d you do last night?” Chris asked, when they got in the car.
“Ate shit,” Thatcher said. “I only got one guy at the end of the night, and he wrote his name as ‘Mister Ass’, so they’re definitely going to reject it.”
“Sucks.”
“Yeah, well. You got stuck at work. That sucks too.”
Chris said nothing.
The driver dropped them off on 38th Street to avoid the fairground entry fee. They walked up the drive and into the pavilion, which smelled less like a garden and more like a barn — moldering, animal, sweaty, and stale. Just past the front door was a vendor with tubs of mulch in a rainbow of colors, each kind a different texture and size. People stood transfixed at these tubs, cupping the mulch with their palms, breathing it in. Chris had so many questions.
The pavilion had its own security, but the officers were few and far between. Even the ushers at Clowes Hall had been out in greater force. These guys just looked bored. They weren’t going to bother two dudes carrying tablets.
Chris and Thatcher decided to split up. The booths were laid out in one giant circle, so you could see everything just by walking a lap. They agreed to head opposite directions and regroup on the far side of the loop. But first Chris checked on his standings.
The dashboard showed that of the twenty-one surveys he submitted last night thirteen were newly approved. The rest were rejected. Chris could live with that. He just needed two more.
But the attendees of the home and garden show were less receptive than Chris expected. They shook their heads at him before he could even open his mouth. After walking past a few booths he understood why. The pavilion was crawling with salesmen holding tablets and clipboards, and they swarmed anyone who dared to make eye contact. One of them even tried to pitch Chris, despite the fact he looked like a salesman himself.
“Interest you in a free estimate for an above ground pool?”
“Maybe,” Chris said. He held up his tablet. “I’ll trade you info.”
The pool salesman leaned in for a better look. Then he burst out laughing.
“Shit, they’re still doing this? That was my first job out of high school.”
“What was? Surveys?”
The salesman nodded. “I crapped out at, like, thirty approved. Lot of fucking work to never cash in. How far along are you?”
Chris shrugged. “Ninety-eight?”
“Goddamn,” the pool salesman said. He grabbed the tablet and began tapping away. “Gotta respect that. You know, half the guys here did this.” He turned and waved at a man standing by a model brick fireplace. “Hey! HEY! LONNIE! Lonnie’s gonna love this. LONNIE! LOOK AT THIS!”
Lonnie walked over, confused, but grinned like a motherfucker once he got it.
“How close are you?” Lonnie asked. Chris told him. “Fuck, man. You just relax. We’re going to get you there. You know the trick to getting a survey approved, right?”
“There’s a trick?” the pool salesman asked.
“There’s always a trick,” Lonnie said. The pool salesman looked irritated even as he signed his name with a fingertip, then handed the tablet to Lonnie. Lonnie tapped the screen and kept talking. “It’s based on a dim view of people’s intelligence, but the fact is you’ve got to hit your fuck-up quota. Leave a question blank, include a few typos, that kind of thing. If a survey shows up too clean the system tags it as fake. That’s how they weed out chicanery.”
There was a trick. Chris couldn’t believe it. There was always a trick. Lonnie finished the survey, signed his name, then took it again. After the second time he handed it back.
“I don’t know if they’ll accept it from this guy,” Lonnie said, patting the pool salesman on the shoulder, “but I promise you mine will go through.”
The pool salesman still looked miserable. “Where were you five years ago? I could have made bank.”
Lonnie just laughed. “Yeah? What’s stopping you now?”
*
Chris found Thatcher again at a display of gazebos, looking miserable.
“Garden people are dicks,” Thatcher said, and so they called another car and waited by the front gate of the Fairgrounds. Their driver pulled up and the two of them climbed in.
“That’s not the boat and RV show today, is it?” the driver asked, pulling away.
“No,” Chris said. “Home and garden.”
“I like boats,” said the driver. As the car in front of them slammed on its brakes Chris had just enough time to gasp. They drove straight into its tail so that the hood of their Uber folded up like a tinfoil sheet. Thatcher made a noise like he’d been punched in the gut. It was over just like that, the car suddenly silent, but Chris felt sick with adrenaline. Their driver sounded dazed, his voice soft and wavering as he said, “We should probably get out of the car.”
That made sense. Chris tried to focus on that. He slid toward Thatcher, but Thatcher was sliding toward him. Chris slid back the other direction. He opened his door and got out of the car. It was good to be told what to do. He hoped it would happen again. Everything felt wet and spinning and white. He thought he’d better sit down.
“I think he’s leaving,” Thatcher said.
They watched their driver pull neatly away. He cut his wheel left and pulled around the other car, fleeing the scene at five-miles-per-hour. The whole thing felt backwards. Chris was still shaking, his heart beating a thousand times a minute. Shouldn’t he be the one running away?
“Where’s your tablet?” Thatcher asked. Chris threw up on the sidewalk.
*
Pending …
Pending …
Pending …
No matter how often Chris refreshed the dashboard, the status of those last few surveys didn’t change. He’d been checking it on his laptop for nearly twenty-four hours. He was also waiting on the police — had they found the driver? Had they found the tablet? And he was waiting on Gary and Sarah, both of whom he’d messaged to confirm that they really, truly did get paid. But he wouldn’t be worried about any of it, not Gary or Sarah or the police or the driver, if he got those last surveys approved.
Chris logged out and logged back in. Closed the window and opened a new one. Restarted the laptop. And yet:
Pending …
Pending …
Pending …
Around seven that night his son called from out west. He’d just come home from school, eaten a snack, watched Spongebob. Chris answered his phone and kept an eye on the dashboard, compulsively refreshing the page.
“Hi Dad.”
“Hi kiddo.”
“Mom got bit by a dog.”
“What? When?”
“It was in our yard and she chased it away, but it turned and tried to bite her leg.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yeah. It missed her.”
“So she didn’t really get bit.”
“No.”
“It’s not really a story if nothing happens.”
His phone vibrated. Chris pulled it away from his ear to see he had a message from Gary.
<I never got paid. Who told you that?
“Dad? Mom said to ask if you got a plane ticket yet.”
Chris put his son on speakerphone.
“I’m trying,” he said. “I’m still waiting on money.”
Another message from Gary:
<I thought the company closed or something?
“From your job asking questions?”
wtf do you mean closed?> Chris texted back.
“Yeah,” Chris said to his son. “But it’s the kind of job where you don’t get paid until you’re all done. Like how you don’t get your allowance until you finish your chores.”
<I don’t know what to tell you. They won’t call me back and my credentials stopped working
i thought you and sarah got paid?>
“So when are you done?”
<No. Sarah got fucked over too. I tried to tell Thatcher
are you fucking serious>
“Soon,” Chris said. “I’ll be done really soon.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
< ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
“Are you coming to my birthday?”
“I’m trying. I really am, okay?”
Chris turned back to his laptop and refreshed the page. This time the dashboard logged him out.
“You never told me what kind of questions you ask people.”
Chris tried to log back in, but his password didn’t work. It didn’t work the second time, or the third. He felt like he was going to throw up again.
“Dad?”
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“I want to know what questions you ask.”
When Chris tried a fourth time, a new message appeared: Your account has been locked. Please contact an administrator. He muted his phone and swore.
“Daaad.”
Unmute.
“Sorry, buddy,” Chris said. “I got sidetracked by something. Let me just pull them up.”
He shut his laptop and set it on the coffee table, then he switched off the speaker and brought the phone to his ear. He leaned back in the cushions of his curbside-claimed couch and he squeezed his eyes closed, listening to the sound of his son breathing the warm Californian air. Without the tablet or dashboard Chris couldn’t open a new survey, but the truth was he didn’t need to. By now he’d read through it hundreds of times, and he knew all his questions by heart.
There’s a wrinkle in his hand that looks like the wrinkle in a moonflower when it blooms at dusk. It was there all along like the three creases in my hand. I didn’t know about it—the scar—the shape of a flower in my father’s hand. I was a boy and didn’t know how to look. Just as I didn’t know that the baobab grew and stood right. All the while it seemed like her roots were planted beneath the sky.
I scraped candle plates clean before sunset; unplugged the nearly burnt-out stumps, saved them for the fire; took out new candles charily, careful not to tear the blue and white Lighthouse paper bag. I lit the sitting room before he arrived and wished to make it bright and clean. Still, everything was always a darker shade—the evening and its supper, the song on the radio, the back of his hands when he held them up to his face; the flowers in the vase, blue Lenten roses, plucked from his madam’s garden before they withered, unfurled to paper planes.
Today he smiles and marvels at the maddening sun, amazed by the colours of all he will impart. But it wasn’t always this way. The shovel broke, scarred, and defeated him most days. I wish I had saved him; brought us closer in the slowing years; let him know that he wasn’t alone, that I remember the dark wrinkle growing deeper and deeper in his moonflower hand.
“The more resolutely you plumb the question, ‘Who or what am I?’ – the more unavoidable is the realisation that you are nothing…apart from everything else.”
-Alan W. Watts
Forty-one. I remember I am nothing over Greek salad when Mum recounts my birth.
“You took your first breath and burrowed into my breast. Your father took one look at you and told me he was happy we now had a daughter each,” she says.
Dad on women: (1) Lesbos (2) Bitches (3) Sluts (4) Other bad words.i
I fill my mouth with fetta and try not to out myself.ii
*
Two. My family comprises one mummy with a fat lip, one daddy with white knuckles, a not-my-dad! half-sister, and me.
I suck on a dummy while my world bleeds from her mouth.iii
Later, I’ll suckle mock milk because hers dried up when I was two weeks old.
*
Eight. Cairns Melbourne Cairns Melbourne Cairns.
My little brother and I slurp unidentified fats through a straw unsure as to who’s Arthur and who’s Martha.
On a play-date, my friend and I shine torches into our vaginas looking for answers to questions we don’t know how to articulate.
*
Twelve. I can see the tuckshop from where I sit with my back against the wall drinking chocolate milk and jumping at noises.
I think in bodies – mine, my best friend’s and Patrick Swayze’s.
The milk is full of chocolatey clumps and though I don’t know what I am, I suspect Dad’s right about me being 1 through 4.iv
*
Sixteen. I hate boarding school, Dad, and my body. I seek love in letters and too many peanut butter sandwiches.
Dear Mum,
I know I said I wanted to leave, but I want to come home.
Me x
Dear Daughter,
Nothing’s changed. Work hard. Be somebody.
Mum x
*
Seventeen. I lose my virginity to my triathlete boyfriend and wonder what all the fuss is about.
I return to the holiday apartment where I’m interrogated over a hot cup of Milo by a nanna who asks me if I’m satisfied with myself now that I’ve had sex with a boy.
Religion: A manmade sham invented to subdue the unwitting via shame.v
*
Eighteen. I exchange low-fat for no-fat and daily aerobics classes to clean house.
I read Doolittle[vi] to my little sister – betrayed by who and what matters – and imagine my carrot is a fudge sundae in an attempt to suppress feelings I can’t afford to feel.
Starve, binge, purge, and an extra serving of SELF-LOATHING.vii
*
Nineteen. Never underestimate the inclination to bolt.
Dreaming of Cadbury-coated cunts in biochem because consciousness is not an option.
FUCK ME FUCK ME
AS FAST AS YOU CAN
YOU CAN’T CATCH ME
I’M SOMEWHERE ELSE.viii
*
Twenty-one. Mum leaves Dad.
Dad attempts to kill Mum.
I take up laxatives, cry for a year to a guy I want to believe is The One, and graduate university with a Bachelor of Nursing and zero confidence in my ability to do anything.ix
*
Twenty-two. Before I leave Australia in an attempt to escape marriage and life in the ‘burbs:
Mum: “You’ve got to use your brains or your body.”
Somewhere in England: I snort copious amounts of Snow White from a dirty toilet lid and dance topless around a pole, my mind on the money that accrues with successfully peddling the Bollinger. Under dimmed lights, Natalie Imbruglia cries Torn and I squish a fifty into my fuck-me boots while a middle-aged white collar looks down his nose at my crotch.x
*
Twenty-three. When I meet Nature, They are not what I expect.
I hurtle down a dilapidated jetty in slo-mo and breakneck speed. My body disintegrates with every step.xi I float inside my skeleton until I don’t.
We talk in Humpback, Nature’s calf at their side. They promise me I am protected under the sea, then suggest I protect my-Self.xii
I wake up, blend myself a green smoothie, and remember how they made me feel.
*
Twenty-five. I decide rhinoplasty was a mistake, eat a packet of Tim Tams, and stick my fingers down my throat.
Perfectionism [unrelenting shame in action] = Obsession [leaving without leaving] = Depression [the mess is understandable; the way out, less so]
Maybe if I lose weight Dad will love me?
[Food for thought: “A slave is one who waits for someone to free them.” (Ezra Pound)]
*
Twenty-six. Naturopathy reenvisages human biology. It’s about living life with and how shit gets real when we stop paying attention.xiii
I read in a medical journal that risky behaviour is found more often in people exposed to violence in childhood.
I eat a bag of Allen’s snakes and wonder what I’m doing wrong.xiv
*
Twenty-seven. I drop E, kiss a girl, fall for a sailor, pursue a psychologist and settle on a farmer.
Wanna fuck?
No.
Wanna fuck?
No
Wanna fuck?
No
Wanna fuck?
Okay.
I tell myself I’m into Mr Nice but have to conjure Miss Naughty if I want to visit Neverland.
*
Thirty. The biological drive to create is all consuming.
Man Love: “We can discuss whatever you want, but what I say goes.”
Me: *nods and laughs and winks*xv
*
Thirty-One. God is no saint. Jack Miles contests that much of what the Bible says about Him is rarely preached from the pulpit because, examined too closely, it becomes a scandal.
Him?
Huh?
*
Thirty-two. I quit nursing because practice feels like I’m wearing a hat two sizes too small.
Man Love: “If you want me to treat you as an equal, then get a job.”
Me: I’ll do another course. Maybe.xvi
Donna J. Haraway suggests Staying with the Trouble, but that feels impossible. Instead, I swallow Lexapro and take up jogging.xvii
*
Thirty-four. Man Love = IVF = Her
My little love has ten fingers, ten toes, skin like malted milk, and a smile that makes me gulp.
What she teaches: Microcosm = Macrocosm = We are the same stuff.
*
Thirty-six. My infant guzzles at my breast. My toddler shits on the rug. I suck on a Snickers.
Motherhood = be everything including strongly backgroundedxviii in your role as mother.xix
1 through 4++ is exhausting…but, not valued. According to Val Plumwood, critically important physical, social, and personal skills mothers teach children are mere background to the real learning – reason and knowledge – ascribed to males.
*
Thirty-seven. I hate everybody.
There is no Prince Charming.
There isn’t even a fucking horse.
How the hell do I ride into the sunset without a trusty steed?
FUCK EVERYONE WHO PROMULGATES THE FAIRYTALE/LIE.xx
*
Thirty-eight. I am inside and outside.xxi
Psychologist: “When your eyes roll back?”
Me: *nods*
Me: “Jesus.”
Psychologist: *scribbles furiously*
Me: “I get a vision. Feel a feeling and suddenly, I’m at one with the world.”xxii
*
Thirty-nine. “Whatever it is you love…do it now. The conditions,” Elizabeth Gilbert insists, “are always terrible.”
But . . .xxiii
Six tablets sit in my palm. The one I need is an SSRI.
GP: “He’ll leave you if you don’t take it.”xxiv
Note to Self: Stillness (because Geneen Roth says unmet feelings obscure our ability to know ourselves).
*
Forty. Clinical psychologist: “You have Asperger syndrome.”
Is this why I don’t know if I’m human or alien, cis- or transgender, allo-, andro-, gyne-, pan-, bi-, homo-, hetero-, trans-, or asexual?
Me: “Of course, I do.”xxv
*
Forty-two. Dad degrades and disowns me. He dies and I dare to close the gap:
According to Lorine Niedecker, the difference between someone who experiences nature and someone who never does is the experiencer who believes that what we feel and see, inside and outside us, dissolves together absolutely.
Magical thinking?
Leaky gut insists nature is culture is nature.xxvi
*
Forty-four. Ecofeminism is as close to The One as I get: I’m ready to love my-Self.xxvii
Me: “My body proposes probiotics.”xxviii (aka a new naturalxxix)
Man (Ex)Love: “Just don’t put it on Facebook.”
Suffer :: Ocean Vuong: Everything good is always somewhere else ->
De-naturalise :: Margaret Atwood: It’s not climate change, it’s everything change ->
Re-ecologise :: Geneen Roth: When you believe in yourself more than you believe in food, you will stop using food as if it were your only chance at not falling apart ->
Become-with ->
ALGORITHM: The story of a woman who reckons with and holds trauma in vulnerability in an attempt to see difference and do away with borders in survivance (idea attributed to Gerald Visenor).
Me: *rubs hands ravenously*
My pansexual polyamorous arse loves a good squall . . .xxx
i “Sexism has drawn conceptual strength from casting sexual difference as closer to the animal and the body construed as a sphere of inferiority or lesser form of humanity lacking the full measure of rationality or culture.” -Val Plumwood.
ii “Kinship systems are made of and reproduce concrete forms of socially organised sexuality.” -Gayle Rubin.
iii “The capitalist patriarchal world system emerged, is built on and maintains itself through the colonisation of women, of foreigners and their lands, and of nature, which it is gradually destroying.” -Maria Mies and Vandana Shiva.
iv “Human love and identity are complicated beasts. In most cases we grow up in a world that teaches us to desire in a very particular way.” -Jennifer Mae Hamilton.
v Gender/Religion = ? Same/Same
vi “Poetry, because of the attention it gives ‘little words’ is suited to helping us explore our relationships with and responsibilities toward the myriad entities who share our planet.” -Steel Wagstaff
vii “Diets are based on the unspoken fear that women are lunatics. The promise of a diet is not only that you will have a different body; it is that in having a different body, you will have a different life. If you hate yourself enough, you will love yourself.” -Geneen Roth.
viii “Shame is a form of emotional information indicating something about our being alive in a social world: when shame arises, it reeks of tension between the self (who we are) and the world (how the world thinks we should be).” -Jennifer Mae Hamilton
ix “[I]t is no accident that this world is dominated by men.” -Val Plumwood.
x Zat Rana says the surest way to be unfulfilled is to [act] like you hold some privileged position in the universe. It is not only a completely false and harmful illusion, but it overlooks the fringe benefits of being a nobody.
xi Entropy. n. disorder. Australian Concise Oxford Dictionary.
xii “We are…made mostly of wet matter, but also aswim in…embodiment as an idea. We live at the site of exponential material meaning where embodiment meets water [and] [g]iven the various…crises that our planet currently faces…this meaningful mattering of our bodies is…an urgent question of worldly survival.” -Astrida Neimanis
xiii Niedecker proposes living with beings and things in our environment and her ideas find support in biology. “We now understand our bodies are shared with trillions of microbacteria colonising our guts in such numbers as to potentially outnumber our own cells. Coinhabiting and dwelling with are not choices…and the quality of our future existence will depend…on how well we acknowledge this.” -Lorine Niedecker.
xiv “Western women may not have been in the forefront of the attack on nature…but many…have been support troops…unwitting but…enthusiastic, in a modern consumer culture of which they are the main symbols.” -Val Plumwood.
xv “Nature shrinks as capital grows.” -Vandana Shiva.
xvi “When you believe that you are damaged at your core, decisions are agonising because if you, the decision maker, are damaged, then how can you trust what you decide?” -Geneen Roth.
xvi “If you don’t allow a feeling to begin, you also don’t let it end.” -Geneen Roth.
xviii “According to patriarchal economic models, production for sustenance is counted as ‘non-production.’” -Vandana Shiva.
xix “Traditionally, women are ‘the environment’ – they provide the environment and conditions against which male ‘achievement’ takes place, but what they do isn’t itself considered achievement.” -Val Plumwood.
xx “I think more women need to connect with their anger…To say that you are angry about the way that you’re being treated is to acknowledge that you deserve better…[W]omen who cut themselves off from their anger; who deny or suppress it, also cut themselves off from this very important source of information about the way they’re being treated in the world.” -Kimberley Wilson.
xxi “Western culture has treated the human/nature relation as a dualism [hence] the problematic features of the west’s treatment of nature which underlie the environmental crisis, especially the western construction of human identity as ‘outside’ nature.” -Val Plumwood.
xxii “We suffer from a hallucination…a false and distorted sensation of our…existence as living organisms. [We] have the sensation that ‘I myself’ is a separate centre of feeling and action, living inside and bounded by the physical body.” -Alan W. Watts.
xxiii “To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted.” -Ocean Vuong.
xxiv “What kinds of kinship await outside the dominant nuclear kinship structure?” -Dr Kim TallBear
xxv “Those with Asperger Syndrome tend to be androgynous in essence…alien to gender…culture…species…[and] digestive flora.” -Rudy Simone
xxvi “The deeper inside is our untamed self. It is the discovery of our bodily and emotional source from which we relate with the outside. In contrast with experiencing our body or the outside as an object, living an ecological worldview is based on a rich inner experience in relation to the outside world. Although individuality can be experienced as a location in space and time, engaging the deeper self means that the experience of self is also located in the outside. The ecologization of everyday life is to transform self into an eco-self. An eco-self is the self that has experientially understood that it is part of a life web.” -Ann Sterckx and Rudy Vandamme.
xxvii “We can be ethical only in relation to something we can see, feel, understand, love, or otherwise have faith in.” -Aldo Leopold.
xxviii “Your body has all the information you need.” -Geneen Roth.
xxix “[W]hat becomes natural? I don’t want a politics…that declares…specific bodily experience…natural or unnatural.” -Eli Clare.
xxx “You will hear thunder and remember me, / And think: she wanted storms.” -Anna Akhmatova.
In the place I come from, once the moon resumes its light in the Hindu month of Kartik, the Odiya people worship goddess Kali. Sculptors carve out scores of images in the hope that they have managed to give their handiwork a whisper of pulsing life. In temporary shrines the priests in ochre garments wave a camphor flame in front of the image of Kali, and chant prayers in the praise of the deity. Devotees pour in to offer goddess Kali red hibiscus flowers, rice and lentils. I now stand in one such shrine, staring fixedly at the consecrated image of Kali, stunned by the sublime impression it has made on me.
The somber bong of the bell, the brass tone of the gong, the shrilly clank of the hand cymbals and the resonant sound of the steady hand-clapping harmonize to produce music that echoes through the shrine, making the deity’s presence felt. Numerous mud lamps cast shadows on Kali’s gaunt, terrifying visage, endowing it with a certain haunting quality. However, one feature of the clay sculpture in particular concentrates my attention – Kali outstretching her tongue upon standing on the supine body of her own consort Shiva. This detail unlocks the attic inside my mind, letting out shuttered memories that fold their wings like owls, ambushing my unwitting self. I remember my mother telling me a story, when I was a child, about how Kali once salvaged a desperate situation by defeating some demon, upon being summoned by the gods. After killing the demon, Kali lapped up its blood which drove her berserk, my mother said. Stirred up with blood-lust and rage, Kali then went on a rampage, laying waste to the planet. So the gods beseeched Shiva to placate her. Shiva hatched a plan. He lay recumbent like a corpse under the thrust of Kali’s heel, waiting for her to come to herself. Aghast at the realization of what she had done, Kali bit her own tongue out of shame. Needless to say, if there is any lesson the tale imparts, it is this that a woman who allows her darker and wilder side to take possession of her is not quite a woman. Even as a child, I cared very little for this tale, or for that matter, any instructional tale that taught one what to be like and what not to be like, for one was expected to drink such a tale like some medicinal syrup, without asking any questions. I had expected for this tale to be upstaged by other tales or recede in my mind over the course of time, as is generally the case with children. But the tale still floats dim through my mind for my mother always foists it upon me, anytime she seems to think that I have forgotten the golden dictum.
Even the man, I thought I cared for, took it upon himself to redress the brash nature of my spirit, to reign me in, as he liked to call it. He once told me that he could hear the wind in me, its brute cry of abandon. He feared that my wind would winnow through the crumbling house of him, unhinging and shattering his windows and doors of reserve, making his fire of longing roar and thrive. So in a patently surly voice he called me crazy. His words, the thrust of disgust in the timbre of his voice sowed the seeds of self-loathing and shame that took root and grew within me, taller and thicker every year, like some bamboo hedge, keeping in check, the wind that blows within me turbulently. And in the process, that bold, uninhibited and self-assured woman who rippled with life, the woman that I once was in the distant past became just another stranger I didn’t know.
But today I have come into my own for what I see now before me is the naked splendor of Kali’s bravura that occults that cobwebbed lore from my childhood. The majestic features of the deity overwhelm me: her disheveled hair, her eyes blazing like a shooting star and her unashamed tongue lolling out from the great zero of her mouth, ease my confines, and free my soul from its terrible prison.
I feel alive again. Rage displaces shame. Incapable of living against my grain, I burn in my own soul fire, feeling the intense unction of its yellow flames that tongue change. Born anew, I rise from the ashes, tongue unfurled like Kali to destroy my own inner demons and slurp on their blood.
-1-
Except for a confusing and ultimately consequential semester her junior year in college when she abruptly withdrew from her accounting and finance classes and enrolled in Fundamentals of Classical Music, Amalie had always considered herself a conscientious, practical-minded woman whose interest in music extended no further than listening to Top 40 radio during her morning commute to the office. The only reason she enrolled in the class at all was because she had a crush on the cute graduate student teaching it. Said to be a wunderkind who was destined to become a great composer of film scores, the next Erich Wolfgang Korngold or Bernard Herrmann, he sat hunched over a baby grand piano while delivering lectures on Ennio Morricone and his beloved John Williams. What did she know about that sort of thing? To her ears, all orchestral music sounded pretty much the same. Even now, 15 years after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in business administration, she never turned the dial to the classical music station. She just liked the way her teacher wore his dark hair in an impeccably groomed pompadour that fell into his eyes as he pounded away at the keys.
Strange, then, how on a misty autumn evening after work, rather than leave her office at the usual hour and return to the drafty apartment to eat a frozen dinner at the kitchen counter with her family, Amalie walked in a kind of daze along the downtown streets and wandered into a corner bookshop. Usually drawn to cosy mystery stories set in English manor houses or novels about the romantic misadventures of middle-aged divorcées who meet handsome strangers at seaside inns, Amalie made her way to the music section and found herself reaching past Josephine Baker and the Beatles for a heavily annotated volume on Beethoven. In the shop’s café, she ordered a mug of black tea and sat alone at a corner table, her back turned to the rain-streaked windows.
Rather than peruse the table of contents or flip to the illustrations and glossy photographs, she took a moment to study the title page with its elaborate copperplate engraving of a steely-eyed man with a mane of stormed-tossed, white hair. His cravat hung loosely around his upturned collar, and in his right hand, he held a dangerous-looking quill that might have doubled as a poisoned-tipped dart. Unsure of what she was trying to glean from the life of this temperamental, self-involved genius, Amalie turned to the first chapter and read of young Ludwig’s harrowing battle with smallpox; of his unsightly facial scars; of his lack of formal education; of his beloved mother Mary Magdalene who, at the age of forty, died of tuberculosis; of his tyrannical, alcoholic father who beat little Ludwig without mercy and locked him in a roach-infested cellar for the most minor of infractions. The catalogue of horrors ran to hundreds of pages, and Amalie often held a hand to her mouth and shook her head in disbelief.
She checked her watch and decided the time had come to phone Daniel to say she was working late tonight. She had to proofread a few reports, file paperwork, input data. They both knew the overtime would come in handy, but there was no need to state the obvious. After saying goodbye, she decided to bring the book to the sale counter. Last year, Daniel was forced to sell the last of his books as well as his treasured collection of vinyl records, and Amalie decided to surprise him with this small but extravagant gift. Hardcover books with glossy photos and illustrations were pricey.
In the parking garage down the street, she retrieved her overnight bag from the trunk of her car, and then, because the concert didn’t start for another 90 minutes, she walked three blocks to the newly refurbished Bonn Hotel. At the front desk, she requested a deluxe suite, one on a high floor with a view of the lake and city lights. The suite included, to both her shame and delight, a sectional sofa facing an electric fireplace and a spacious kitchenette with a complimentary fruit and cheese plate displayed on the granite countertop. The refrigerator was stocked with chocolates and bottles of sparkling wine, and in the bedroom, there was a writing desk with a fountain pen and stationery. After unpacking her bag, she kicked off her shoes and stretched out in the king-sized bed. She spent another 30 minutes in the company of the great Ludwig, reading of his disdain for the nobility and his bad luck with women, the majority of whom regarded him as revolting in appearance and an inattentive bore. Beethoven, she also learned, inherited his father’s volatile temperament. Once, while trying to compose at his piano, he became so distracted by the loud chatter outside his studio window that he dumped a pot of hot water on a group of men standing on the corner.
Amalie glanced again at her watch. Without marking the page, she put the book on the nightstand and took a seat at the vanity. She touched up her makeup and fixed her hair. There was no time for a proper meal, but she could sneak one quick drink at the hotel bar. In the restaurant off the lobby, she sat alone at the bar and ordered a glass of obscenely priced German wine. Without appreciating its subtle floral notes, she quickly drained her glass and, in honour of the composer, ordered a second. In the mirror behind the bar, she observed a middle-aged couple eating a steak dinner by candlelight. From their prolonged silences, she inferred that they were not happy exactly but had at least learned to tolerate one another.
After paying the alarming tab, Amalie, on an empty stomach, walked light-headed along the avenue toward the flashing neon lights of the arts and entertainment district. At the box office window, she purchased an aisle seat in the upper balcony, just about the worst seat in the house, but only a few tickets remained for tonight’s performance. She reached her seat just as the house lights dimmed and the concertmaster led the orchestra in tuning. After a moment of hushed anticipation, the conductor strode across the stage to thunderous applause. A man of great reputation? From her handbag, Amalie retrieved the programme and, squinting at the tiny print, read about the Austrian-born conductor’s fondness for film music. Tonight’s programme featured works by Johnny Greenwood, Philip Glass, and Jerry Goldsmith. Did the maestro have a purpose for selecting composers whose names began with G? Was it meant to be a kind of theme? Would all of the music be in the key of G? She recalled Daniel telling her that during the Baroque period, G major was regarded as the key of benediction.
To her great disappointment, much of the music had a decidedly experimental quality. There were brief passages of sublime beauty, but mainly the music was ponderous and dull and seemed to go on forever. One piece in particular was relentlessly percussive and bombastic. The screeching violins played a frenzied, atonal passage before the brass and woodwinds blared some kind of demented fanfare. The dissonant score conjured up visions of evil clowns pursuing her down dark alleys. Hoping to catch the eye of someone who was just as confused and disquieted by the music as she was, Amalie glanced to her left and right, but her neighbours seemed enraptured by every note. She didn’t know if she could stand listening for much longer. To the great annoyance of those around her, she rifled through the programme and was disappointed to learn that there was another suite before intermission.
In a wishful attempt to maintain her fading buzz, Amalie slid from her seat immediately after the final crashing note and hurried down to the concert hall’s grand rotunda to order a cocktail. Instead of wine, she chose single malt scotch, but the Glenfiddich tasted so strongly of peat that she could barely finish it. She wandered through the marble rotunda, pretending to appreciate the ornate bronze sculptures of avenging angels and winged serpents. According to a bronze plaque near the grand entranceway, an eccentric recluse with an interest in the shamanic traditions of prescientific peoples had designed the concert hall. Under the right circumstances, he felt the hall could become a sonic vortex capable of transporting attentive listeners to higher realms.
When the applause from the hall died down, people rushed to the rotunda and queued up for a drink. Near the sweeping staircase, Amalie kept a surreptitious eye on the single men lurking in lonely corners. Like her, they seemed vaguely dissatisfied with their situation and stared blankly at the artwork. Even though she was wearing a drab business casual outfit tonight, she caught a few of them glancing her way, including that handsome, young bartender who had poured her scotch. After careful deliberation, she decided there was no cause to panic. She was only 36, still young, and in the soft light had a certain sex appeal. Still, she had little interest in striking up a conversation with a stranger, nor did she wish to return to her seat and listen to more of this bizarre film music. Judging from the programme, the movie studios of old had only financed horror movies and lugubrious character studies about manic depressives.
Her head beginning to ache and her ears still ringing from the relentlessly cacophonous music, Amalie set her glass down on a cocktail table and abruptly exited the concert hall.
-2-
In a moment of spiritual weakness, Beethoven penned a letter addressed to his brothers. Written in a tight slanted script on legal paper, the letter was a long screed in which the young composer finally accepted the cosmic injustice of his humiliating affliction. “Speak louder, shout, for I am deaf!” He blamed incompetent doctors and threatened suicide. Maudlin rubbish, most of it. She certainly didn’t need a Beethoven to tell her that good people sometimes indulged in the fleeting and satisfying pleasures of self-pity. What made the letter so interesting, in Amalie’s estimation, was that instead of mailing it or tossing it into his hearth, Beethoven chose to file it away in a cabinet where it remained for the rest of his life.
Soaking in the enormous freestanding tub, her skin turning pink from the scalding water and lavender soap, Amalie set the book aside and reached for the glass of white wine she had poured. Although she would never appreciate so-called “serious” music, she still believed in the brave example set by Beethoven. She rested her head against the white porcelain, and almost instantly, the knotted muscles in her back began to loosen. For the first time in many months, she did not obsess over the medical bills, the legal fees, the back taxes, the impending bankruptcy. In fact, she thought of nothing at all, not even tonight’s reckless spending. Her mind at peace at long last, she breathed deeply, practically purred, and through half-closed eyes, she saw in the dark depths of a mirror thick with steam a vision of the concert hall.
The ghostly figure of the conductor stood on the dais and led the orchestra not with a simple wave of the baton but with the agile, practically acrobatic, movement of his entire body. He swung his torso left and right, as if evading a prizefighter’s devastating blows, and to the great delight of the audience, the orchestra played a familiar melody. Amalie listened intently and felt tears forming in her eyes. During a short stint in Los Angeles, Daniel had worked on a handful of student films before landing a job composing the theme music and score for a new science fiction television series. Set in the past rather than the future, the short-lived series concerned a powerful priesthood of Native Americans who once inhabited the Chaco Canyon of New Mexico’s Badlands. Using their extraordinary astrological knowledge and monumental architecture, the priests made contact with a group of intergalactic space travellers who taught them the secrets of the cosmos. The series was cancelled mid-season, and Daniel struggled to find more work, but the show’s main theme enjoyed a bit of popularity among aficionados of film and TV music.
Now, as the music reached its resounding finale, the conductor turned away from the score to look over his shoulder, and only then did Amalie recognize her husband. His cheeks were once again full of colour, and his hair had miraculously grown back dark and thick as ever. The vision of health and happiness, he called her name and invited her to join him on stage. She leaped from her seat but couldn’t make her way to the stage. There were too many people dancing in the narrow aisles. All around her, the women hiked up their skirts and kicked their legs like a chorus line of Toulouse-Lautrec showgirls doing the can-can. The handsome bartender asked her to dance and seized her by the arms. He twirled her round and round until, like a bouncing top, she reached the upper balcony. From way up here, Daniel looked like a speck of light at the bottom of a well.
That was when Amalie heard the bathroom door creak slowly open, and she felt a disembodied presence hovering close behind her. Perhaps Daniel’s music, like the ancient priests of the Chaco Canyon, had the power to make contact with higher intelligences. A voice, barely audible above the dripping faucet and not entirely human in its low timbre, advised her on the terrible but necessary course she must take and told her what steps she must take if she wished to return to the sunny coast.
The wine glass slipped from her fingertips and shattered on the marble floor. Amalie gasped. Her eyes fluttered open. In a panic, she stepped out of the tub and cried in agony. Blood pooled around her feet. She pulled on a terrycloth robe and, leaving a pair of red footprints on the white marble floor, limped over to the toilet. Using a pair of tweezers and turning her eyes from the double-vanity mirrors, she plucked tiny shards of glass from her pruned toes and the tender sole of her left foot. She grabbed a washcloth to stanch the bleeding, and after bandaging her wounds, she returned to the bedroom, where she opened her overnight bag. She’d had entirely too much to drink. The best thing to do was brush her teeth and go straight to bed. Instead, with that terrible voice still whispering to her, she quickly dressed and left the hotel.
-3-
By the time she returned to the squalid brick building at the corner of Franklin and 45th Street, it was almost midnight. Her left foot stinging with what must have been the onset of infection, she climbed three flights of stairs and tried to ignore the ever-present blare of televisions and the high-pitched wails of children. She could already feel a hangover coming on and made up her mind to call her manager in the morning to say she was taking a sick day. Keeping her eyes trained to the floor so she wouldn’t notice the chipped and faded paint and the water stains on the ceiling, she searched for the key at the bottom of her overnight bag. Even from the landing, she could hear her husband’s snores. They sounded like the deep rumbles of a timpani. Out of consideration for her, he had agreed to sleep in the living room but adamantly refused to be tested for sleep apnoea. “Better to die peacefully at home,” he told her with a pained smile, “than burden you with another problem.” But this was not their home, and there was nothing peaceful about this place. Five years ago, when they sold most of their possessions and left West Hollywood, he promised her this teaching job in Cleveland would be temporary. Any day now, any minute, the phone would ring and one of the big studios would make him a lucrative offer.
Amalie unlocked the door and caught the sour smell of Daniel’s illness. In the narrow hallway, blocking her path, she found a basket overflowing with freshly laundered linens. They’d go unfolded for days, just one of the many chores their 12-year-old daughter refused to do. Like a fairy tale troll that crept from its fetid cave only after sundown, Layla spent most of her time in a tiny bedroom facing the back alley and spoke to her parents only when necessary.
On the sofa in the living room, Daniel tossed and turned. With each shallow breath, his wasted body seems to vanish beneath the blanket. She gazed at the assortment of pills lined up on the coffee table – Platinol, Taxotere, Tramadol, Megastrol – and touched his chest. In the yellow lamplight, he looked more than pale. He was positively translucent. What little hair he had left grew in thin, wiry patches. Now, without opening his eyes, Daniel lifted his head from a pillow and groggily asked if everything was okay. She apologized for waking him and said she met her colleagues after work for a few drinks. An impromptu retirement party. Someone from human resources.
He smiled faintly and said, “You deserve a night out.”
She knew it was absurd to hold him accountable for their present circumstances, this terrible act of God, but the reality was that, instead of fulfilling his destiny and composing for the silver screen, he had settled for an easy life as a middling academic who occasionally had the honour of conducting conservatory students. For this reason alone, she had grown to resent him.
Outside, a mournful autumn wind whistled between the buildings, rattling the cracked and dirty panes of glass. Situated behind the limbs of a birch tree, the front window faced an abandoned brick warehouse that didn’t allow for much streetlight. She imagined that she had come to a hollow place in the earth, a cave deep in a mountain wilderness where shepherds took refuge from storms and where grieving families came to bury the bones of their beloved dead in limestone ossuaries inscribed with prayers to the Almighty. She remembered then that she had left the book about Beethoven on the hotel room nightstand.
Shaking her head at her thoughtlessness, she draped a blanket over her husband and told him to go back to sleep. All was well. Since she wouldn’t need the apartment keys anymore, she left them on the coffee table and said she’d be right back. “Forgot something. I won’t be gone long.” She retrieved her overnight bag in the hallway and then, for a final time, made her way out the door.
abecedarian twenty-six letters, each one a compact unit of communication, a twisted riddle, a maze of red tape from well-lit offices; the only means of containing my sorrow now that all I have left of my brother are memories and letters.
brother at five, wearing a fringed cowboy shirt, he fires at stink bugs with a dime-store six-shooter; as his older sister, I stick out my tongue and wish he’d wear something more Steve McQueen in Wanted Dead of Alive. [see: s, below.]
certified mail provides the sender—Bullhead City Police Department—with a mailing receipt for $9.28 and an electronic verification that an 8×10 padded envelope was delivered; inside, I find two plastic bags: one with key rings to a mailbox and house and a key-fob for a car, and another containing a cheap bi-fold wallet. [see: w, below.]
demon fiend, monster, diabolical tormentor; our father who drank cheap beer bought with rent money until he was sloppy drunk and cruel (why couldn’t he just put a lampshade on his head and tell dumb jokes like that lush on TV?); in the case of my brother: alcoholism, gambling, and the perennial avoidance of employment. [see: g, below.]
edge jagged, sharp, single-sided; on the brink, as in the precarious state right before something unpleasant occurs; a letter that arrives on my doorstep with a list of detectives investigating my brother’s claim that I poached from Mom’s estate; You’re a sad story, Sherry, and I hope you get the help that you need. Love allways, your brother (far from oblivious, in Arizona)
flies winged insects of the suborder Cyclorrhapha, most likely evolved during the Cenozoic era; driven to lay eggs in decaying matter in order to provide their soft-bodied legless offspring a food source; a black curtain of them on the inside of the living room window of my brother’s mobile home. [see m, n, below.]
genetics the study of heredity, or how the characteristics of living things are transmitted from one generation to the next; by which our father passed the monkey on his back to his firstborn son sixty-five years ago.
hyperthermia a physical state in which the body can no longer release enough of its heat to return the temperature to normal; cause of death, according to the police report, which cites the temperature inside his mobile home as between 110 and 114 degrees. [see: j, m, below.]
investigation a systematic inquiry carried out to discover and examine the facts so
as to establish the truth; How does a person remain in a body bag in the drawer of a mortuary for eighteen months? What else is going on that I don’t know about? [see p, below]
july the hottest month in Bullhead City, Arizona, with an average of 112 degrees. [see: f, h, above.]
kafkaesque surreal or nightmarish; the conversation with an employee at the funeral home who tries to explain why they filed for a “Special Administrative Appointment” requesting $12,000 from my brother’s sparse estate. “You don’t understand the cost of preservation.” [see: i, above.]
lament mourn, grieve, weep, wail; not how I feel opening a bottle of wine at 2:13 am.
mobile home able to move or be moved because it isn’t permanently grounded—though it has a mailbox where letters and bills stack up, a 1994 white Buick LaSabre in the carport, and a rock garden with driftwood from the Colorado River. [see u, below.]
neighbor a person living near or next door, who is almost always better than their fellow neighbors believe them to be; a part-time resident who watches my brother pull weeds from his gravel driveway and warm up his Buick each morning before going to the store for a newspaper and bottle of booze; a good Samaritan who calls the police after seeing a mass of flies crawling on my brother’s front door. [see: f, above.]
overwhelming overpowering, paralyzing; the thought of tracking down his birth certificate from September 16, 1954, as requested by the funeral home, to prove that I’m his sister and therefore have the right to have him removed from the refrigerated drawer. [see: i, k, above.]
perplexed unable to grasp something clearly or think logically and decisively about it; puzzled, like when the Department of Code Enforcement explains that my brother’s mobile home has been taken from the property—“Neighbors complained of an odor”—and all of his personal property crushed by a giant claw before being dragged to the city dump.
question what does this all mean? [see: i, above.]
remembrance the ability to bring to mind past experiences; things kept; recollections; blowups with my brother over our father’s ashes. Him: I want my half. Me: No way I’m dipping into the canister; our father’s ashes subsequently making a fourteen-hour Greyhound ride across state lines; my brother and I joking, after the fight, that we hoped Dad sat next to someone interesting. [see d, g, above.]
shame remorse, guilt, regret; my soul slowly nibbling itself because I felt superior to my brother, because I own a permanent home, because I didn’t go see him in the last 40 years.
truth that which is in accordance with fact or reality; honesty, correctness, veracity; a certainty that his fucked-up life is somehow my fault.
underestimated regarded as less capable than one really is; an assessment that is too low; I believed my brother lived in a trashy trailer park but a satellite image shows a mobile home on a self-contained lot; a clerk at the county assessor’s office says my brother paid cash for the property and owned it outright. [see m, s, above.]
value the importance, worth, or usefulness of something; “your value does not decrease based on someone’s inability to see your worth.”
wallet a flat, folding holder for money, identification, and credit cards; the last of my brother’s life force, containing: a neatly-printed list of phone numbers, his Arizona driver’s license (height: 6-1, weight: 190, expiration date: two months after his death), an AcePlay casino card (‘real rewards for real people’), assorted business cards for taxis, and a library card, all bathed in the funky stench of cigarette smoke. [see c, above.]
x in childhood, XOXO, and Xmas; in adulthood, the way to identify a person who is not known, not really.
yardstick a barometer or touchstone; a standard for making judgments or comparisons; my brother’s report card: no marriage, no children, no life; I filled in the blanks with two daughters who slid class photos into birthday cards for their uncle.
z alphabetical position 26; the final destination from A to Z; a vocal consonant shaped like the zigzag of our messed-up relationship; ceaseless battles to be kinder to each other, botching it up time and again; the last of our phone calls, It’s just the two of us now, sis. [see b, above.]
René told me about the existence of the Metrolope when he was hammered in my hallway and I said René, you’re talking trash. He needed to get a handle on his life because he was freewheeling. I said sit.
Whenever René’s wife phoned me, it was just one long sigh and so I learned to long-sigh back, thinking what a poor bastard René was to have a wife like Bernadette. One that insists on cutting his toenails because they scratch her calves in bed.
René sat down on the sofa and I handed him a whiskey which should have been water.
I said you’re losing it, René, and he went I’m not losing it, my friend. If you’d seen the Metrolope, you’d understand. He said I was blinkered, walked around with stupid diamonds on my socks thinking I’d got what all this shit was about but I’m as blinkered as Torquator Tasso who may well have won the Arc de Triomphe but he had leather cups on his eyes.
René asked me if I wanted to see the Metrolope, and I said, what, now? and he said why not, and I said because I’ve got appointments tomorrow and I don’t think such drivel exists in underground Paris!
He said I’d given in to corporate reality and might consider corporeality as a viable alternative, I said for fuck’s sake and was about to reel off my “at leasts” to run him into the ground, but by the time I’d honed my tongue, he was making boar noises and his eyes were slammed shut.
When René didn’t wake up that night; i.e. dead; I put some posters around Les Tuilleries metro line by the vending machine René described.
I’m meeting up with this woman called Stéphanie Berlier tonight who says she’s seen the Metrolope and her description of the feet fits René’s, but I’m thinking that maybe the Metrolope is a some kind of hellraiser with a scythe, so I’ve chosen a brasserie, not my flat, just in case Stéphanie Berlier keels over and I have another death to deal with.
First, take inventory. Something hot hisses, and something wet drips — a fast drip, nearly a pour, and you can’t tell from which direction it’s coming. You can’t see; maybe it’s dark, but maybe your eyes are closed. There’s pressure on your left leg. Your shoulders, too, are your shoulders pinned? And so panic sets in, a low-grade panic at first, but it grows as the hissing becomes a rattle. Sirens in the distance, or are your ears ringing?
Remember the fable you heard that one time in, what, middle school? Wonder why it’s coming to mind only now. There was a scorpion. “There was a scorpion,” Ms. Holmes had said at the front of the classroom. “And there was a river,” she had continued. “And there was a frog.” A unit on Aesop’s fables. You had thought they were childish. Livia had kicked you under the table, had laughed at Ms. Holmes’ bad teeth after the bell rang.
Once, she convinced you to smoke a cigarette by the lake before a boys’ lacrosse game. Another time, a joint. Livia had leaned back in her seat when teachers talked to her, tilted her chin just so. She wore makeup in unnatural colors that should have been unflattering but instead impressed you.
There was that time the two of you and others had slipped out of your clothes and your January snow boots at two in the morning, had run down to the half-frozen creek behind her neighbor’s cousin’s cabin, screamed, danced, ended up nearly hypothermic but giggling and warm-blooded nonetheless.
Livia’s loud laughter. I’m not going to get you in trouble. If you got in trouble, wouldn’t I get in trouble, too? Hmm?
The fable: There was a scorpion, there was a river, and there was a frog. The scorpion couldn’t swim, you don’t think, but he wanted to cross the river. The frog also wanted to cross, and the frog could swim.
“Why don’t you carry me on your back?” the scorpion suggested.
The frog pursed his thin, wet lips. “How can I be sure you won’t sting me?”
“If I were on your back, we were crossing the river, and I stung you, wouldn’t we both drown?”
The frog thought, shrugged, and the scorpion climbed onto his back. They began across the water.
Try to move your left leg again; it doesn’t move. Does it hurt? Notice the air around you getting hotter. There are smells, now, that you can’t distinguish. There are sounds other than the hissing and dripping and what may or may not be sirens. There could be someone saying your name. It could be Livia.
You hear this next part in Ms. Holmes’ grandmotherly alto. “The frog, with the scorpion on his back, made it only halfway across the river when the scorpion stung him and doomed them both. Dying, the frog asked, ‘Why would you sting me, knowing the consequences?’” Ms. Holmes’ narration was drawn and dramatic, low like a whisper. “The scorpion replied, ‘Oh, it is simply my nature.’”
We meet at the Ten Bells, like always. The glow of it splashes out onto the street, and as we come inside, warmth hits us across the face so that our bones unknit and our layers unfold; gloves, hats, bicycle helmets come away like well-cooked meat.
We huddle together in our usual corner, drinking pale ales, and go over the plan. Laying a phone on the table, we hover our fingers over the route the tour will take. The death sites, of course: Hanbury Street, Dorset Street, Mitre Square. A drive-by viewing of 130-year-old crime scenes.
We don’t call him “Jack,” a made-up everyman name that gives him undue relatability. “The Ripper” is more appropriate, but still it has undertones of sick reverence. The gruesome verb is too painful an echo of the splattered bodies printed on souvenirs and guidebooks.
Instead, we refer to The Murderer. Or murderers, many. Let’s not pathologise the killing of women to the extent that we forget it is common, we remind each other, not something that needs to be attributed to a single mastermind.
We will need a place to hide before our protest. We double-tap spaces along the route where we might jump out from a dark corner and interrupt the tour. Options are limited. Victorian Whitechapel did not have the benefit of the bright lights it does today.
We show each other our T-shirts, hand-painted with the words NOT JUST A CORPSE, and printed with pictures of the women. Two of us have Mary Jane Kelly, and an argument ensues over who was supposed to do Mary-Ann Nichols. We shush each other, decide it does not matter, that people have the most interest in Mary Jane anyway. The youngest victim, the most sexually dangerous, biography-less, mysterious. Sometimes we must play to their perversions, we tell each other, to get attention.
It is time to go. We cover up our T-shirts again with big coats, wind long scarves around our necks like bandages, and step out into the night.
*
It really was a book group, to begin with.
The purpose was to educate ourselves – the selves in question being a handful of women, mostly white, all university-educated, all born outside of the city. We lived in East London, but had no prior connection to it, and we felt uneasy about this, our contextlessness. People like us appeared in Homerton and Bow and Poplar and Haggerston, set up a home, then left it two or five years later and went elsewhere. Usually Kent.
Between us, we had no faith or children, no way to lay down easy roots in the community. But we had the skills our humanities-heavy educations had taught us, and we had the background reading.
The books could be anything, but they had to feature somewhere local. First there were the modern greats: Monica Ali, Peter Ackroyd, Salman Rushdie. Then there was a memoir about a pie and mash shop, a biography of Sylvia Pankhurst, a short and unanimously panned book about the Krays. We were straying into Dickens (really more of a promiscuous London author, his literary scent in every postcode), when someone suggested The Book.
It was a new release, the rest of us protested, still only in hardback. And there was too much buzz around it. We liked books better when they had already had their buzz, and kept a whiff of it squashed between their pages like pressed flowers. But there wasn’t much we could say against its relevance. The people it was about – five women with a common killer – were deeply connected to the same streets we walked every two weeks to meet each other. Their blood had run between the paving stones. In the end, we relented.
*
It started small, with the slipping of mementos off pub walls and into our bags. When we went outside to smoke, we dropped the offending items to the ground and kicked them into the rest of the rubbish that pooled in Shoreditch’s corners. They were reproductions of old newspaper reports and caricatures of cloaked, top-hatted figures. Some of them were in glass frames that we smashed on the curb, delicious crunch under our boots. In bookshops, we rearranged the local history shelves, covering up the hero worship and victim gore with copies of The Book.
These were ways for us to flip things the way The Book had flipped us. The raw facts of the story had got stuck in our throats like fishbones. Five women, each with their own missed chances at a better life, had ended up in this grimy, noisy, lively, crumbling byword for deprivation: Spitalfields. And in the space of a few months, someone picked them off. Their memorials were picture of their bodies split open like chocolate wrappers, which were reproduced anywhere their killer was mentioned. We began to see the nasty little industry that had sprung up around this horror, in the tours and T-shirts and Halloween costumes.
One night, the pubs all closed but our conversation still alight as we walked down Brick Lane, we saw the grandest, most egregious iteration of this horror porn yet.
It was a face, his face, gloating and jut-jawed, leaning into the street above our heads. The Murderer. Someone had painted him onto the side of a building, at ten times human size. He wore a top hat and had an almost cartoonish Victorian moustache, which did not quite hide his smirk. Around him was a smash effect, to make it look like he was pushing through the wall. Here’s Jacky.
*
The next day, we struggled to sleep, to work. On WhatsApp, we messaged each other about this latest outrage, and wondered why nobody else was talking about it. All day, we looked at our phones under our desks and tapped different terms into the search bar. Ripper, Jack, mural, Shoreditch. Nothing.
It was the day of our next scheduled meeting when the group chat lit up with two words: Bring paint.
*
Once it was dark enough, it took hardly any time at all to scale the fire escape of the neighbouring building and come face-to-face with the mural. We whited out the wall, disappearing his face from view, and wrote the name of just one victim: Catherine Eddowes. We had agreed that a single name would have more impact. The black letters were simple and sharp, and their existence made us feel bold.
The reaction was swift. Before-and-after pictures of the wall appeared online. The Guardian wrote about a “local backlash” to The Murderer’s legacy, and we loved this word, local, licked it off our own lips as we repeated it.
Most gratifying of all was that among the 1,310 people who retweeted the picture was The Author of The Book.
“Hats off to whoever did this,” she wrote. “Next: Let’s get a monument to the victims.”
We made lists of what else we would do. Acts not just of protest but of education would form our remit, we decided. There would be a new walking tour that focused on life over death, and a literary festival, and fundraising for the memorial.
We met more frequently, for dinners and coffees and cocktails, and when we set off home we walked together, planning, laughing, daring the night to threaten the high we were feeling.
It was on an evening like this that we saw him for the second time.
An ice-cream shop had shut down, not an uncommon sight. On the lane, the rents killed off anything that wasn’t wildly successful in its first few months. Its windows were smeared with soap.
In the jumble of fliers for club nights and coffee festivals that had been tacked up on the shopfront, we saw it: that same face again.
This time its smirk pulled wider to show a little slice of teeth. The poster was large and black and white, and in an old newspaper-style font at the bottom it said: JACK IS BACK
We went towards it. The paper looked fresh, untouched by rain or dirt. Without speaking, we put out our hands. It was glued to the window, so we had to use our nails to pick at its edges. Then we tore the eyes and that dreadful smile. The pieces came away in thin curled strips like wood shavings, leaving a rough white residue.
Across what was left, we wrote a name: Annie Chapman.
After that, we saw his face everywhere, on lampposts and beermats, spray-painted onto billboards, on posters in underpasses. JACK IS BACK, they all said. It became difficult to conceal the amount of paint we were carrying in our tote bags.
He was in other places too, places he shouldn’t have been. We saw him reflected in the black screen of a phone that had just run out of battery, and in the windows of strangers’ cars, in glasses of red wine. On the tube, we saw him peering out of the eyes of other men and widening their mouths into dog-smiles.
We didn’t tell each other about these sightings. Not discussing them kept them drained of colour, just sketches on scrap paper. The work continued.
The war we waged against the many faces of The Murderer was noticed by The Author and her fans (our fans?) once again, and they cheered us on, added to our handiwork with stickers, and built tribute piles of flowers underneath. Someone painted a portrait of Elizabeth Stride next to where we had written her name on the side of a brewery – it showed her alive and standing, rather than against the mortician’s table.
*
When the sandwich boards appeared, propped up outside every station, they bore a picture that was the same as all the others, with the single exception being his smile. It was bigger again. Now a full-blown grin, it ripped an unpleasant half-moon across his face.
Along the top was that text: JACK IS BACK.
But at the bottom, something new. A website, a phone number, and the words: Book your place now on the most frightening Ripper tour ever! NOT for the faint of heart.
It was just advertising, we muttered to each other. Just a campaign, like most of the other street art in this ridiculous part of town.
We were in a co-operative coffee shop for the emergency meeting, our things spread out over low sofas, and the smack of incense in our nostrils as we sipped hot drinks.
There were two options, as we saw it. The first: give up and accept we had been played, that our efforts had only created more publicity for the thing we so despised. The second: make one final go of it.
Unspoken, but stalking the hidden corners of our conversation, was another consideration. Things had moved on too far from the original book club for us to go back to that now.
We went around the circle, nodding our commitment one by one.
*
It is a busy night. Shoreditch pulses around us with its uneasy clash of customers. There are queues around corners for Dishoom, Som Saa, and the speakeasy with a strict no-bookings policy. Tech guys in jeans and company-logo T-shirts stand around outside pubs despite the cold. In the curry houses, long tables have been set up for the grad-scheme bankers and lawyers who talk, ties off, with their mouths full of garlic naan, about university days on rugby teams and buying newbuild flats in Balham. Tourists from Spain and Japan and Russia clutch rainbow bagels and takeaway cups from Dark Sugars.
We have chosen our destination. The street is one we rarely use, not even together – little more than a service alley really. Backing onto it is a building which houses the headquarters of a once-beloved 90s clothing brand. Because of its proximity to Hanbury Street, the office is named, hideously, Jack’s Place.
We venture into the alley, and the atmosphere shifts. We are a thread pulled taut.
We are tightly woven silk, unbroken skin. Our bodies sing with a steady anticipation.
We forget the tour group as we inspect the badly lit space. The ground hums beneath us and we don’t think it’s the tube.
The leaping script of graffiti scores the walls on either side of us, relentless, layers and layers of it. There are so many unreadable tags fighting for space with grotesque depictions of politicians and sea monster–like creatures. As we stare at it all, gripping each other’s hands and wondering who will be the one to call off the plan, we spot something.
Baring his teeth, next to a picture of a dog doing the same, is The Murderer.
Only then do we realise, in the way you spot a single ant before the entire colony becomes visible, that he is everywhere. Every caricature has the same skin-splitting smile, and all the signatures say in red and blue and black: Jack Jack Jack Jack Jack.
A footstep rattles around the alleyway and inside our chests. We all turn together to see a man, his feet in black boots and a long coat rippling around him. He wears a top hat. Under his thick moustache, he is laughing at us.
As a child, you live your life, full of runs and suns, not really knowing what is important, what will end up in the pockets of memory. It is once-upon-a-time after once-upon-a-time, where memory sometimes folds up neat as a flamingo’s leg, incredible, tucked away precious as a new dollar bill in the centre of your right hand. And your right hand is nestled inside bright red mittens. Everything in a sweet place. Memory layers. Many, many, many moons later, you go through pockets of time and start pulling stuff out, start unfolding. Suddenly a door opens in the sky and you go above and beyond all that you have known.
Before I know it, I’m sailing my favourite cup across the room toward his big head. Damn! He ducks just in time. The cup shatters into pieces of rim, handle, and pink rose. Part of me is glad I missed. If I’d hit him, he’d either be injured or dead, which means the police would put me where they put all black people, under the jail. Especially a black girl hitting a white boy. Now, if he’d sailed that cup at me, with that pitch perfect arm of his, I’d either be dead or in a coma and the cops would buy him a cheeseburger. If I’d hit him, maybe the collision with that big head of his would’ve saved my cup. I loved that cup. But I missed. Cup shatters. Sweetie dives under the bed. I’m screaming, “Get out! Get out!” He’s already putting on his coat, walking out the door. This is it. It is so over. I follow him into the hall, ready to hurl a barrage of expletives tracing his family tree ad infinitum, when the door at the other end of the hall opens. My friend Mary steps out with her little girl Jeanne. She kind of freezes, seeing my boyfriend, now ex-boyfriend, waiting for the elevator while I’m at the other end looking like a pressure cooker.
“Are you okay?” Mary calls. I have to give it to her. She is that one person with excellent emotional radar. She can tell in a second just what’s going on. This is a gift. This is a curse. Before I can yell back, my boyfriend looks at her like collateral enemy. Well, she is. After all, she’s my friend, not his. And then, he man-smirks her. Which of course she can see because he’s wearing his mask around his neck. “Did he just man-smirk me?” she calls out to me, her voice sounding like she’s just been smacked by a leprechaun.
Jeanne, in that wise way that kids have of picking up on something even when they can’t understand all of it, knows something is wrong and that man waiting at the elevator is a bad man. “Don’t you man-smirk my mommy!” she cries out from behind her unicorn mask. Then she looks up at her mom and asks, “What’s a man-smirk, Mommy?”
Mary smiles. I smile in spite of myself. Thank God the elevator comes. “I’ll call you later. You sure you’re okay?” Mary asks as she and Jeanne head to the elevator after man-smirk takes it down.
“I’m okay, Mary. We’ll talk later on. Bye, Jeanne.”
“What’s a man-smirk, Mommy?” Jeanne asks again.
“I’ll tell you at lunch. Lunch in about 10 years.” Mary smiles and mutters to herself, “ I never liked him anyway.”
I go back into my apartment. I feel like I’m in a war zone. I find the broom, start sweeping. With each arc of the broom, I gather jagged pieces, even the ones that ricocheted, hid in corners. I begin to harvest calm from chaos. My body moves in a slow dance around debris. I bend, sweep, pendulum my way back to order. Finally I dump all shards of what was into the trash. The broken thing falls away in a jangled litany, leaving silence begging to be chased away. I call Sweetie, put her favourite tuna and chicken pate out. I call her again, letting her know everything’s okay. At least where she’s concerned.
I, on the other hand, am a mess. Who breaks up in a pandemic? I mean, human contact is already limited and now is the time I catapult a cup?! My favourite cup. Already I’m yearning for yesterdays because inside I’m empty as a jack-o-lantern. And I can’t tell if this emptiness is because I see the end of something or because I can’t see the end of something. Thank God, my cat comes out, rubs up against my legs. She still loves me.
I can’t stay inside anymore. Just as I get my coat, I slip into a memory. Now I have a destination. And a purpose. Flowers. I need flowers. I put on my mask, ear loops securely in place. We are all bandits now, in this pandemic. I don’t wear my pretty red lipstick anymore. Who can see it? I ask my cat. She meows in agreement and looks at me as if to say, “Where are you going after all this?” I rub her head, telling her I’ll just be gone for a little while. I hope she believes me. I hope I believe me.
The sun today is more than I know what to do with, like a surprise inheritance from a rich uncle you didn’t know you had. Everything is awash in light so bright it hurts my eyes. I quickly put on my shades, make my way to the grocery store. Blue skies are just painful right now.
I’m one of the lucky ones. I have food. I work from home. The virus cleaved the land in half. White collar privileged with Wi-Fi, laptops, desk jobs, still getting a paycheck, still safe, working from home. And all the rest, formerly invisible, now suddenly essential, all the ones making deliveries, bringing food, mail, even people. Bus drivers, the new Charons, ferry workers across the great divide of poverty and privilege. We avoid being close, as if we ever were.
It saddens me: I have no answers for any of this. Then again, it seems as though answers have been extinct for quite some time. I keep going, like a hamster on a wheel. I’ve learned that when the thunder of my own heart scares me, it’s better to move. At least today I have a mission, nothing to do with the geography of answers or questions, but something that I, in my small skin, can navigate. Three blocks. I’m here. The store where I don’t need to go. I walk past pasta, little elves with my favourite cookie, greeting cards that weave words around every emotion imaginable. And then, I’m here.
There are flowers everywhere. Bouquets begging for romance, candles, and wine. Bouquets begging for old times. Bouquets praying that disease would leave us, that distance would no longer cleave us. Little petals bursting with violet, reds. Proud chrysanthemums heavy with citrine. But I want a particular flower. Not roses. Not snap dragons. Not tulips. And then I see them. Azaleas. Potted securely, all abuzz with pink buds and blossoms nestled in green. As though I’m searching for the Hope Diamond, I take my time, examining one plant after another. I find the right one. The perfect one. I pick it up like a baby and smile my hidden smile beneath my mask. This is the one. I start toward the register but then turn on a dime, turn on a whim, pick another pink azalea for myself. The twins and I head out the door.
Still going in the same direction. Four more blocks. I am here. I take the plant out of the bag and place it at the front door. I take my magic wand out of my purse, unfold it. The blue lights come on, promising to kill yuck and stuff and I carefully wave it all over the pot, careful not to touch the flowers. I ring the doorbell and step back, waiting.
My mom peeks through the window, sees me, and comes to the door. “It’s so good to see you! I miss you.” Her smile is brilliant, could easily travel light years, so the six feet between us is nothing.
“Brought you some azaleas, Mom. You like ’em?” I watch my mom look down and find her flowers, lift them like a grandchild, turning the plant around and around, as if it’s the Holy Grail. I see her eyes fill with tears and think how important it is to give flowers to people while they’re alive, while they can dance in the fragrance and feel baby soft petals glide beneath their hands. “Aw, Mom, don’t cry. You need anything?”
“I have everything I need right here. You never forget. You were so little, but you never forget. Can’t you come in for a cup of coffee?”
“Not safe, Mom. When this is over. You go back inside. Be safe. I love you.” I start to leave but linger a second. “Mom, you know that cup you gave me?”
“That pretty cup with the rose on it. Your favourite cup.”
Yeah, that one. I…I dropped it. You wouldn’t have an extra would you?”
“You know I have. Wait right there.” My mom slips inside then comes back with a small box. “I put your cup in here for a little extra TLC.” She puts the box down and retrieves her azaleas.
“Thanks, Mom…Guess I might as well tell you: I broke up with Jim. This time for good. I’ll call you later. Love you.”
“You know you can call me anytime. Love my flowers! Go right back home. Call me when you get there. I love you more.” My mom smiles, muttering to herself, “I never liked him anyway.”
I wait until she goes inside, then go get my cup. Waving one last time to her at the window, I start back. Seven blocks back. Somehow, I feel lighter now. I walk through leaves like a kid. They answer my steps with a holy rustling, as though I matter. Even after the cup missile. I think of the Japanese tradition of kintsugi, of using gold to put pottery pieces back together. Of not hiding brokenness but owning it. There is a truth in scars that should not be denied. As I make my way, I remember, years ago, how my mother poured gold into her broken heart and life. June 19th. I was little, Mom was right, but I remember that evening clear as a billboard you drive by every day, or like we used to drive by every day before contamination became an anthem.
There was nothing special about that day. No birthdays, no deaths, no excellent report cards. Just an ordinary day. Mom had left for work as usual early in the morning. But when she came home that night, she had so many packages, we all rushed to help her. We couldn’t believe it. There was steak, STEAK, and white rice and sweet dinner rolls and Hawaiian Punch and chocolate layer cake, and we kept asking her, “Mom, what happened, what are we celebrating? What?” And I remember her saying, “We’re all here. We’re all together. Isn’t that enough to celebrate? Now, who’s gonna help me get dinner?” And just like that, we all pitched in, set the table like we were having company and Mom cooked her heart out, singing and smiling.
I noticed there was one bag none of the others had picked up. Beautiful pink flowers burst out the top of that bag. “Mom, what are these?”
“Those are azaleas, baby girl. Aren’t they pretty? Almost as pretty as you. Put them on the table for me.”
And I carried those flowers like I was carrying my doll, put them on our table and, man, even in the middle of that feast, those azaleas held their own. We kids ate and ate, but I noticed my mom never fixed a plate for herself. She said she’d had a real nice lunch at work and couldn’t eat another bite. She got herself a cup of coffee and smiled at us and at her flowers.
Finally it was time for bed. I fell asleep like I was full of manna. And in a way, I was.
Late that night I got thirsty, got up for a glass of water, and found Mom still sitting at the kitchen table, her cup empty. She was still looking at her flowers. “Mom, why aren’t you in bed?” I asked her.
“Get your water and come sit with me while you drink it.”
I climbed on her lap, sipped my water, hoping to make it last and last: I didn’t often get my mom to myself and I was determined to stretch this special time out. But I heard something I’d never heard before. “Mom, your stomach’s growling. You better eat.” I sipped my water, looking up at her. And I never forgot what she told me, even though it would be years before I’d understand it.
“Baby girl, I’m eating right now, and I’m as full as I can be. Look who I’ve got sitting on my lap. Look at these azaleas. Stuck in dirt and just as pretty as they can be.” And while I painstakingly sipped my glass of water, my mom and I talked about those flowers, this bud, that bloom. She turned the plant slowly so we’d get a different view. Finally, she sent me to bed. “Always remember the azaleas,” she said, with a kiss to my forehead.
Years later, when I was grown, with a job of my own, my own apartment, I asked my mom what had really happened that day. And she told me.
My mom had worked for that white lady for seven years, cleaning, cooking, washing. She was her favourite. The white lady told her so. After a while, they hired another maid, a wicked, low-down, Uncle Tom of a woman. One who laughed too long and too loud at the weakest joke the white lady told. One who knew how to front whenever the white lady was around. My mom knew she was jealous of her being the favourite, but she never dreamed just how far that woman would go to get rid of her. That hateful maid stole the white lady’s pearl necklace and put it in my mom’s pocketbook. Then she told the lady a lie, that she’d seen my mom stealing. When the white lady found the pearls in mom’s purse, she fired her on the spot. The Uncle Tom maid smiled from ear to ear as she opened the door for my mom. But my mom looked her in the eye and said four little words that wiped that smile off her face. “Seed planted. Seed returns.”
My mom went on to explain that Uncle Toms were a wicked, pathetic lot. They lived for validation by whites. They lived to breathe the same air as whites. They always set themselves apart from the rest of black folks. They could never go to a Baptist church. Too much whooping and hollering. They preferred the quieter religions, quieter churches where white people went. That is, if the white people would let them in. They could never vote Democrat because all black people voted Democrat. So they set themselves apart, voted Republican, and made sure everybody knew it. They raised their children full of skin hierarchy: White skin is best, then high-yellow and so on. Even when it was against their own interest, Uncle Toms stood by and stood for whites. The slaveowner’s greatest gifts to himself and his generations was the cultivation of those who could not, would not, think for themselves, without his approval. His three wishes from the genie were the electoral college, the slave Bible, and Uncle Toms. Therefore, being an Uncle Tom meant a constant output of snitching, backstabbing, delighting in another’s downfall, stealing another black maid’s job. And Uncle Toms were aware of their dirt. Which is why they were a pretty paranoid little clique. So when my mom said, “Seed planted. Seed returns,” the Uncle Tom maid knew that one day the universe would repay her. One day an Uncle Tom would come for the Uncle Tom.
My mom left with her head high, never looked back. At least she had the satisfaction of knowing that she’d put something on that witch’s mind. Sooner or later people who dug holes for others had to worry about how many holes were being dug for them. My mom prided herself that she never let them see her break, even though on the bus ride home she had to tilt her head back to keep the tears from rolling down her face. She stopped off at the landlord’s and paid another week on the rent. Then she went to the store and bought all that food for us kids. She didn’t have enough for herself. But she made sure we had plenty.
I asked her why she didn’t take any of the food for herself. And she said it was more important for her kids to be full. She said her heart was full that night as she watched us and looked at those beautiful azaleas. She didn’t know how, but she knew that fullness would keep her going.
And it did. Later on my mom found another job. She ate dinner with us again. We didn’t get thrown out on the street. Our lives continued in that sweet carousel of dodge ball, homework, and sweet dreams. We were never rich. But, then again, we were.
I’m back at my apartment. I have another cup. Sweetie comes to greet me, meows hello in that tiny voice of hers. I think I had to come to this place of not knowing where I was going before I could move forward. Yes, I’m adrift right now. And when the heart is a raft, the shore is an island. Nothing’s stable in my world. I go to the window and look out. Everything looks the same. Nothing is the same. I fix myself a cup of coffee in my new favourite cup and stare at the testimony of azaleas. I remember my mom, my divorced mom, her kids’ only lifeline, feeding us that night and going without dinner herself, still sitting at that empty table with her beautiful azaleas pouring gold into the pieces of her heart, while we kids slept without a care in the world. I remember how she poured the gold of forgiveness into her broken spirit. I remember how she raised us, not to be better than anyone else, but to be just as good as everyone else. She raised us to value our own validation, to never give that power away. My mom owned her scars. Her scars never owned her.
And that is how I learned to own my scars, to not let them own me. That is how I learned to pour gold into my emptiness, into the broken pottery of my spirit. It is painstaking redemption. Painstaking. New vessels take time.
And then the hole blacked out inked in and where there’d been sky there was an eye. I stepped out of the shower’s limp spray toward the door toward the cubicle door toward the hole in the cubicle door toward the nomorehole in the cubicle door and I squinted at the black.
As I squinted at the black the black became a bead and the bead was surrounded by a moat and the moat was of stained ivory and then I knew, knew for certain what I already knew. And in that moment at that instant. At that instant I knew but then it was gone, the black was gone and the bead with its moat was gone and the sky was back again, and light was back again, and the light was streaming through the hole and the hole was in the cubicle door and I was in that cubicle. And to be in a cubicle is to be behind a door and sometimes that door has a hole in. And sometimes a door is not a door at all and sometimes walls aren’t walls either. And my skin was wet and I saw its sheen and I felt its gleam and I saw its nakedness and its nakedness was mine. And the suds clung to my flesh yes they cleaved to my goose-bumped hide and I felt I’d been caught, yes, caught, I’d been enclosed within the black and I’d also been fastened by it, the black had gone through me and the moat had wrapped itself around me and I’d been enfolded and there, wrapped and enfolded in the black was where I had been. And I stared at the sky and the sky was a dot and I thought of the eye and I thought, I cannot come out now, and I thought, how can I come out now, how can I open the door and go through it. And so I hovered and chilled and puckered. For where there is an eye there is a man and where there is a man…
(and I would never thereafter not be not thinking about it)
And nights my mind would sprawl many-limbed like an octopus. It would wave about all roving tentacles and the problem was the overlapping but that wasn’t even the problem because the real problem was the populating. I’d think about all those undulating members replete with their suction cups and those cups perpetually sucking at roundly nothing. Which is to say that my mind was a fist and that inside that fist there was nothing. Which is to say that my mind was gone and that I thereby was gone. Thoughts raced inside me like little rats yes like little rats on little wheels only I was not the rats I was the wheels. Yes I was the wheels which is to say that I was being raced upon and I was oh I was rattling. And oh but the NOISE you see. Which is to say that if the rats stood for goneness then it was by goneness that I was being played and the playing was a din and the din was a rumpus. And it was a rumpus one could drown in. In other words I was how to say the flute not the flautist and oh this blower of breath, this rat, this goneness: it was never not playing me.
And have you ever noticed how full being gone can be.
And by the way I did want to tell you something.
Everything overlapped and inside that, that knot those cliffs that fungus, there was no
breath
And when tonight I see the little nubbin. And when tonight I look up from my book it is the little nubbin that I see. It is the little nubbin which catches my eye and it is the little nubbin which is always there, poking out from the edge of the door like a tongue like a finger and what is it called, what is it really called, technically called, perhaps it is a catch, the catch perhaps, yes, THE CATCH, that sounds about right, it sounds innocuous and practical as the nubbin is, as it ought to be. But still you see the catch does seem like a finger, yes, however I look at it I cannot shake the feeling that it is a little finger curling itself around and into the room. And when I see the little finger tongue nubbin sticking out sticking in I confess I do a little jump –
or rather what happens is that a little jump does me.
Because of his military service, our Chinese-American father could have an American flag in his casket. So we filled out VA Form 27-2008, and they tucked a folded blue triangle with 10 white stars just above our father’s left shoulder for the viewing.
“We never bury the flag,” the undertaker said, so before he bolted the casket shut, he gave the flag to our mother, who held onto it with both hands, her heels sinking into the sod, as we stood on the grassy plot.
We thought of the mornings we ate Cheerios and toast while he drank gin and told us about the time he went out one night in Vietnam, and was fired upon by someone from his own company. “Thought you were a gook,” the soldier said. Like the white squad commander who called him a slanty-eyed chink, and the GI in his patrol who said, “Who you going to fire at? Your brothers shot me six times in Korea.” And when his company was overwhelmed by a VC battalion, wounding him and a dozen others, he was left alone, half buried in the mud, while he watched the others lifted to safety through the trees.
We remembered the nights crouching by the upstairs vent, watching our father in the bedroom below, pacing with his fists clenched. Our mother crying in her nightdress, and how we shook every time something glass shattered against the wall.
Twenty years later, we had almost forgotten. Until we watch the news about the elderly Asian Americans being pushed to the ground and left for dead, told by their assailants to “Go back to your country.” Like Pak Ho, 75 years old, whose face we see memorialised on TV, and we immediately think that’s what Dad would’ve looked like if he’d lived that long. Our father, who bought his gin and cigarettes at the same intersection of Jayne Avenue and Perkins Street where Mr. Ho was murdered. Our father, whose eyes would well up if he knew we’d put the Stars and Stripes in his casket, because it meant he was finally being recognised by his country.
So we call our mother frantically that evening to ask where she put the flag. Her house is cluttered with junk – figurines, paper bags, old fruit. But does she keep the flag somewhere? Somewhere safe? In a place of honour in her home?
In her latest collection of short stories, Dead Relatives, Lucie McKnight Hardy takes us on a tour of the macabre. There are some strong themes running through these 13 tales. Many of them take place in a domestic setting, and there is a real sense of exploring the horror that takes place behind our closed doors. In some of the stories, this is particularly unsettling as we all want to be able to feel safe and untroubled in our own homes, but these stories push at those boundaries and unsettle us in some really subtle ways. The family dynamic is also a significant theme, and McKnight Hardy is really good at exploring unusual or dysfunctional family relationships.
My favourite story is the opening one, and the one that gives its name to the rest of the collection: “Dead Relatives.” Set in the 1960s, 13-year-old Iris lives in a remote, crumbling country house with her mammy, who runs a home for women dealing with unwanted or difficult pregnancies. Iris has no company of her own age – she has never even been out of the grounds of the house – and instead she finds company in books, her favourite toy (a gnarled old doll named Dolly), and the portraits of her dead relatives that line the landing walls. She often talks to the portraits, and sometimes they talk back, making her say things that she knows she shouldn’t. When three young women arrive just before Christmas, Iris bonds with one of them in a way she has never bonded with any of the young women before and she starts to confide in her, almost to the point of giving away the deepest, darkest of secrets and showing her Dolly, which she has been told she must never do. As readers we might think that it’s the eerie, chatty portraits that will provide some supernatural chills in this story, or the dead tree in the garden that Iris nourishes daily with a variety of different treats that she leaves in its hollow, but what actually comes to light toward the end of the story is far more shocking, and far more horrifying than anything ghostly could ever be, and the true horror here is what people can sometimes do to each other. I loved this story. It’s a superb piece of folk horror writing, reminiscent (as are others in the collection) of Shirley Jackson, and it’s the one that has stayed with me the most out of the collection. Being considerably longer than the others (it’s almost 70 pages), the characters and the setting feel so much more fleshed out and rounded, and you really do start to feel immersed in this insular, lonely world. I finished the story feeling there was still a lot more to know about Iris, her mammy, and the secrets they hold – and wanting to know it.
Another story that I really like is “The Birds of Nagasaki,” which is the tale that closes the collection. This is another tale of insular, lonely children, the jealousy and cruelty that can build between a brother and sister and again, like “Dead Relatives,” it features a hole underneath a tree that has a dark fascination for the children and houses some dark secrets. “The Birds of Nagasaki” is another story about terrible events that go unspoken but come back to haunt the protagonists, and it gave me chills when reading it.
There is a touch of dark humour to some of these stories, and sometimes the central characters get a shot at revenge or, at least, at some kind of satisfaction. “The Pickling Jar” and “Resting Bitch Face” are both good examples of this, with “Resting Bitch Face” being another particularly strong piece for me and containing some seriously tactile imagery that made my skin crawl.
There are so many things in life that are still unsayable, or only just starting to be said, and throughout this collection McKnight Hardy does an excellent job of exploring some of them. Motherhood and the maternal is a strong thread running through so many of these stories, and a number of times we meet mothers who are struggling in one way or another. In “Jutland,” for example, we meet Ana, who has just moved to a new home with her young family. Mother of two, a toddler and a young baby, she feels constrained by her maternal role and the fact that her husband’s career as an artist is flourishing while her career as a writer has stalled amid sleep deprivation, nighttime feeds, and dirty nappies. She craves the time and space to write and when she does eventually find it again, the words pour out of her, soaring and unstoppable. These words come at a terrible cost, though, and with imagery that will remind you of Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black, we are unsure at the end whether we have just witnessed a haunting or a mother suffering the horrendous agonies of postpartum psychosis.
In “Resting Bitch Face” the mother and son remain nameless and the child only referred to as “the boy.” Detached from her son, the mother admits to disliking him and is convinced that he dislikes her:
When the lesion across her abdomen became infected, she had thought of it as a sign of punishment – she was being called upon to pay penance for her dislike of the boy, and the pus that wept from the wound was there to remind her that she was a mother now, a putrid reminder of her new role. She thinks this is why the boy hates her.
There aren’t any missteps in this collection, and it is a great collection for anyone who likes to be unsettled or is a fan of macabre and folk horror. There is so much to unpack within these pages that they stand up to multiple rereadings, where there is often something new to be discovered.
Dead Relatives
By Lucie McKnight Hardy
Dead Ink Books, 224 pages
I took a pair of jeans to the tailor’s on the court square to get the legs shortened and rehemmed. Behind the counter was a woman my age with whom I had gone to high school. On a piece of construction paper, I had written how many centimetres I wanted cut off the jeans. I handed the piece of paper to the woman behind the counter.
She pinched it and put it on the counter and shook her head without looking at it. “Oh no, sweetheart. It’s better if we do it this way.” She came around from the back of the counter with some flimsy measuring tape in her hands and stood holding the roll of yellow tape between her stomach and breasts. “Go change,” she said, nodding toward the bathroom door. I put on the jeans in the bathroom and came out with my slacks draped over my arm. She took the pair of slacks from my arm and laid them over a chair in the waiting area, then came to me and hiked up my jeans and crouched and rolled up my cuffs, pinning them with a straight pin she had plucked from a red scrunchie in the back of her hair.
Through the wall-length windows of the shop, I saw light breaking from behind the clouds, the sun a white gold. I stared too long, two seconds at most, but it was long enough to make spots appear in my vision. When I looked down, the tailor was pressing the end of the measuring tape to the top of my jeans at my waist and holding it there with her thumb. Black spots floated across the world as she ran the tape down to the cuff and mumbled a number to herself. I blinked until I blinked away the spots.
She rose. “Well, sweetheart, that ought to do it.” She walked back behind the counter, scratched out the measurement I had written on the construction paper, and wrote her new number in pencil. Then she looked up at me and stared, waiting for something. But by the time I realised why she was waiting, she said, “Go take your jeans off.” I grabbed my slacks from the chair in the waiting area and went to the bathroom. I came out in my slacks, my jeans draped over my arm. I handed her the jeans. “They’ll be ready Tuesday,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to ask. We used to go to high school together. Do you remember me?”
She said, “Of course I remember you, sweetheart.” I was not sure she did. After all, I had only remembered her by sight and knew nothing else about her. I was too embarrassed to ask her name. “Anything else?” she asked. I shook my head. “See you Tuesday,” she said.
When I stepped outside, the three-car parking lot was covered in golden light. The black road, too, was painted gold. It was black and gold and almost too bright to look at. I looked at the sky, the clouds wispy and faint, the sky a blend of blue and white and gold, the world beautifully gilded, if only for that moment, at that time of day, before the strength of the colours contracted and evened out, returning the world to a familiar present when time moves forward again. And then I got in my car and went on with my life and did other things, as one does.
In the beginning was the silence, although not the true silence, the first silence, but the murmur of a million minute voices – the wind in long grass, the breath of the beehives, the catch-cries of the cats, the snores of so many marsupials – filling the air with something not seen for so long, something which might fill the silence and be a new beginning. She unfolds her leaves for the thousandth thousandth time since the beginning (or was it the end?), ending her night remembrance, her almost-endlessness from coast to coast dedicated to those that that left the metal and the plastic and the glass which she wears like jewellery, which itches at her even as she closes her green cloak over it, trying to balance her desire to preserve their memory with her instinct to eat their history. Although her own memory is long it is also unreliable, and she cannot now remember exactly when those that came before disappeared – one hundred hundred turns about the sun, perhaps? – but she does know that they were here and gone in the blink of an eye, and eventually that eye must blink again, and perhaps she is that eye; and so she watches very carefully, as the sun crowds the horizon, and creeps across her canopy towards one particular clearing. And as the sun strikes the space in the clearing, some small creature – whiskered, pouched, hunched – strikes stone against stone, as if it expects something to happen; and then something does happen, a sudden spark, a second chance, and second chances do not come often, she thinks, but then again, she is not entirely certain, because even for her it is so so hard to notice when history is happening, when all of history somehow happens in that second in the sun when the stone makes the spark.
For this instalment of A Flash of Inspiration, we’re featuring “For I Have Sinned” by Bryan Okwesili, which originally appeared in Litro on December 27, 2021.
Hello, Bryan, and thanks for joining us for this interview.
I am most honoured.
You have an impressive body of work – how long have you been writing flash fiction and what drew you to this form?
I began telling stories at an early age, short, simple stories about how Sundays were only but boring and how much I loved chewing ice cream cones. I think this style of creating art in brief flashes stuck from childhood. I didn’t have much time to write. I did mostly reading. So, my stories began and ended as quickly, and I thought they were good. At least, my close-knit friends thought so, too. Growing up, I discovered flash fiction, and what particularly drew me to this form was its ability to say so much in so few words, and still retain its beauty, its satisfaction.
How do you feel that flash fiction compares to other genres?
I should think flash fiction is just as beautiful as other genres, but the hardest to write. There is something about it that is most demanding – uncertainty; to say or not to say. What do you kill? What do you ignite? I should also think that in a world so hurriedly skipping against time, flash fiction creates a slice of satisfactory literature easily devoured in between tick tocks.
Your story “For I Have Sinned” brings the reader in close with themes of religion and guilt and queerness in the Nigerian context, and in your bio you mention your aim to explore the interiority and tensions of queerness. Could you expand upon that for us?
Sometimes, queerness is defined by its acceptability. In Nigeria, everything condemns queerness – society, religion, culture, the law. This homophobic grip of queer people aimed at annihilation or sometimes forced “sexual reorientation” creates tensions amongst queer people in Nigeria, who, most times, live their lives in denial of their true sexuality or risk atrocious dehumanisation in living their truth. Here, there is the anti-gay law with incarceration of up to 14 years, there is the weekly Sunday homily pontificating the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, there is the cruel victimisation of queer persons on the streets, there is the spiteful cyberbullying of queer persons across social media platforms, then, there is the prevailing ignorance, steeped in stereotypes, amongst the non-queer folks as to what it means to be queer. My aim is to retell the narrative in ways that do not necessarily challenge stereotypes, but humanises; people, in trying to understand a thing, seek the humanity in it. I believe in the ability of not just stories but also other genres of literature to do that. And speaking of other genres, I wrote a poem last year, “Preacher Man Knows My Name,” which was nominated for a Pushcart prize. I found the inspiration for the poem from a beautiful quote by Billy Porter: “The first thing that is taken away from LGBT people is our spirituality.” My poem was an introspective affirmation of its truth.
Tell us about the origin of some of your stories and the readers you have in mind. And some of your creative preferences: urban or rural? Domestic or exotic? Language or plot? First, second, or third person? Male or female protagonist?
My stories, most times, are spurred from the need to explore reality, telling other stories that do not always say a boy loves a girl, stories that strip society of hypocrisy, and exploring queerness, especially in African society, I think, is just as important as the many books on what is familiar. I write for everyone. I believe literature, as art, is self-expression in freedom. I do not expect my readers to be mostly queer, although I always leave so much heart for them in my works. I want them to read it and see that they could be just as beautiful in any art form.
I am most comfortable with rural settings because I grew up in a rural area. But I write urban, too. Domestic or exotic? Either. I am most interested in language as much as I am with plot. I am quite a slow writer, paying attention to every sentence, stirring it till it sings. I want to grow into using language in unusual creative ways, like Binyavanga Wainaina. Point of view picks itself most times — How do I want it to be read? The sex of my protagonist depends on the story itself.
What were you doing when your best ever idea came to you?
Reminiscing on the beauty in the work of Chimamanda Adichie – Half of a Yellow Sun. I imagined a queer Ugwu, and it struck me, the existence of queer persons during the Biafra civil war. I wanted to tell that story. I did. Named it “The Other Half of a Yellow Sun,” and it got nominated for a Pushcart prize, too. I consider it my best idea. I believe the war deserves the story, deserves every story.
Tell us a little about your writing routine and how you feel about the act of writing.
I am a student of Law at university. Sometimes, school work comes in the way, and I do not write much. I write on weekends, preferably, evenings when my thoughts are open to caressing. I like to think a bowl of chocolate ice cream beside me sharpens my mind.
What do you think are the biggest challenges of producing a successful piece of flash fiction?
Expression and clarity. Many a time, a writer is caught between saying more or less.
What do you do with an unconvincing piece of work? Rework/recycle/reject?
I rework. And rework. After a while, if it still fails, I let it go. I take it that it isn’t my story to tell.
Many of us are writing in different corners of the world and share our work through social media platforms. How connected do you feel to a community of writers? Is this important to you?
I do not belong to any community of writers. I want to. There are many young writers I admire and whose works I read. I send unsolicited feedback to them. It is a way of connecting with them, of acknowledging their art as important. I receive feedback, too. I like that. It fills me with so much warmth.
Do you think our themes and interests overlap across the globe?
Yes, I do. It is the beauty of art; exposing the similarities in our differences.
Whose words do you admire? Who has influenced your work most?
African writers are stunningly conscious. Early on, I admired the graceful simplicity of the prose of Chinua Achebe and Cyprian Ekwensi. Now, I am still gripped by the unusual creativity of Binyavanga Wainaina, bless him, and his unapologetic twist of language. Chimamanda Adichie still remains a master in the art of storytelling, stringing sentences perfectly punctuated with humour. There is Johwor Ile, Remy Ngamije, Troy Onyango, Makena Onjerika, Otosirieze Obi-Young, and Lesley Nneka Arimah.
Current bedside read?
And After Many Days by Johwor Ile. I am enjoying his thoughtful expressions and brilliant imagery.
And your future projects?
I am currently working on a collection of queer-themed poems for a chapbook, Hello, Welcome Home, inspired by the chorus of Billie Eilish’s solemn single, “Lovely.” I am most hopeful about this project, and I believe it would be full of so much light.
Thanks so much for speaking with us Bryan and best of luck with your work!
Thank you too for this opportunity. You are most kind.
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Don’t judge a book by its cover, they say – but of course that’s what we all do, and I readily confess that I was attracted to The Church Forests of Ethiopia for its austere (yet vibrant), as well as self-contained (yet potent) cover design – faithfully reflecting the essence of Ethiopian church forests: neatly enclosed spaces bursting with life. The photographs in The Church Forests of Ethiopia are far from spectacular. They have a subdued quality, both in tone and in their choice of setting. They display restraint rather than abundance, and they offer clues the viewer may choose to follow – or discard. And, far from offering a hundred views from above, Kieran Dodds’ recourse to drone photography is sparse. This came as a surprise (perhaps I should have better studied that book cover – understated, elegant), as Ethiopia is, in many ways, intensely spectacular (but deeply reserved, too). But if Ethiopia is a land of paradoxes, it does offers exoticism in spades, both to the writer and, perhaps especially, to the photographer.
But what is an Ethiopian Church forest, you may well ask? The conservationist Alemayehu Wassie Eshete tells us from the start, in his foreword that, “in the northern highlands of Ethiopia, most forests have been completely destroyed and converted into farms and grazing lands over centuries (…) Afromontane forests do remain (…) mostly found surrounding Orthodox Tewahedo churches.” Alemayehu Wassie Eshete (a good name for a conservationist, Eshete, as it roughly translates into English as my green shoot!), provided guidance to Kieran Dodds so that the photographer could “capture beautifully the contrast of the green church forests with the surrounding bare lands.”
And don’t be put off by the word Afromontane, as it is simply the name for the temperate forests found at high altitudes in Africa – think juniper and rosewood, olive trees and sycamores. These forests grow in an arc, running from Eritrea to Rwanda, but are most prevalent in the Horn of Africa (as Ethiopia possesses 70% of the continent’s highlands). There is much debate about how much of Ethiopia used to be forested, and while many repeat that “41% of the country used to be covered in forest,” recent pollen studies suggest that much of the highlands were converted to grasslands and tilled fields long ago (Dodds tells us that the country has lost 90% of its forest coverage over the last century.) But that forest once covered vastly larger areas than today is an obvious fact (while the country recently carried out a record-breaking tree planting campaign, even the fast growing eucalyptus cannot keep up with Ethiopia’s ever rising needs of timber and fuel – but that’s a different, even if highly related, story.)
I worked a few years ago on a Yann Arthus-Bertrand exhibition held at the Alliance Française in Addis Ababa. Bertrand is world famous for his aerial photography taken all over the world (He gets to use a helicopter.) His photographs are spectacular, highly saturated, full of meaning and very, very beautiful. Viewers know what they are looking at, as is it self-evident. For the Addis exhibition, Arthus-Bertrand added to his world pictures (the Okavango Delta, polychromous shantytowns in Brazil) a special series on the Timkat ceremonies held in Gondar. And I can’t say I didn’t like them (Everybody did; they really were spectacular.) But I also know that such pictures could no doubt be taken by a drone without a human operator, given the right program (Perhaps this is recognised by Yann Arthus-Bertrand himself as he recently pledged…to no longer fly – although I think he claimed he was doing his part to fight global warming.)
I recognise Kieran Dodds’ pictures of Ethiopian Church forests – for that’s exactly what they look and feel like. And when Dodds portrays Ethiopians, he captures them with great simplicity, too. And I find that, again, that really is what Ethiopians look like – these could very nearly be “candid” shots, fired from the hip. Ethiopians have striking features (to Western viewers) – they are, obviously, exotic, and that makes for spectacular photography (Think of Hans Silvester’s famous painted ingénues down in the Omo Valley – curiously, no one seems to mind that the Eden portrayed by the photographer is staged.) Again, I will not pretend to not be taken by this; novelty and shock, strange beauty or weird traits – they are of immediate appeal to us all.
There is nothing intrinsically wrong with this (or, if so, it is human nature that is flawed), but we should still strive to find the commonalities that connect us, rather than build frames for our differences (Ethiopia, too, readily offers itself to United Colors of Benetton–style cultural collages in which high cheek bones and antiquated Christian paraphernalia become the brand.) In Europe, sacred groves became church grounds, too, and graveyard yew trees were worshipped by pagans before being brought into the fold. Likewise in Ethiopia, where hallowed trees or groves, called adbars, are used to this day in spirit worship. There was one such grove near the stables I used to run in Ethiopia, to the west of Addis Ababa, a picturesque thicket of endemic hardwoods that stood out in the surrounding farmlands full of wheat, peas, and the occasional stand of eucalyptus. The trees were festooned in minute “prayer flags,”while the trunks of the bigger trees were doused in butter and bullocks are still sacrificed every year. The reverence for trees and forests is not limited to a faith or region in Ethiopia – indeed, most of the remaining forests of Ethiopia are located in the southwest, far from the Orthodox Amhara highlands, and the state flag of Oromia bears a large ficus in its centre. And this importance granted to trees is long-standing: In the 15th century, the emperor Zera Yacob declared himself to be preoccupied with the diminution of the forests of his realm and is said in his royal chronicle to have transported seedlings from the crags of Wof Washa, near Ankober, to replenish the woods of Menagesha (in the vicinity of the capital city).
I greatly enjoyed the Geez fidel, the symbols used to write Amharic, Tigrinya, and a number of other Ethiopian languages, parsimoniously used, and to striking effect, throughout the book. One small quibble is that the cover I so like, with its artwork of circled fidels, does not translate the English title but rather conveys the meaning of an “enclosure” comprising the church building, the forest itself, and the palisade or wall that secludes it from the surroundings (although, to be fair, it is nowhere stated that it is a translation.) Another minor quibble is that church forests are not, as explained in the book, the only remaining forests in the Amhara region – Emperor Zera Yacob’s Wof Washa still very much exists today (and when I launched a horse trek, I chose this exact route linking the two forests and called it the Zera Yacob Trail). And there are other forests in the Amhara region, in Wollo, in the Semien Mountains. I liked the map of church forests strewn all over the Amhara region, like a green polka dot motif. I liked less the map of the Great Green Wall of Africa and the suggestion that if it were tweaked to run through Ethiopia, Church forests would somehow benefit…(Recent reports claim that 15% of this “line of trees,” from the Atlantic to the Red Sea, is now complete, but somehow I doubt this to be true. It reminds me of a scheme I once participated in as an interpreter to encourage Ethiopian farmers to trade carbon on their individual trees. Some things are best left outside of bureaucracy.)
Which is not to say that these questions are not vitally important. More than a century ago, Ethiopia’s capital was on the verge of being moved, for lack of fuel and construction timber. The country counted perhaps 10 million inhabitants at the time. Today, there are 110 million Ethiopians, and many of them need wood to cook, to build houses, and to craft their ploughs (Dodds’ picture of a very young, very tall, man carrying a plough, or better said, an ard, on his shoulder is a perfect reminder of this). Back then, the fast growing eucalyptus (or bahar zaf, the “ocean tree” or tree from beyond the seas), saved the day – and preserved the indigenous species from total eradication. But will there be another tree from beyond the oceans to swoop in to the rescue? Then there is the question of beauty and of the spirit, of the sacred and of the profane (and besides, to stick to the material, you can’t make a serviceable plough out of eucalyptus). While Dodds doesn’t offer solutions to these predicaments, he convincingly conveys the importance and the beauty of these church forests. And he does so without over-aesthetising his subject nor running wild with those drone shots. This is a book you can judge by its cover.
I’ve insisted for a long time there is only one way I would do this, and that is to post it.
So, here goes. Simple truth and nothing but the truth: I snapped. Snapped! Snapped a pic, that is. I fell out of the club at precisely 3:00 a.m. A trifle early for me, honestly. My phone recorded my exact whereabouts. I always have all the apps running. I headed uptown to my loft, alone, wobbling on my Manolos, head swimming on a gentle and receding dose of Molly, black AmEx should’ve been in my back pocket but wasn’t – we’ve all been there – when I stumbled upon the SCENE OF A CRIME.
Not a fashion crime, LOL. As a respected macro-influencer, I witness and opine on those every day. No, this was a real crime. The aroma of blood and other bodily fluids floated through chilly Manhattan air and mixed with my Massive Mangoes vape as I contemplated the situation. The victim’s unconsented-to nakedness almost glowed.
The location was in the alley next to Killer Vibes Dance Studio.
Twinkletoes – I know many have a problem with that label, but I needed something catchy and I didn’t have unlimited time – was presented in a way you couldn’t miss, feet first out the alley, clothed only in a pair of brand-new pink ballet slippers.
Did I feel scared? Not exactly. The normal siren squeals and street chatter of New York quieted, and I guess I just felt lonely. It’s a philosophical, tree-falling-in-the-woods concept: Do you really exist if people aren’t paying attention to you? For a split second, alone on that sidewalk, I had the fleeting idea that with nobody looking, not a soul caring about my situation, I might as well be as dead as Twinkletoes.
So, I did what any girl with a Hollywood dream and one-fourth of a degree in applied communications would do under similar circumstances. I spent a quick nine minutes adjusting my phone’s camera settings. Then I took 152 selfies of myself with the victim behind me in the background. The body was face-down, which made my actions morally permissible, and I’ve made that argument in many interviews and I’m not going to rehash those points now. Just like I fought down the bile at seeing deceased Twinkletoes, if you got a problem with me or what I’ve done, I’ll exhale slowly and clear my mind. Blocking people out and looking out for myself is something I learned long ago. As a kid you learn there’s stuff you have to ignore and forget. Like stomps and silence, sobs and more silence, new apartments infused with the aroma of cheap cigarettes and wet pit bull.
The squeamish may agree or disagree with my actions, but I immediately posted the best three photos of Twinkletoes. My expression was serious, falling snowflakes made my false eyelashes glisten, and thank Jesus I’d gotten that Brazilian blowout earlier. Next, right after consulting with my agent via encrypted text, I called 911. I took additional selfies with the cops around. The yellow crime tape got put up, red and blue lights flashed, and my violet chinchilla jacket looked smoking hot in the icy moonlight.
Back to the victim. The ballet shoes were too small. NASTY the way the killer forced them on. There was a lot to say about this online, and I had to respond to others. Plus, I’d seen a white van with tinted windows slide by while I was taking more selfies, and I posted a pic of its license plate. Sorry I ruined your life for two weeks, dude, but all leads had to be followed.
My life got crazy after that.
I sought out other crime scenes, took selfies, and posted shout-outs to witnesses, investigators, and victims’ families. I referred to female prosecutors as “pant suit bitches” just one time, and a Supreme Court justice offered restrained criticism of that during an international Women in the Law forum in Aspen, Colorado. (I was not invited. If I had been, I would have informed that bitch that it had been a compliment. Mostly.)
In general, my online followers increased exponentially. Some appreciated that I beamed a spotlight on violent crime. Others said they were disgusted by my “opportunism.”
It’s true; opportunities knocked. I went with a streaming show called Tell Me Who Cares? Each episode spotlights an unsolved murder. Law enforcement was less concerned with my online activities than you might think. Keep posting, they said. Keep posting.
The whole thing wasn’t exactly what I had dreamed for my life. I’d wanted the classic stuff – a role in a superhero movie, a turn on Broadway, maybe a harmless scandal involving an indie movie actor. I wanted a Santa Monica mansion with a salt water infinity pool and chicken coop. Was it too much to ask? Stuff that gets you some respect and maybe a little bit of friendship. But by the time I was slogging up that dark street outside my old dance studio, my life felt like failure. What’s worse, every hour of therapy put me deeper in credit card debt. And that affected me more than you might think. It would anybody whose childhood plummeted from ballet lessons to buying T-shirts at Walgreens.
But a clearance rack childhood doesn’t mean you’re destined for a clearance rack life. I was determined to make the most of my moment. After I filmed Who Cares?, I started my own fashion line. It was a hard-boiled detective meets ballerina look, mostly neon pink trench coats and fedoras, with a modern twist where everything is fair trade organic vegan. To generate attention to this endeavour, I posted a pic of my rescue pugapoo Dick Tracy wearing a fedora and four tiny ballet slippers. The slippers looked exactly like what had been stuffed on Twinkletoes. It went viral, as I intended. Crazies sent death threats to Dick, can you believe it? The FBI warned me of a kidnapping plot against both of us. People loved Twinkletoes, you know. His songs are meaningful.
Then there was my home improvement show on construction and design of panic rooms. We covered mansions as well as smaller-scale stuff to assist viewers in their penthouse DIY projects. Don’t forget to check out my holiday special on luxury bunker prep. Security brands begged for my endorsement, and still do. I have immense credibility in the area of crimefighting. An open world video game is in production, starring me as sleuth avatar. I’m insisting that she carry a briefcase, because that’s what people really respect about me, that I’m an entrepreneur.
Of course, as we know by now, police were investigating the Twinkletoes murder all that time. They found my stash of ballet slippers. They discovered that I owned dozens of cell phones. They realised I knew more about technology, including security camera hacking, than my vast expertise in low-carb diets and natural hair extensions might suggest.
Prosecutors had theories but little evidence. They charged me anyway. Whatevs. Can you say circumstantial? I said, bounce me down to murder in the second degree, ladies. They did.
The trial went on for three televised months. I had time to serve remotely as a recurring guest judge on cable’s ninth highest-rated cooking show, Crimes in an Urban Kitchen. Maybe this magisterial role made the judge in my trial respect me more. If you haven’t tried it yet, my recipe for braised beef kidney pairs well with two shots of Cuervo Gold.
On the way to court each day, people screamed for selfies with me. I would behave appropriately, ignoring everyone from behind my platinum shades, including in the courtroom. I didn’t even interact with the filmmakers I hired to do my unauthorised docuseries. But apparently, somehow a juror may have accidentally followed me on social media without realising it. The slight possibility of mistrial arose. Negotiations resulting in this post commenced.
I’ll say this: You can sentence me but you can’t cancel me.
The victim, Twinkletoes? He had it coming. That’s what happens when society ignores 19 accusers. Can you say manslaughter? This confession is part of the deal. I’ll be out in 12 years. Worth it. I cancelled that MOFO, for real. I get that people love his music, but Twinks got what he deserved and I’m the one who did it. I’m not playing a game. But if this is a game, I won. People respect a woman who goes up against the system and wins.
I started with nothing. I earned enough waitressing to get back to studying dance. During that time of nothingness, I had scored an audition and Twinkletoes said there was a role for me in his next music video. He asked, Don’t you want it? You have to show me you want it. It wasn’t possible to escape. I’d put all those details in the police report 10 years ago, along with the medical stuff. That accomplished nothing. And you know what? I didn’t even get the part. Of course, I was used to having nothing. But at that point, I was officially fed up with being treated like I was nothing.
Who am I now? I’m somebody. I’m the Ultimate Influencer. The police say I’ve inspired copycats. The judge says it would be helpful if I expressed remorse. No dice. As I will say in my autobiography, Chapter 3, you can be prey or you can be the stalker. And you can upgrade from one to the other.
Maybe I didn’t get everything I ever wanted, but you know what I have? Respect. All kinds of followers and you are all my friends. It’s safe to say I’m in an upper echelon of women who achieve. I’m a social crusader now. I could’ve killed quietly and sunk Twinkie’s body in the East River attached to my heaviest Pilates equipment. But I took things to the next level.
Like I said, this is a 12-year stint. That doesn’t mean you won’t hear from me. Direct all correspondence to my counsel and I will respond. First Amendment, y’alls.
His wife had stormed out, leaving him and their child. He did his best to take care of the three-year-old, wiping food that smeared around his mouth and buttoning up his jacket before they went outside. The boy was golden-haired like his father and smiled easily. “I love you,” he said when he pressed the boy to him. They went grocery shopping and to the park together. He pushed the boy on the swing, one-handed, watched the birds scatter and take flight when the boy ran towards them. The boy cried before going to sleep. “Mama,” the boy said. “I want mama.”
They’d moved from the city. The house smelled of dogs even though they’d never had any. Its windows were low. His wife had convinced him to leave his apartment, the one before her, the one he’d held onto as he cycled through roommates. He’d never wanted to give up the location, rent control, light that streamed through the windows. When the baby was newly born she told him, “I don’t want to lug the stroller up three flights of stairs. He needs fresh air. He can’t fall asleep with all these city noises.” He was too tired to argue. She found the town house and they signed the lease the next day.
He rubbed his hand against his cheek and called his childhood friend who was in town, visiting. She picked up on the second ring. He hid the sound of his cracking voice with sips of leftover beer. His friend was a photographer. She’d married another artist, an illustrator, whom he’d made little effort to meet. She told him her wife was tender and funny. Though money was tight, their days together were easeful.
“How are you?” she said. Her voice on the line was far away.
“He cries for his mom,” he told her.
She heard what he didn’t say, We’re not okay.
He said, “It takes hours for him to go to sleep.”
She heard, I’m just holding on.
When he asked her how she was, she told him about the friends she’d seen since she flew in.
“It’s been good to catch up,” she said.
She didn’t say, It’s strange to be here after so long, but I’m making the best of it.
“I’m worried about the boy,” he said.
“I’ll come over tomorrow,” she told him.
The boy ran to her when she opened the door, then back to his toy truck. Dirty dishes filled the sink and covered the countertops. The floor needed sweeping.
“I know, it’s a mess,” he said.
His arm swung out behind him as he spoke. He was wearing warm-up pants and a grey T-shirt. They hugged. He smelled of dried sweat and something sweet and crisp, like magnolias. When they pulled away, her hair fell around her face and she tucked it behind her ear in a familiar gesture.
“It’s gonna be alright,” she said.
He jerked his head ever so slightly backwards. She took off her jacket and hung it from one of the hooks in the hall. Brushing aside some clothes on the couch, he handed her a can of sparkling water. It was cold from the fridge.
When they were younger, she’d never imagined he’d leave the city. In sophomore year of high school, he’d told her he’d be a firefighter. After senior year, he went straight into academy. It took him six to get through, but he did, watching most of his friends drop out. He worked at a station in a city district, he’d told her, which was overburdened with people overdosing on the streets. But he liked making quick and critical decisions, the adrenaline and rush of it. Helping.
She left the can unopened. He sat down in a chair across from her and put his hands on his face. They covered his eyes.
“I don’t know what to do,” he told her. His voice was dry. “I don’t know if she’s coming back. I’ve had to take so many days off work, I’m – we’re dipping into savings. I’m so tired.”
The boy rolled the truck across the floor, to her feet. She said the boy’s name and he looked up at her. She smiled and suggested they leave, take the boy to the park.
“We’ll swing,” she said.
“Yes, we’ll swing,” said the boy.
They strolled down the sidewalk, the boy between them, each holding one of his hands. When they left the park, they could see their breath. She stayed through the evening. He hired a babysitter.
“Let’s get a drink,” he said.
They walked to the bar at the corner and ordered two beers. Once seated, she slipped off her jacket. He watched her out of the corner of his eye.
“Do you want her back?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It’s terrible,” he said. “I mean – I’m over it. I don’t have the energy to try again. I don’t even know if we like each other. We fight all the time.”
She watched two guys playing darts, beer in one hand, darts in the other. When they made a good throw, they clinked their bottles.
“She doesn’t like that I work night shifts or that I’m gone days at a time.”
One of the guys threw, missing the target by inches.
“Don’t give it up,” she said.
He hadn’t realised he didn’t want his wife until he said it out loud. He wanted to disappear into his seat.
Later that evening, when they hugged goodbye she told him, “I love you.”
They soaked in the missing words: like a sister, I’m here for you.
“I know,” he said.
She drove away.
He opened the door of the house, paid the babysitter, and heated up some leftovers. Tomorrow, I’ll do the laundry and clean the house, he thought, as if to reassure her. He imagined her answer, Yeah, right. He smiled. Yeah, that’s just what she’d say.
It’s been one week since George died, and here comes a man walking up the long dirt path to Marie’s house. George? Marie thinks. But no, this is a living man, the kind who knocks on the door with a fist and uses two feet to pass through the threshold of Marie’s home.
The man says something about a car, something about a phone. Marie’s not listening. She’s already seen all she needs to. There’s a scar on the man’s right hand, the same size and shape as the birthmark that had graced George’s.
When they were new to each other, new to everything, Marie had told George she didn’t think they’d ever be parted. They were taking a walk by the river, the water high after a week’s worth of storms. George, Marie had said, I intend to know you forever and I don’t mean until the end of this life. If I go first, I’ll come to visit. I’ll be wearing my wedding dress and carrying a bundle of those yellow flowers that grow like weeds outside our front door.
Marie’s not hard to overtake. The man ties her hands behind her back and holds a knife to her throat, says if she screams, she’ll regret it. Marie sits quiet as a crumb and watches the man run his hands over the surface of her life, his backpack growing fat with treasures.
That day at the river, George had said, But Marie, what makes you think we’ll get to decide what form our souls will take? When I come back, I won’t be me. I’ll be the tooth that won’t stop aching. I’ll be the bee that stings you on a sunny day. I’ll be the sound of the slamming door that the wind takes with it when your back is turned.
He’d been laughing, but Marie remembers – that ache in her, like someone lit a match in her chest and it never stopped burning.
The man puts his bag down and turns toward Marie. She braces for the knife against her throat, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Marie watches as the man walks into the kitchen, where he takes a glass out of the cabinet and fills it with ice.
Marie closes her eyes, and she’s back at the river that day. She sees the water slapping against the bank, the trees hanging low over the dirt path. She feels George’s hand in hers, sees his mouth open. She waits to hear what he’ll say next, but all there is now is the sound of the water running in the faucet, the ice cracking in the man’s glass.
Among the usual collections of garbage on Oxford Street, there were still Friday’s newspapers blowing in short spirals over the pavement. Joseph Hellman, his gaze fixed outside the bus window, was drawn to a copy of the London Gazette caught on the windscreen of a parked Immigration Police van. On the front page above a picture of the new prime minister and leader of the Everyman Party, the headline ran: NEW BEGINNINGS, OLD ENGLAND.
It had just gone seven o’clock. Though there had been no special mention of it on EBC News, it felt safe to declare it the coldest day of the year thus far. Not even Joseph’s thickest winter overcoat could insulate him from the dismal March morning. He knew a quick swig of rum would warm him in all the right places, but it was foolish to risk it. Though the rum was nonimported, meaning legal, and could be proved so with a United Counties of England receipt, it was always safer to avoid suspicion where one could manage it, especially those already vulnerable to scrutiny as Joseph, due to his skin colour, undoubtedly was. A newspaper, he figured, felt like the only suitable distraction. There was one underneath the neighbouring seat that had been skidding up and down the bus aisle for most of the commute. He stretched over and plucked it from the floor, parting the pages roughly in the middle. It was a copy of the Gazette. He knew this not only from the overload of pornographic material filling the pages (a now customary feature in most tabloid publications), but because they were still running the story that had been troubling him all weekend. The very sight of it still taking up space in a major newspaper seemed to wrap the miserable March air a little tighter around his bones. Still, even with this, he couldn’t resist reading again:
Prime Minister Nigel White has received numerous plaudits after announcing that all government support funding going toward art colleges, galleries, music venues, theatres, record stores, bookstores, libraries, and independent film studios, should be rescinded and rerouted toward further investments in pubs, breweries, prison centres, border control, and the Immigration Police. This being part of his 100-day promise as popularised in his manifesto –
Joseph folded the paper and slung it onto the neighbouring seat.
He departed the bus a little further on at Shaftesbury Avenue where the huge advertisement screens overlooked the street. At one time or another, precisely when was difficult to estimate, the screens had endorsed a wide range of products, varying in everything from holiday packages to even books. Branded on the screens now was a topless woman glugging from a bottle of beer. It was an advert for Miner’s Cream Ale, an inexpensive brand of bitter. Joseph ignored it and moved briskly passed the old theatre buildings, though even with his head down the advertisements were still visible in the rain-filled potholes.
His head wrenched up a moment later as two figures emerged from the corner of Rupert Street. Even from a distance, their bald, broad-shouldered statures were enough to intimidate even the most assured person, which Joseph certainly wasn’t. What was more worrying, however, was the song they were singing. It was the old traveller’s hymn that had been revived and bellowed around London since Nigel White’s campaign trail and subsequent inauguration. It seemed to resonate with the public greater than any single piece of music had in a long time. The hymn went:
Take me back to my old England,
Where the skies were so blue,
Take me back to where Anglo-Saxons,
Marked the pathways for me and you.
The performance hit its final crescendo a few feet from Joseph and was delivered with a great deal of gusto and extra emphasis upon the noticing of him. At the instant that both parties crossed on the pavement, one of the men cocked his head and belched into Joseph’s ear. The stench of stale lager, helped by the wind, brushed across Joseph’s nose and made his body twitch like he was fighting to keep down vomit. The man instantly exploded with an ugly howl of laughter, encouraging his friend with a sharp elbow to do the same. The attack was too violent to yet be humiliating. Joseph could still feel the grotesque warmth on his ear as he marched forward with the sound of the men in the background, both still too amused to consider the possibility that Joseph might turn and retaliate. The precise second that a safe enough distance had been set, Joseph’s cheeks stiffened with humiliation.
The storefront of Hellman’s Books & Coffee was situated toward the end of Rupert Street. It was a building typical of the borough with its mismatched brickwork and soot-stained patina consistent with every other business, as if it were mandated by law. Hellman’s Book & Coffee was not typical, however, in the product that it sold; in fact, in Soho, it was the last one of its kind. At the main door, a half-posted leaflet flapped fitfully from the letterbox. Joseph plucked it out and considered it with teary eyes from the wind. The leaflet’s background was the United Counties of England flag (the Victory Lion: it was called) with the infamous lion devouring the unicorn crest centred ahead of the red, white, and black background. At the bottom of the leaflet where the morning rain hadn’t completely spoiled the writing, a set of capitalised words ran across it: the everyman party – a party for you, run by you. Joseph squeezed the leaflet into his fist and unlocked the shop. The bell chimed as he walked in, and the store lights automatically buzzed on. The store was exactly how he had left it Friday evening when he had decided not to return on Saturday. By the window there were old pieces of furniture; chairs; sofas; tables. It was a comfortable layout with wicker baskets on each table stuffed with brown and white sugar bottles. At the opposite end where the toilet was sited, the room narrowed into a corridor where bookshelves lined the walls, each filled with the spines of classic literature, plus a few cookbooks and celebrity autobiographies to help pay the bills. Joseph locked the door and took his seat behind the cash register. From his pocket he removed the envelope he had been studying all weekend. He needn’t to have removed the letter for he could recite, word for word, the infamous paragraph which had caused him a near sleepless three nights. “We regret to inform you,” it stated, “that the Preserve & Inspire grant afforded to your bookstore has been terminated due to new government policy. Any existing payments will not be made.” Joseph knew it was the end of Hellman’s Books & Coffee. The rent alone was too substantial. Increasingly he had depended on the grant to survive. Soon, he knew, the books would be cleared out, the coffee machines ripped from the plumbing system, and the pictures of Charles Dickens and James Baldwin relocated. A pub, he thought, would no doubt replace it.
Joseph turned to the window and regarded the street with a vacant stare. Even from the view of his most optimistic of dispositions, he knew his relationship with London was drawing to a close. Being the son of Jamaican parents, he knew the Immigration Police would get him eventually. Some fairly credible news outlets had already reported that Nigel White and his parliament majority were weeks away from passing an immigration bill which had the power to skip back a generation, meaning they could deport Joseph because of his parent’s heritage even though Joseph himself had been born in England. To be classed as a legal minority national one had to have been born in England as well as have parents who were also born in England. Theoretically, if Joseph were to have a child with an England-born woman, his child would stand to have more rights than he. The age of seclusion, Joseph pondered. England had spent its infancy building boats and planes to travel the world, only to withdraw in on itself like nervous hermits, ready to employ those very boats and planes only when a rival country needed bombing or foreign people deporting. Hellman’sBooks & Coffee, Joseph thought, turning the name of the store over in his head. His parent’s surname was actually Gunbury. His foster home had told him that his parents had thought it to be too Jamaican sounding if he was to survive in England. They feared he would go through life unable to get a job interview or a mortgage for a home if Gunbury was the name that appeared on the application form. Before Joseph’s parents had died, they had changed it to Hellman: a German name.
The sky over Soho bruised to a murky blue, and the street gradually upped its population. Joseph dragged a wooden broom over the main floor and wiped the weekend’s dust from the tables. He reversed the OPEN/CLOSED sign on the door, and it was not long after that Beatrice, a “dancer” at Club XO (one of the all-night bars down the road), finished her shift and collected her usual afterwork beverage. The bell above the door chimed and Joseph straightened himself from behind the counter; he had been organising the medium-size takeaway cups.
“Morning, Joe,” she said, cheeks red with makeup and her forehead sparkling with glitter under the store lights.
“Morning,” Joseph replied, asserting himself in the most welcoming manner he could muster while short of breath.
“Medium cappuccino,” she said, “six sugars.”
“Of course.”
Her knee-high boots clicked on the wood panels as she settled in front of the counter. She undid one of the buttons on her leather trench coat and scratched around her forearm where Joseph had once seen syringe scabs. “I say,” she said with a sudden twitch of vigour, “I bet you’re in a good mood after the news.”
“News?”
“The grant,” she replied. “Management were all happy. They got a letter from the council saying they’re eligible for a grant or something. It means we can install a VIP room for the best dancers,” she explained. “I just presumed everyone in the area had gotten one.”
It seemed to Joseph that they had simply transported his grant over to Club XO. They didn’t even have to alter the postcode on the form.
“O, yes,” Joseph said. “But I’m…err, I’m actually thinking of giving the place up,” he said – anything to affect the natural course of the conversation. He pulled a serviette loose from a pile on the counter and dabbed his forehead with it.
“What?” Beatrice snapped.
“Yes,” he said, attempting a well-considered tone. “I’m thinking of selling the place. Fresh start. Maybe move abroad. Somewhere warm.”
“But you can’t. What about my morning coffee?” she said. “Plus, they’ll never let you go abroad. Who’s allowed to go abroad these days. It takes years for an application to even get reviewed. One of my cousins had been trying forever – ”
The bell above the shop door chimed, and the two gazed over to meet it. It was a man in a high-visibility vest. He shouldered his way through the doorframe and approached with a yellow hard helmet cradled in one arm. Beatrice swallowed her words and corrected her stare back toward the counter. A gruff, mumbled voice, one suited almost perfectly to the individual, fell from the man’s lips: “Tea,” he said.
“Of course, and how do you take it?” Joseph asked, still with one eye overseeing Beatrice’s order.
“White,” the man said, blowing a short snigger through his nose, one that sounded vaguely like an amused grunt.
A sterile, tiring silence hummed throughout the store while Joseph finished Beatrice’s order, a silence not even the mounting traffic on Brewer Street could disturb.
“Sorry, you were saying?” Joseph said to Beatrice, encouraging her to conclude her point.
Beatrice, with a subtlety that was nearing nonexistence, shook her head in an effort to bat off the question. Her eyes were busy flitting over the menu board, though too manically to accurately digest anything that it promoted. Joseph finished her coffee and set it on the counter.
“That mine?” the man asked.
“No, no, your order’s next,” Joseph replied. “That’s $5,” he said to Beatrice.
Beatrice proffered the exact cost, collected her coffee, and hurried out of the store without wasting another syllable. The register sprung out, and Joseph dropped the scrunched note into the centre; the register was so bare that he no longer required the use of the different compartments to separate each individual coin or note. He returned to the machine and prepared the next order.
The man’s fingers soon began to tap over his hard helmet. He blew a gravelled sigh over the counter and asked with a tired petulance, “How long is this gonna take?”
“It’s ready.”
Joseph presented it on the counter; however, the man’s concern was no longer on his order. He was in the process of lifting his shirt sleeve into a vest, all it seemed with the purpose of revealing a tattoo on his upper arm. The tattoo depicted a roaring lion of incredibly shoddy detail, though the words England First were written unmistakably beneath it. He was making a show of displaying it and having it noticed. Joseph withdrew his eyes and said: “That’s $4.50.”
“How much?” the man said.
Joseph gathered in so few words that he wasn’t a London native. The horror of London prices often triggered customers to recoil in this fashion. “$4.50,” Joseph repeated.
The man produced his wallet. “Did you vote?” he asked.
The question struck Joseph’s ear uncomfortably. “In the election?” Joseph puffed out his bottom lip and rolled his head to either side.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t feel like it,” Joseph replied.
“Nobody called out to you?”
“Something like that.”
“What about Nigel White? You’ve got admit, he says it like it is.”
“$4.50, please,” Joseph said upon seeing that the man had stopped searching through his wallet.
“He’s a good man. He’s going to get this country back where it belongs. Before job shortages – before housing shortages – before the crime. I mean, it’s not safe to go out anymore.”
“$4.50, please.”
“And where are you from?” the man asked, with a grotesque look forming on his face.
“England,” Joseph sighed. He had already cottoned onto the path the dialogue was venturing down.
“England?” the man scoffed. There seemed to be genuine offence on his face. “Come on. Where are you from?”
“I’ve just told you: England.”
“Jesus your breath stinks,” the man said with start-inducing raise in volume. “How many have you had this morning? Three? Four? Smells like you’ve been sleeping in a brewery.”
Joseph, composed and expressionless, lifted a glass of water from underneath the counter and took a sip. Though he already knew the result like he had lived this interaction all his life, he said one more time, “$4.50, please.”
“You know what,” the man said, committing fully to the hostile atmosphere that suffocated the store, “I don’t feel like spending my hard-earned money at a foreign business.”
He stuffed his wallet into his overall bottoms and turned to leave the store. However, a moment of inspiration seemed to strike him on route, for just before he swung open the main door, as quick as a tic, his hand swiped across a table and sent one of the wicker baskets full of sugar bottles to the floor. The bottles, with a loud, flinching crack, fragmented into a hundred shards of glass, each shard mixing indistinguishable from the grains of sugar that pooled over the floor. The man had already skipped onto Rupert Street by the time every grain had settled into a still position.
I could pack up and migrate, Joseph pondered with an assured, solemn nod, a nod which was founded in the zero likelihood of it happening due to his dire financial circumstances and the often illegal process in attaining a “rouge ticket,” meaning one without return. Somewhere warm with any luck, he thought. I could drink rum all day and bury my toes in the sand…let the breeze whistle me to sleep. Similar thoughts often filled Joseph’s head following such exchanges. He was getting good at them, too. He could quite easily loose himself in them for a few minutes at a time. At the most lucid point of the fantasy where Joseph could almost feel the breeze tickling the faints hairs on his earlobes, a police siren wailed on the north side of Soho and threw his attention brusquely back into the present. He then, with an almost mechanic function, submitting to the task at hand, retrieved a dustpan and brush from the side of the counter and began scooping up the broken glass and grains of sugar. The volume of the siren waned in the distance, but as it faded, its presumed visual counterpart appeared outside the store. An Immigration Police van, as black as a giant beetle, inched over the grimy road. However, the timing of the siren and the appearance of the van were completely arbitrary and unrelated, for unlike the Metropolitan Police Department, the immigration sector operated without the aid of a siren, thus always possessing the element of surprise. The van squeaked to a stop directly outside the windows of Hellman’s Books & Coffee. Joseph persisted with the task at hand, though he shrewdly turned his back to them. One day they’ll get me, he thought. No use fighting. It’s inevitable. The van loitered until Joseph’s nerve ends resembled that of a frayed elastic band stretched to the point just shy of breakage. Then, welcomed with a deflating sigh of relief, the van drove soundlessly away up Brewer Street.
At one o’clock, with no customers on the horizon and having taken in just enough to afford a reasonably sized meal, Joseph locked up shop and headed into Leicester Square to one of the only cheaply priced food carts in the area. He bought a pot of bolognaise pasta and wolfed it down at the bench in the square that offered him the best view of the area. Afterwards, with the rumbles in his stomach finally tamed and the worry of his next meal at least five hours in the future, he pondered the area, wondering with a strange inquisitiveness what London was like when tourists had roamed these streets and shopped in these stores. He had one hazy memory from his first day in London which informed him what that would be like, but he knew it wasn’t genuine. Going off the dates, it had just been the regular hustle and bustle of London which his anxiety at the time had now retrospectively overpopulated. Since that first day the mania of London, the traffic and the crowds, had felt normal. It was only recently that it had again become a place stuffed with unfriendly, suspecting eyes.
Joseph shook the thought a few minutes later and found the square to be much busier than when he had first taken his seat. At the rusted gates a group of people holding placards had quietly gathered. From their multicoloured shoes and tight-fitting jeans, a style which 12 months ago had littered the highstreets, Joseph deduced they were on the young side of life – around 23, he guessed with confidence. Amongst the group there seemed to be an even representation of ethnic backgrounds: black, white, Chinese, Indian. They were all wearing matching T-shirts with a message Joseph’s eyes were too blurry to read.
“Enough is enough,” a voice called out on an overly tinny megaphone, though Joseph couldn’t see who from his low position. “Do not be fooled by the media. People of minority make up only 14 percent of crime in London, yet their crime is represented as 80 percent in the media.”
Joseph shifted his body to listen. It was the protesters he had seen on EBC Morning News. At least 10 minutes of every news schedule was dedicated toward their latest scandal. The megaphone was passed amongst them, each time with a new member elected to read from a small cue card.
“Last week a crime was reported in Brixton as being perpetrated by an ‘ethnic gang.’ Interesting choice of words. Well, we have a video acquired from a store CCTV camera proving that the gang were in fact white, middle-aged, and with one even donning campaign merchandise from one of Nigel White’s rallies. Here are the photos attached to our leaflet. You will not see them on EBC News or in the pages of the London Gazette. Take one. Take one.”
A group of men in high-visibility vests clustered outside the Moon Under Water pub, each with half a pint of bitter swilling in their black hands; one of them was even picking chips from a sodden newspaper cone. They were collectively sneering at the protesters, and with each swig of their drinks, their sneers grew more animated and more genuine. Joseph sensed that the atmosphere had the immediate potential to teeter into violence. He decided to go. There was no place for him here. As if he were in no rush at all, he pushed himself up and shimmied as unnoticeably as he could through the crowd of protesters.
“Take one. The revolution will not be televised. The media won’t allow it. Here, take one. Take one, sir.”
Joseph, as an involuntary action, more out of avoiding an awkward encounter than being polite, accepted a leaflet and stuffed it into his overcoat pocket. Before he could be associated with the group, he moved smartly onward toward Charing Cross Road.
A leaflet was then shoved into Joseph’s palm. He swiftly stuffed it into his overcoat pocket and set a brisk pace toward Charing Cross Road, leaving the sounds of the megaphone and its rebukes from the dinner-time drinkers behind him.
It was difficult for him not to arouse suspicion as he staggered back onto Brewer Street, for his walk sporadically devolved into a limp due to the size of the blisters on each of his heels. He felt like a drunkard escaping an unpaid tab, and increasingly the eyes of the street gravitated toward him. What was troubling him more, however, was his store. He was trying to calculate how many customers he would need for the day’s intake to be considered satisfactory – to be worthy of waking up and burning electricity for. He advanced down the street after racking his brains but was unable to gauge a definitive figure. Soon the storefront of Hellman’s Books & Coffee grew into view, distinguishable among the rival businesses. Even from 30 paces off, he could see there was something unusual about its appearance. A colour he was unfamiliar with seemed to overrun the store window like a glare of light. The sun’s reflection, he initially thought, though his estimation grew less credible the nearer he got. There was a whiteness where he had never noticed before, a harsh clashing of colour that didn’t match the palette of what he had come to know as the ordinary outer décor of the store. With every step he neared, the clearer it became, until finally, like a developing polaroid after being fanned, there it was – clear as day. His jaw fell slack, and his skin buzzed anxiously around his entire skeleton. There were large splashes of white paint dripping down the main window of Hellman’s Books & Coffee, an act undoubtedly perpetrated by vandals. Joseph stopped in the middle of the path. While it was true an act like this had never occurred before, somehow it felt typical. He offered a glance around the street, yet it continued like clockwork, unflinching – ordinary.
When he finally let himself in, following a quick slug of rum to dull his nerves, he braved the street with a bucket of steaming water and an old sponge. He turned his back to the street but could somehow still feel the eyes of the other businesses burning critically over his back. What had they presumed about the paint? Had they thought it vandalism with racial motivations, an accident, or even a private matter – revenge from a jealous lover or a drug dealer angry about a late payment? Their minds had the capacity to reach for any reason that had half a fraction of credibility to it. It didn’t do their conscience any harm to weave all these rumours and presumptions to Joseph’s name.
It was evident only 10 minutes later that one of the businesses had thought the motive to be deeply illegal in nature for they had called the police. It must have caused quite the confusion to the mystery caller when only a journalist from the London Gazette was seen sniffing around the storefront of Hellman’s Books & Coffee. Such practises were growing increasingly more procedural of the Metropolitan Police Department. Underfunding and a shortage of Met officers had seen journalists scouting to determine whether an incident was worthy of publication, then if serious or interesting enough, the police would be called upon to help further the investigation or story. As things went, Joseph was low even on the Gazette’s priority list, for to interview him they had sent a youth of about 20, one undoubtedly employed on an internship, waiting for that very story that would propel his career into the big leagues of mainstream journalism. The boy’s unenthused expression revealed his instincts to believe that this was not that story.
“I was talking to some construction workers down the street to see if they’d witnessed anything,” the journalist said. He braced himself and asked, “How do you feel about the culprits being… err, fellow people of colour?”
“Black boys?” Joseph said. “What makes you think this was done by black boys?”
“Well…one of the construction workers stated that he saw a group of black males throw paint over your storefront and then sprint off down Brewer Street. How do you feel about this?”
Across the street Joseph’s eyes met the man who had knocked over the sugar bottles in his store earlier. He and three other construction men were painting the new parking lanes along the road. Their overalls were splattered in white paint.
“This was not done by black boys,” Joseph said, though he had perhaps said it too quietly as the journalist then commented: “I guess it’s a pretty standard case. I can fill in the rest of the information myself.” And then he added, “Can I just take your name?”
Joseph stared at the journalist.
“We need it for the article,” he insisted.
Joseph dug his hands into his pockets to remove his identification card. He didn’t feel like mixing words with this man. However, in his pocket he did not feel his ID. He withdrew his hand and pulled out the leaflet the protesters had given him. On the leaflet was a picture of a gang vandalising what appeared to be an Indian clothing store. The gang were white. Next to it was a clipping of the London Gazette article claiming the perpetrators were an “ethnic gang.” The text at the bottom of the leaflet read: ignore the media’s meddling. join the people’s revolution. Joseph thoughts began to wander. I have been blind, he thought, but now –
“Your name?” the journalist asked, interrupting Joseph’s train of thought. The journalist glanced up to the sign of Hellman’s Books & Coffee and said with his stylus hovering over a small electronic notepad, “Hellman, is it?”
Joseph felt a strong urge to rebel. Not only against the journalist but against everything – everything that had put him in his current position, everything that had navigated him toward this miserable destiny. He paused for composure, filled his lungs with a shallow breath, and replied:
“It’s Gunbury…Joseph Gunbury.”
There was no last image of Khadija to behold. This is what René thinks as she taps the door of a flat in north London. The wars – in René’s case, the battle she’d lost with Belle, for Khadija it had been the annihilation of her country – had confirmed the mild fraudulence of their friendship, so there were no goodbye photographs, no embraces in front of palms. They had been faceless to one another since René had left Somalia over twenty years ago. Had René not seen an article about Khadija’s missing son, she wouldn’t be here. Those boys, their sons born days apart, for months they had carried them in fierce, swelling drums.
René knocks again as an image throws itself across her mind, one she clings to at times, it has become an emblem. In the dark of that doomed country, a Somali soldier sat whimpering at her front gates, the neighbourhood madman, a wreck from the Ogaden war of the late 1970s. In the next frame René gets down from her car and embraces him, wipes his face, the most Magdalene gesture she’ll ever perform in her life. But did it ever happen? In front of Khadija’s door, the door to her diminished, exiled world, René can’t tell if it is the high lyricism of the mind. Would she have hugged a bloody, sobbing man, even before the age of knives and explosives? She feels a glow of shame, the way she has told tales of their three hardy years in Mogadishu, grown solemn at the loss of her wedding ensemble and books, as she hears Khadija’s footsteps approach the door.
And there she is, splendidly grown. Adorned, East African, sharp-nosed, and smudged kohl saddening her eyes.
“So you are here, René.”
A softening, stumbling, and clutching occurs. In her arms, René remembers shock and loss. The last time they had been in a room together – Khadija’s breezy house on the grand, sea-bound incline of the city – their small sons had been on straw mats on the tiled floor, one fair-skinned, one gaining colour, and pink grapefruit juice had been served by the maid in glasses rimmed with salt. Work gossip had been suspended, for René received a phone call – strange, in her friend’s house, via an implement that rarely worked – it was her father.
Belle.
She’d caught a plane home the day after.
Two decades on René is good at walling up, deflecting. She’s dealt with Belle’s death. Around her Khadija smells mature, of organs and flesh, pleasing and unpleasant at the same time. René loosens against her body, she is testing herself, wondering what she will feel an hour from now, she wants to establish affection beneath the long span of time. Nothing has remained of those two young women or that breezy cantilevered house built by Italians, it is now rubble and twisted girders.
“It is good of you to come. The police were here again this morning. They’ve taken his computer and some of his clothing.”
“Oh God, Khadija.”
But anything René can say feels like a savage shortfall, wide of the mark. Even the word God feels slovenly.
Khadija leads her to the kitchen where she is in the process of boiling shai; two mugs sit on the counter. She asks after René’s husband and son, and René feels her weightless life well up behind her. Nothing that has happened to them since resembles those three years. After she and her son flew out for Belle’s funeral, she had never gone back. It was judged too dangerous. In fact, John had been shipped out with just his swimming bag after the tanks came in – they’d unwisely stayed on in a rundown villa on the President’s road. The stories René heard went from John’s 1930s ex-US Embassy desk being sawn in two and carted down the road to their watchman Elmi taking the bullet in his abdomen that killed him while defending the car René used to drive to the beach. The story about Elmi was true. Devastated, René had also felt a pitiable, weird pollution at the idea of quat-high soldiers in her hot bedroom at the rear of the house, pulling clothes off hangers in her lopsided wardrobe and stretching out her thongs and bras. She’d lost track of John’s whereabouts for days until they located him in Mombasa. And then all he could tell her in this wild, keening voice – he’d been on helicopters and a frigate – was that one of the house-girls had stuck her thumbed copy of the Koran in his swimming bag that morning as if she’d known.
René has this book in her handbag right now. It was designed to be a conjunction, a part of the circle, but it has begun to feel leaden, even stolen. A bleeding vessel Khadija won’t want in her hands.
Khadija passes her the steaming cup, and René is embarrassed by all that drama now. There had been no risk for them, they were cushioned expatriates. By the end they’d grown used to being waved through roadblocks by the red berets and seeing the main thoroughfares whitewashed before the last foreign cavalcades. Then they started halting Land Cruisers and cocking Kalashnikovs at drivers. Belle died in London, and René left. Just months before the collapse, René’s husband John had lent his grey wedding suit to a French journalist he’d warmed to, who asked to borrow it for a trip to the north, where he’d lined up a big interview with a Hargeisa warlord. He was one of the early Western deaths. Shot in his car as he waited for some trigger-happy sixteen-year-old to open the gates. John’s version of this story slithered between appropriated bravado and a revulsion he would revisit, as though he’d seen the blood splashed on the glass; he told it at almost every dinner party they’d been to ever since.
*
When Addey calls again, Khadija answers, wishing she had left the phone in the front room. But she always answers because Addey survived stomach cancer and is getting heavier by the day on the couch. Addey, who never had children, thinks that Khadija must simply telephone her son Omar, and tell him to come home. Or refuse to answer the police at the door. Khadija presses her phone to her ear and listens to Addey’s shrill voice. This time Addey reminds her to call back later with a description of René, an old colleague from their office who will visit in the afternoon. You must tell me how has she aged, okay? If she has she pulled back her face, no? Back home Khadija had never much listened to Addey, who lived in a shed behind the President’s Palace with a scattering of goats. Infertile women could spread their disease. While Khadija and her husband Osman lived in a broad villa over the sea, pressed into the tumbling hillside, and how the whites gasped as they walked stiffly onto the terrace. (We have local friends! Look at us!) Khadija had not disliked René’s husband, John, who once, in her kitchen, had accidentally brushed a hand over her buttocks. Then sprang back agonising, a proposal dangling in his eyes. But over here, in these burdened cities with their rain showers and soft-soiled parks, there was a social levelling and the decades had rotted through you so you kept with those you knew. Addey had nearly died with stomach cancer, so there had been no other option but to become sisterly.
As she listens, Khadija wonders whether she should say that the police had been kinder this time, but that would have invited further talk concerning Addey’s skewed ideas about authority. It was a configuration between Khadija and the police officers now, occurring on faces and through the eyes, then trapped on paper, driven off up the street and leaving silence, the worst of it falling into the newspapers where her son’s photo was shown. They were always watching deep into you, shoulders hoisted, jaws secured, as if there were truths at the back of you which when stared at long enough would spring forth and surrender to new owners. Half an hour ago there had been another female officer sitting opposite her while her son’s bedroom was overturned. The boots had trudged out with boxes. Tea with canned milk had been refused. The officer asked further questions about Omar, watching every flex of Khadija’s skin, sliding her clotted blue eyes under the surface. Saying sentences with the words your culture and your religion while Khadija maintained her son was an astonishing man, a great help to her, devout and good at basketball, none of which could or couldn’t be proved. It drove Khadija into a frenzy and was no good prelude to René’s monumental visit. The policewoman said – and this she will repeat to her husband Osman if he bothers picking up late tonight – that Omar hadn’t done anything yet but there were suspicions and it wouldn’t be in Khadija’s interests to hold anything back.
She tells Addey nothing. Addey says she has a new series of cramps along her right side and what could that mean? Could it be the cancer coming back?
Addey begins to litter her talk with images of their colleague René, who had been swift and purposeful in all things, except the management of her husband with his covetous eyes and the sister who had died tragically, hadn’t she?
*
“Please sit down.”
Khadija’s arm guides René to a pillowy velour settee, the same type every Somali home possessed in Mogadishu. Even René’s rented villa had had a quartet of them she’d transferred to the unused garage downstairs, home of the watchman Elmi and his two wives. There is firmness in Khadija’s voice, or is it fatigue from dealing with questions, with the distrust of others and its bladed edge? Khadija sits close to her, close enough to touch René’s knee with her sleeved arm, close enough for René to smell the reaches of her breath. She knows Khadija is all but alone here. Two years into the war, she knows they obtained visas to Sweden, where her husband and twin daughters still reside. Khadija has been in London a few years now, with Omar, the son the police are looking for, the one whose photo caught René’s eye.
They sip their tea. It floods through René; she has not tasted these spices since she lived in Mogadishu. She looks further around the room. A wall unit with a framed photograph of the united family in Sweden. A rangy Omar and two shoulder-height girls in pullovers and jeans, Khadija with whipped-up, lustrous hair and traditional dress; her husband solemn, the hair has abandoned his shiny temples and his glasses are smaller, frameless. On another wall is a canvas of a nomad’s dromedary with the curved struts of the family home strapped to its hump. A naïf, dying Somalia, beneath a sky now scored by fighter planes. There is a map of Britain taped up like a new kingdom – emerald and smoky blue with circles drawn around the big cities: Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham. There is a poster of Bob Marley. Damp patches.
“It has been long, René. Many years. So many things have happened to us all.”
This was a trait of Khadija’s that René remembered. A stepping back, a disassociation, her way of speaking as though she were observing her own life. Khadija’s eyes look more recessed than they once were, as if they would refrain from seeing, as though she is tired of seeing. One eye weeps a little and she wipes it with a cotton handkerchief. René is relieved that she wears no headscarf or veil.
“It all comes back to one, doesn’t it?” Khadija says.
René’s mind harks back to the old town, the chalk-white filigree archways over doors, the minarets; always the sea, glittering and lashing and humping over the arm of the breakwater she had never ventured along, not once. All destroyed. The concrete combustion of the ministries, the dark men in too-big suits ordering about drivers in pillbox caps; the ancient santoni with their squared-off hennaed beards, and always the kneeling, the muezzin, the pale heels and rows of praying men. To think it had given her peace, sung through her.
There were nights when she awoke, when she took the spiral staircase up to the flat roof. The muezzin would ring out – an ascension pealing in the dark – first the mosque after the market towards the coast, then a choral raft of them across the rooftops, over the hill raised behind the city. She would stand there in the wind, feeling at peace with herself, with John and the fibre of their marriage, with her place in the cosmos. She would see Elmi – murdered for her fucking car – prowling beneath the palms with his wooden club.
Khadija looks at her slowly, and René feels as though she has been caught out. She knows the country was already imploding at the time, and she knows next to nothing of the decades that followed for her. She wants to ask of Omar, the youth in the newspaper photograph, the baby she had inhaled. Her mind is ploughing through it – those three years they had lived in Mogadishu had been charmed, charged. The slowness of movement. All movement glutinous in the heat. But every instant they had lived had surely been a preface to this.
“You do remember the old streets of Xamar?” Khadija says. “Do you remember our beautiful city? How we would walk to the Croce del Sud for drinks?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And our women the white men would leave their wives for. Immediately, and without shame?”
“Yes.”
“This is nostalgia, isn’t it? The Italians say, nostal-gee-ya. I wonder if it could have ended any other way than this. I wonder if there is any other way to change a stubborn regime. They said it was oil in the north. They said it was the Russians. I say we were a foolish people, a foolish devilish people.”
Khadija stirs her shai, gold rings on swollen fingers, passing René a teaspoon to dissolve the sediment of sugar in hers.
“Have you ever wondered what really happened to us after you all left? I mean the Westerners, most of our ministers, and even the press?”
This unexpected openness stills René.
“For months we stayed in our houses. Those back streets – the trail you used to walk along from your house to mine – there were soldiers there, in the trees and behind the walls. A body would lie in the dirt for days, eaten by dogs.
“We could not sleep because the men would be rounded up as conscripts at dawn, taken from their beds, their women screaming. You know that had started before you left. Brothers, uncles, almost all of our men.
“There was no electricity. No water. The dysentery was very bad. Many of our children died. I buried Omar’s young brother in our garden. I buried my second son myself.”
Khadija is proud of this, her hands flinch.
“His name was Abdi.”
*
“I do remember that day, that phone call. Your sister has been gone 23 years now. Such a loss for you. As one ages.”
René’s sister Belle had flown out for two weeks when she and Khadija were both expecting, and René took time off work. She hadn’t really wanted Belle to come – her sister only thrived when she was the centre of all attention – but Belle said she needed to and booked the flight. As soon as Belle arrived she picked up a urinary tract infection and was laid low with drugs. The light hurt her eyes. René, who’d hoped to be shepherded a little, found herself looking after the older sibling she would lose the year after – reading her short stories and articles, bringing her pompelmo juice in bed. Belle and John had an endless dinner-table flirty thing going on, which René didn’t mind so long as John ravished her afterwards, and she made sure her sister could hear her cries.
“Go easy,” John would say, as he cupped her mouth. These days, when René relives those scenes, she feels like a murderer and she can see Belle shutting her ears in bed.
The women didn’t look like sisters. Unlike René, Belle was tall and narrow-hipped, she’d let her hair grow past her bottom but kept it rolled up and pegged to her head with chopsticks or pens. When they were younger they’d been certain their mother had fallen pregnant by another man and married their father in haste, but after her death he announced that the couple had been virgins at the altar, twins for life. René, too, had inherited this strand of defiant, comradely love, while Belle had never found purity or permanence in her rapports with men. She had been luckless, but René thought obstinately so, she saw things crookedly and told René her marriage was a facile, composed arrangement, which made René roll her eyes. When Belle was there, she and John saw none of their foreign or Somali friends but lunched with her, listened to her. René took Belle to the Baia Felice, a sparse terrace restaurant on the beach, and Belle threw up afterwards, she grew yellow and feverish within the hour. After that they stayed home and Belle lived on cooked rice that smelt of mould and Lipton’s tea drenched in lemon and sugar. They lay sweating on cloth-covered divans René had bought from outgoing expats, in the high-ceilinged living room with its barred windows and swinging bottle green shutters that crashed against the outside walls. They spoke little, listening to pickups revving up the hill or conversations of people drifting down to the central market. In the early evening, the warbling voices of Somali singers performing at the roofless National Theatre carried into the room. Belle said her dream would be to sit at a performance and understand the words. She mocked René for the partition she had placed between herself and local life. The noisy city air crossed the dusty mosquito screens and John would wander back into the room after his nap, cradle René’s head, and ask her what was for dinner.
One night a bullet screamed past the window above their heads, and Belle was suddenly in the bedroom doorway. René beckoned her over – they were three shapes in T-shirts – and Belle snuggled behind her sister’s body while René lay face to face with her husband, who froze. They listened to the crack of gunfire down in the marketplace until it left off. Soon after the lonely muezzin called across the night.
Another morning the house-girl brought in her niece, a little girl in a cream dress with flounces whose mother had died of infection following childbirth. She presented the girl to them after their breakfast coffee and asked Belle if she should like to have her, take her home with her. Her name was Honey. Belle stared at the frightened, lovely creature, and her face broke. René led the child into the kitchen and scolded the house-girl.
Days before her departure, the worst of Belle’s ailments had passed, and René wanted to take her somewhere beautiful that she would remember. Khadija – who’d listened more than once to René’s stories about her difficult older sister – suggested the grapefruit plantation at Afgooye, just beyond the city. There was an old Italian farmer with his Somali wife. They were happy to have visitors, they would gladly sell them baskets of pink grapefruit.
René drove. John was concerned as she’d rarely driven so far alone, with no male or driver. But this made René more determined to set out with her sister. Soon after the heat of the day was over they left the city, reaching the river Shabelle as sundown approached. They found their way up the trail to the flat house, the black woman and the white man sitting on rattan chairs on the veranda. René who spoke some Italian sat with the elderly couple, while Belle walked along the aisles between the laden trees. The light fell. When mosquitoes started biting her legs, René felt uncomfortable; they said there was no malaria here but she was carrying a child, she felt she was being irresponsible. But Belle had still not come back by the time the car was loaded with baskets of grapefruit and the old couple had been embraced. René, panicky, went amongst the low trees calling her name – Belle! Belle! – as the damp air gathered. Then Belle appeared close by, and threw an arm around her shoulders.
A year later she was gone. She took something at a club, she used to do it a lot, then went outside to ride it through, collapsed on a footpath. Got up and walked into the path of a car. It was that simple. Belle’s trials were over. There’d been a patch of depression a few years back, after which her group from the clinic had gone hiking numerous times in Wales. Belle had always said she wanted her ashes scattered over those mountains.
*
René follows Khadija’s eyes to the front window of the ground floor flat, the window is full of buildings and clouds. She thinks, God, how she must miss the sea! The jagged, green-cobalt Indian Ocean she used to have dancing at her feet. Their mugs are half-full now. Her shai is lukewarm. The cinnamon and cloves and spoonfuls of sugar have started to taste sickly. Khadija lifts out of her chair and returns with a fan of digestive biscuits on a plate. She is not hungry, but René’s hand reaches out. At her feet, in her handbag, lies the copy of the Koran John discovered all those years ago, with its fluid lines and thumbed-through pages. On the dark blue cover an elliptical scroll encloses worn golden script, on each page inside the text is cordoned by a filigree border. John used to turn it over in his hands as a badge of his escape – those days of being herded, guarded, then landing in a hotel suite. But afterwards René had hidden it from him, and herself, it was the song of those days, it was suffocating.
René leans down rummaging in her bag, not sure whether she can do it. Bring this book onto the table between them, next to the plate of biscuits, with its depth charge sounding in all directions. Inside the book there is a square of notepaper covered in flurrying handwritten script. René still doesn’t know whether it is a plea for help, or copied verse, or even an insult to John and herself for abandoning their staff. It was never deciphered. She touches the spine, feels the grooves of the sewn pages. It’s not right, it’s not the right moment now, perhaps later. Perhaps she will hand it to her as she rushes away, or leave it on the doorstep.
Khadija, after a silence, has begun a rundown of the locations of her siblings and cousins, scattered across the globe in Italy, Canada, Sweden, the USA. Relatives had spidered back and forth over the past two decades, visas had been sought, babies including Khadija’s daughters had been born in crisp climates where camels resided in books and zoos. René tries to imagine this dismemberment of family – a husband raising siblings in another language, daughters who would grow up without their mother’s hands in their hair, a troubled son whose clothes have just been boxed by police. Who could have foreseen this vast undoing? When at the outset there had been other raw, flagrant concerns?
René met Khadija when they were young, childless wives unused to marriage, they were embassy secretaries, typists, editors of shoddy letters from their bosses. Khadija was a translator from Af-Somaali to English. She would read the local newspaper covered in vehement Latin letters pronounced with a rough grating along the throat, sighing and head-shaking in the corner. Then her eyes would drift over the Arabic version, and she would write some notes. Aloof towards the two other Somalis – Addey and Zeinab – she looked with weary disinterest over the European women. This is why René was drawn to her. She knew Khadija had studied journalism in Ceausescu’s Romania but had never been allowed to exercise her craft.
There was an extraordinary morning in the office, when at break the senior Italian secretary brought forth a bottle of chilled prosecco with a half-dozen plastic cups. It was to celebrate her divorce from a Somali army general, whose family had fought hard to have their daughter circumcised. The woman had won: The teenager was flying out to Rome the following day to complete her schooling. The quickly-consumed alcohol had the women tipsy and nattering in a flood of Italian and English that René couldn’t always understand. Addey, who was noisiest, said that of course they had all been circumcised! Of course! And that there were endless infections after menstruation and intercourse! Endless! What could one expect? With just one tiny exit left for bodily needs once the tissue was sewn! The other women rocked and laughed, and Addey’s dimples were sunken into her cheeks while her earrings shivered. A plate of Khadija’s goat meat stew was handed around with fermented bread – skillet-fried on one side, a grey surface on the other – and as fingers were dipped and mouths wiped, René pictured John plunging through her webbed flesh, and her own aunties stitching her up after the horror of the wedding night or presumed conception. Newly married Zeinab said that it was agony. Before they returned to work René stared at each of them drinking shai with henna trills along hands and forearms, flashes of yellow gold from stretched ear lobes, while imagining these women in intimacy, with husbands all of whom she had met, negotiating these tripwires, blacking out in pain and the sperm on its river upward. She thought that the territories of womanhood extended further than she could imagine.
René had never shared any of this. With John or Belle or anyone. It was a truth she felt inside of her; privileged knowledge. After the fragrant, brakeless moments of her own orgasm she would think of occlusion and rupture, and she would feel a terrible liberty from the plateau of her female world, and her flesh would burn while her mind thrashed over this persecution.
*
Khadija does not mention that Addey now lives two suburbs away in a tidy brick house. Since she found out Addey was in London a year ago, they have seen each other just three times. The women are used to staying in their homes. Khadija feels uncomfortable sitting before her bloated friend who constantly nurses her belly, measuring squirms or spasms within. Addey’s first husband was thrown off the top of a transport truck piled high with goods, headed for the Juba region. Her new husband dresses her well, and now it is Addey who has a house with a garden and a flight of stairs. Her favourite dress colour is red, threaded through with gold, and she catches a taxi to her doctors’ appointments. Khadija’s husband Osman is a tired ophthalmologist sharing a practice in Malmo. This is why Khadija prefers to hear Addey’s voice small and contained within her mobile phone. She needs no further ruin, and Addey, for all her fired cooks and snacking, has shocking breath. What will she tell Addey of René? That they have hugged. That the son is at university. That she is still married to the man who used to study their rumps and breasts while shaking their husbands’ hands. Khadija can smell no bitterness on her person, just perfume and a large, schooled dog.
Now that she has spoken of the child, Khadija has entered a fog of silence. Why had she told René these things? How she had failed to feed her second son. How she had buried his corpse in the garden. The child had hardly grown. Her milk had ceased. His eyes would not look away from her, saturated with dark colour and darker knowledge. When he departed she was relieved, she had already chosen the young palm tree where the soil was soft. Probably, she knew it would affect René in a shocking way and mark Khadija as inhuman, which had been enforced and then become.
Only when the rains had passed and the soil had hardened and turned to dust would she agree to leave the house, to attempt to escape from the ruined city. Until then she would walk through the drenched garden each night and stand before the sturdy palm with her son bleeding into its roots. Touch the woven carapace of the trunk, stroke the dripping bladed fronds, before Osman called her inside angrily.
All those months the sea had been noiseless and remote, far below the snicker of guns. Inside their bodies were covered in the sheer white powder of hunger, their skin crackled to touch, they slept. It was better not to talk, better to listen. Listen for fences being scaled or the bleating of a young man soon to die. A bullet ricocheted off window bars into the chest of her elderly house-help, who was lamenting, as always, the state of their poor people. Osman placed her body in a wheelbarrow in the street after nightfall. A week later the body was removed.
When the car came that took them to Kismaayo, Khadija was certain they would be slaughtered along the way, for it often happened. At a roadblock just beyond the city, Osman was pulled from the vehicle and made to kneel on the ground, encircled by gun barrels, by thin, quat-crazed soldiers. She covered her son’s eyes, and Osman quickly looked at her, then at the earth. He was kicked over and told to get back into the car, to get moving fast, to get out of the country. He climbed in next to the driver. He smelt of urine and terror.
*
“The police think my son is in Birmingham. They say there is a group of similar young men. They have been influenced in a bad way. There are relations of ours in Canada. It would have been better for us in Canada.”
“Omar and his father do not get along,” Khadija continues. “That is why I brought the boy from Sweden. But even here he has abandoned his studies.”
“There is an evil cloud now,” she says. “The young men are drawn to it.”
René remembers when it started, that cloud. She remembers Khadija talking in the office. Saying her younger brother had changed, saying he had told her to cover herself, to wear socks with her sandals so that men would not see her ankles, to wear long black sleeves in the heat, cover her hair and the edges of her face. She said he had called her his biological sister. René knows that Khadija and this brother are now estranged.
“Perhaps,” she says. “We are no longer the same people.”
The year they were expecting both women had stopped working. René went home to her local hospital and had as close to a water birthing as she was allowed. Khadija had gone to Banadir Hospital in Mogadishu, where a Cuban-trained obstetrician had used old-school forceps that left dents in the baby’s soft skull. René remembers removing her blotchy, blinking newborn from the air-conditioned car when she came back and the unveiling of these creatures on Khadija’s endless matrimonial bed. Two plucky apricots pattering within rib cages, plump arms rowing the air. The dark, the light. Flickering eyes that bore all the data of the men they would become. Omar, with his oiled skin and hair and doll-like eyelashes; there had been moments when René had hugged him too long.
“Come,” Khadija says. “Come and see what they have done to my son’s room.”
They walk together to the slim bedroom with a window onto the corridor between houses. The wardrobe doors are open, the few shirts remaining on wire hangers are pushed to one side. A pair of monstrously long gym shoes lie on the carpet. There is an empty space on the desk where Omar’s computer would have been, drawers full of undergarments and socks have been emptied onto the bed. The room smells of male sweat, of containment, of compression.
The women stand there looking at the disturbed furniture.
They return down the hall, and Khadija branches off to the kitchenette where René hears a saucepan filled with water and a gas flame ignited. She stands above the velour sofa. She had given herself an hour, but she will stay. She tries to think of laying a child within the earth. Her own son. Aligning limbs, correcting the tossed cranium. Refuting help. Pitching soil. Arranging a row of bricks above the slumbering body to ward off starving dogs. After Belle died, René had never again fallen pregnant and all treatment had failed. Sometimes, René resented her own son because he was all that there would ever be, and everything had to be refracted through him. Her son had no interest in their Somali interlude at all.
She hears Khadija in the passage, hears the clinking of fresh cups. She closes her eyes. Now the room is full of sea air and brittle light, and the terrace drops away over a surge of breakers and two infants are babbling on unrolled straw mats. René is holding a phone receiver in her hand, and she cannot breathe.
- Geographic tongue is a benign oral inflammatory condition that can occur during pregnancy due to hormonal changes. Patches appear on the surface of the tongue, often with slightly raised borders. The lesions often heal in one area and then move to a different part of the tongue.
My mouth contains a map of the world. Sketched out on the vellum of my tongue, it is an ever-shifting picture of land mass and sea. Archipelagos spread out, red islands with grey borders, barely above sea level. I imagine island-hopping the length of the muscle of my tongue and then getting stranded in the erosions and reconstitutions that occur overnight.
During lockdown, I can’t go anywhere. No holidays, no weekends away, no last-minute trips. I let my tongue do the travelling for me.
- In the third trimester of pregnancy, weight gain of up to one pound a week is to be expected.
I lumber to the bathroom to perform my bodily checks. My skin is stretched so tight that it itches. I feel like a snake just before it sheds its skin. Younger snakes shed their skin up to every two weeks, a process that is governed by their hormones. The thought of slithering out of this taut wrapper and into a new, roomier one is appealing.
Stepping onto the electric scales, I hesitate, as if I can sneak up on this digital god of weight. The number spirals up and up, where is it going to stop?
Next I use the measuring tape to gauge how much the circumference of this globe has expanded overnight. I jot down the figures each day, neatly, methodically, plotting a course, as if I am the master of this ship, captain of this corpus.
- The Linea Nigra appears during pregnancy due to an increase in melanin production.
A purplish line bisects my abdomen, running from my pubic bone up to my belly button, before fading into the hinterland of my chest. I look it up on the internet (where else?). It existed before, this line, but it was invisible, the “Linea Blanca.” I was always marked with this animal stripe splitting me in two, I just couldn’t see it.
I’m at the stage of pregnancy where my body stops at my belly now. To see all of my bump, I need the help of the mirror. I look like a prawn, I think, as I turn this way and that in front of my reflection, examining my new markings.
I used to help my mother prepare the prawns for curry, cutting out the black ribbon of intestinal tract running down the centre of their bodies. With a small knife, I would trace the line down its back, making a slight incision, and then scrape out the black gunk with the handle of a teaspoon before washing its grey and white body under the tap.
- During pregnancy, the baby growing in its mother’s womb needs plenty of calcium to develop its skeleton. If the mother doesn’t get enough calcium, her baby will draw what it needs from the mother’s bones.
I drink my milk and eat yoghurt by the spoonful, wondering how much I need to eat to keep this parasitic being fed. How much is enough for you? I ask, rubbing my bump to get the parasite’s attention. I imagine it slowly sucking all the calcium out of my bones. Which bones would it start with? I wonder. The ones closest in proximity – the pelvic bones perhaps? I picture my pelvis cracking, crumbling, crushed to dust.
Bones have a honeycomb structure. I heard it on a radio programme. It stuck in my head because the researcher likened bone’s cellular structure to a Crunchie bar. I love a Crunchie. Straight from the fridge, I dip it in my tea until the honeycomb collapses into sugary shards in my mouth.
I dream about honeycombs and bees. In my dream, my mother is wearing a white beekeeper suit with black netting around her face, like a widow. She holds a wooden tray of honeycomb, pulsing with a mass of bees. She gestures to me to come to her.
“I can’t!” I shout over the angry drone, pointing to my unprotected body.
“Come!” she waves, insistent.
- Hormonal changes during pregnancy can cause mood swings. Oestrogen works throughout the entire body and is active in the region of the brain that regulates mood. It is associated with anxiety, irritability, and depression.
I feel more irritable, sure, a crankiness lurks just under the surface. But what the pregnancy books don’t tell me is that I will turn into a wolverine. Wolverines are strong and aggressive for their size, often taking on animals much larger than themselves. Walking in the park, a kid on a scooter narrowly misses crashing into me and my bump. I bare my teeth and roar, not caring that this is a juvenile, that it was an accident avoided. My hands turn to claws and reach out to protect my belly, ready to draw blood. Up ahead, the kid’s mother hears my snarl and turns around. My jaw is clenched ready to snap.
- Leg cramps are common during pregnancy, although the exact cause is unclear.
I discover through trial and error that there are certain positions that will bring on my leg cramps. I have to remember not to stretch my legs out in bed when I first wake, as any point of my toes can bring on a vice-like cramp that makes me cry out.
I forget one day in the bath. Submerged under water, only my belly and breasts protrude. I soak away my aches, revel in the support of the water, and its soothing heat. As the water cools, I use my toe to turn on the hot tap. I forget not to flex and quick as a shark attack, my leg spasms into an iron knot, and I forget that I don’t have the use of my abdominal muscles to sit, so I flail, thrash about in the water, trying to reach my foot.
- As the uterus expands with the growing foetus, it moves up and out, displacing organs like the stomach and lungs, which can cause heartburn and shortness of breath.
Taking a deep breath is difficult. Some days I fully expect to wake up with my lungs nestled around my neck like a stole. They would be more comfortable there perhaps, at least having space to inflate and deflate with ease.
My stomach is similarly squashed. After a small meal, I get acid reflux if I’m not careful. The stomach is a J-shaped bag. If it was detachable, I’d hook it over the crook of my elbow, like a useful handbag, and treat it with the respect it deserves.
- A high sugar diet during pregnancy is linked to larger babies and childhood obesity. Even small variations in blood sugar levels can influence the growth of the baby in the womb.
After losing my appetite to constant nausea in the first trimester, it returns in the second, and builds up to a roaring greed in the third. In lockdown, food is one of the few pleasures left and it is constantly on my mind. Sugar cravings arrive in force. I long for anything sweet: chocolates, biscuits, cakes, muffins. I dream of café counters cluttered with baskets piled high with pastries fresh out of the oven, or cakes dusted with icing sugar displayed like works of art under glass domes. I fantasize about dunking cinnamon buns into milky lattes. I buy tins of salted caramels from France, unwrapping the cellophane, and letting them melt on my tongue until I am compelled to chew. I fill my basket with Florentines, their jewelled faces twinkling at me in the supermarket aisle. I stock up on selection boxes at Christmas, telling myself that the smaller sized bars will “be good for portion control.” In truth, I am like an addict: one treat leads to another and another. The guilt comes later, then the panic; what am I doing to my baby?
A friend of mine loves foie gras; he orders it when we meet up for dinner in fancy restaurants. I avert my eyes and try not to look as he spreads this beige goop onto slices of thin toast. I have an image in my mind of farmers lining up rows of geese, fitting steel tubes into their throats, force feeding them fatty foods that swell their liver to an unnatural size.
Am I now the goose farmer? I think as I rub my bump, full of remorse.
- Baby’s movements can sometimes be felt as early as 16 weeks of pregnancy, but most women usually feel something between 18 and 24 weeks. It is a myth that baby’s movements decrease in the third trimester.
Baby is an active one. What once was a delicate butterfly flutter deep in my abdomen is now a robust kick under my ribs, or a protruding foot pushing out of my skin. Sometimes there is a darting jumble of movement, like a bag of kittens.
My mother grew up beside a river. As a child, she told me stories of people drowning kittens in sacks filled with rocks, as I imagined their terrified mewls. In a working-class neighbourhood, kittens were just one more mouth to feed.
“Feel that,” I say to my husband, grabbing his hand and placing it on the watermelon orb of my belly, running it over the hard and knobbly lump.
“What’s that?!” he says alarmed, snatching his hand away.
“You’ve seen Alien, right? That scene with John Hurt?”
He says nothing, not rising to my teasing, the physicality of it too much. He prefers to think of baby in the abstract. Sweet-smelling and swaddled in fluffy blankets.
Colonised, marked, fed upon, my body is not my own now. Abstraction is a luxury I do not have.
I rub the bump and feel the bony body part move underwater again.
Jasper says, O’Connor came in the night. We practiced.
Of course, O’Connor’s been dead the last year and a half.
In dreams, he and O’Connor play all night. Blue Grass, Folk, and Irish, like always. He says he can feel the frets and strings of his guitar pressing hard against his calloused fingertips, a satisfying pain. Muscle memory shapes his hand into chords as he sleeps. O’Connor picks a banjo, or blows soft on the Uilleann pipes, and when they sing, their voices slide over and between each other, slip beneath each other, lift each other up, rest on each other. Like a marriage, Jasper says. He weeps like a child when he wakes.
I wash him. Help him dress. Spoon soft food into his mouth, make sure he doesn’t choke. Wipe his chin, remove the soiled bib, take him to the toilet. Please, cries Jasper. Let me see O’Connor.
He wants release. I could help him. He’d welcome it.
People get married for all kinds of reasons. Jasper told me what his were: The public wanted to believe certain things about musicians working in traditional genres. He cared for me. He could give me security and I could give him…plausibility. It was a win-win.
I was young. I believed I could stand it.
That’s a lie. What I really believed was that I could change him.
Which of us was the bigger fool? The more egregious liar?
I put their last CD on, the one they made before the accident. I place the case in Jasper’s lap so he can look at the cover photo while we listen; a candid shot of the two of them in the studio, working. They hold their instruments tenderly, like children, like a pregnant woman might cradle her belly. She is handsome, she is pretty, she’s the belle of Belfast city, sing the two handsome men to each other. Tied up with the Black Velvet Band, they sing, gazing forever into each other’s eyes. Oh, Danny Boy. When I am dead, as dead I well may be.
There are pills on the bedside table. Jasper misses O’Connor. So much.
I walk outside, into the dark, cool silence of a late summer night, high up a mountain we practically own. We got rich after O’Connor died — richer yet when the public learned Jasper would never play again. I’d be a wealthy widow. I’d want for nothing.
Well. Nearly.
And Jasper would be happy. Didn’t I want that? Wasn’t that all that was important?
It’s so quiet. No neighbors for miles, only me, Jasper, and the stars that promise innumerable dreams. Once I thought they might be my dreams. Turns out, they all star Jasper and O’Connor, alone.
Inside, I settle Jasper into bed. I reach for the pills. He is surprised, then smiles. Tonight?
I smile back. Pour the pills into my own mouth. A slug from a tumbler of Hennessy washes them down. Jasper starts screaming.
I guess there is something I want more than Jasper’s happiness. Something more than the love I wished for or the longed-for child, more than the lie that looked like a marriage. I want to see the hope die Jasper’s eyes as he watches me die. As he contemplates what the next few days of his own existence will be like, trapped and alone.
Like the pressure of strings against fingertips, that’s a pain that satisfies.
And in the end, he will get to see O’Connor. So it’s a win-win. Right?
In 1992, Australia’s High Court reached a landmark verdict that dissolved the legitimacy of colonial rule. In siding with the Torres Strait Islander land-rights activist Edward Koiki Mabo, the court overturned the notion of terra nullius or, no-man’s land, which posited Australia as an uninhabited territory prior to Captain Cook’s arrival. Known as the Mabo Decision, the moment brought a centuries-long dispute to the forefront of socio-political discourse, igniting further conversations over suppressed languages, cultures, histories and generational pain of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples.
These conversations are at the center of Tate Modern’s A Year in Art: Australia 1992 exhibition, which spotlights the trauma of post-colonial Australia and its continued influence today. The free exhibition on the third floor of the Tate Modern is displayed in five rooms that trace the excruciating aftermaths of British colonisation in Australia. In the introductory notes, the Tate acknowledges that it has respect for “the Elders of these lands” and the “practices of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples” whose cultural, spiritual, and artistic development is explored in videos, maps, photos, etchings, and paintings. Some pieces might be disturbing for some visitors as they show traumatic and extreme experiences such as isolation, enslavement, exploitation, and suicide that are the consequences of the colonisation.
After a 10-year struggle, Eddie Koiki Mabo, a Meriam man, obtained his people’s ownership of Mer Island (Murray Island). The Australian government recognised the traditional inheritance system of the land and Aboriginal land rights. Mabo died on June 3, 1992, and this day is commemorated yearly and called Mabo Day.
Mabo’s hand-drawn maps that are on display indicate a profound understanding of the territory that is perceived as a living element and that together with humans, animals, rocks, air, plants, and soil create cultural identity and sustain all creatures. Aboriginal people do not own the land in the Western sense of the word, but they feel responsible for it and care for it. The devastating consequences of colonisation are therefore not only visible in the history of the deportation of people, in dispossession, imprisonment and enslavement; they also threatened the environment, causing spiritual and physical damage. The colonisers ignored the cultural legacy of Aboriginal people that is disseminated all over the territory. Their hunting, fishing, and gathering practices are depicted in rock paintings, and their deities, legends, and folktales are represented in cross-hatch paintings.
The work of John Mawurndjul testifies to the merging of old and new in which ancestral figures depicted with the traditional cross-hatching technique in lines of ochre and red perpetuate the tradition and resist erasure. All the works on display give a personal and political response to the privations and injustices of British colonisation. They expose the appropriation of the land by the colonisers and the use of Aboriginal peoples as commodities. The thousands of convicts deported to Australia, though some of them became landowners eventually, were considered commodities, too. Convicts and Aboriginal peoples are absent in commemorative paintings that celebrate the conquest of the land by Britain, such as The Founding of Australia 1788 (1937) by Algemon Talmage. The territory was indeed considered terra nullius, that is, a land belonging to nobody.
This kind of narrative is severely criticised by Gordon Bennett in his painting based on Samuel Calvert’s 19th century etching featuring Captain Cook taking possession of the Australian continent. In Bennett’s painting, the background has the colours of the Aboriginal flag – black, red and yellow – in geometric forms that are a reminder of Malevich’s square; it is a void that refers to the suffering caused by colonisation. The artist’s series of etchings, How to Cross the Void, analyses these issues more deeply and from different angles. The disturbing and tragic consequences of the white man’s domination, such as rape, the deaths of black people in police custody, and the erasure of Aboriginal culture, are depicted in thought-provoking pieces that overturn the legitimacy of the ruling society.
Other artists, such as Kame Kwgwanege, focus on representation of the environment. The technique of using overlapping dots is intended to include soil, air, vegetation and animals in a comprehensive mapping of the land. Environmental and political issues are also present in Dale Harding’s The Leap/Watershed 2017, which uses the technique of blow painting present in rock art and commemorates the death of about 200 Aboriginal people who were forced to jump off a cliff to escape the police.
Judy Watson emphasises community work. Her series of sixteen etchings on paper, a preponderance of aboriginal blood (2005), challenges discrimination against Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. The pieces are stained in red, representing blood, on a background of copies of electoral registration forms that classified people according to race. Aboriginal peoples were not allowed to vote until 1965 unless they had a white parent.
The outback is depicted in a thought-provoking way in Tracey Moffatt’s photographic series Up in the Sky (1997). Her apparently simple narratives highlight the isolation but also the violence of the scenes as well as the characters’ sense of loneliness. Sudden moments of vitality alternate with displacement, both of which are present in the lives of Aboriginal peoples and white peoples.
In the last room, Helen Johnson’s work explores the legacy of British colonisation. She is a non-indigenous Australian, and her critique focuses on what she calls “Australian rotten foundations” and the enduring colonial connections with Britain. Her acrylic painting Bad Debt (2016) shows the huge damage colonisers made to the environment by introducing new animals, such as foxes and rabbits. Seat of Power (2016) satirises the connections with British power, using literal and symbolic images such as the British House of Commons sketched on a background that features the Speaker’s Chair.
The exhibition exposes in a dramatic way the damage that British colonisation caused to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and to the environment in Australia. The artwork on display deftly shows the struggle of the people of the land not to be erased physically, culturally, and spiritually. Their legacy endures in traditional artistic practices that confirm identity narratives and the connection with ancestors, and they grant survival. They oppose the cultural homogenisation and the imposition of Westernisation by the imperialistic power that dominated since British colonisation.
The Tate Modern
Through to Autumn 2022
It was a hot night, flirting with autumn but not quite there yet. The air smelled of algae from nearby Lake Austin, and Lake Harbor Country Club’s fried mozzarella, and that wet summer night smell of green grass and trees. From a distance off toward the tennis courts, the wind blew in scents of cigarette smoke and citrusy men’s cologne.
We could smell them before we saw them – the Kickers. They shoplifted regularly and rarely got caught. They wore boots, carried knives, drank whiskey, drove trucks, and tried to act like cowboys.
It was Minna’s idea to get too close.
*
Minna Stephens lived on the edge. In every grade she ran ahead, faster than the rest of us.
In first grade she began using penis as a curse word. Each time the lead of her pencil broke, or she got her hair stuck in a barrette: “Oh, penis!” The rest of us giggled nervously. Penis was a word we didn’t say.
In fourth grade Minna invented a game for our slumber parties called Trust. On person had to hide in the laundry room while the others got to choose any three ingredients (cat food was okay) and mix them together. The person in the laundry room had to come out and taste it and guess the ingredients – trusting that her friends wouldn’t poison her.
In sixth grade Minna grew into an expert toilet paperer of houses.
The summer before ninth grade, Minna lay down in the middle of the road in the middle of the night. Why? Nobody knew and she never said. Luckily our curfew came before any cars did. Minna had a way of beginning a dare with, “Hey you guys…” that made all of her ideas seem exciting and even reasonable.
Minna had a French look about her. She looked good in black. She had hips but no breasts; her light blonde hair angel-ringed in messy halos around her ears, and her lips pouted perfectly. She spoke in a husky voice. The rest of us were clumsy and self-conscious high school freshmen who got up at 5:30 every morning to curl our hair, put on makeup, and shave our legs. We kept calendars of which clothes we wore so that we wouldn’t repeat them too often. We had crushes on boys who took no notice of us. And we wondered what special beauty Minna had.
On this particular autumn night, Minna’s mother dropped us off at Lake Harbor Country Club and went out for drinks with Minna’s dad. “I’ll pick you up at 11,” she called from the car window, leaving us girls alone in the dark parking lot.
Lake Harbor Country Club squats on a large plot of land, spanning down on one side to Lake Austin, a polluted dammed-off Texas river where people dock their boats. On the other side, the club is bordered by a linked network of aging tennis courts with cracked concrete surfaces and saggy nets. It has a clubhouse that serves dinner and locker rooms that forbid children under age 14 from entering. It has crevices and trees and very good hiding places.
We loitered in the ladies’ locker room for an hour, reminiscing about other days spent at Lake Harbor on Minna’s parents’ tab, sneaking into the locker room when we were 13, 12, 11. Sitting in the steam room we recalled the time Minna lost one of our bikini tops in the hot tub – she had dared us all to skinny-dip and the sucking device at the bottom of the hot tub sucked the top right up. Minna had gallantly offered her own lime green bikini as a replacement. We remembered playing spin the bottle on the tennis courts with the Lethem brothers who, from their smiles alone, were destined to go into politics. We all had histories at Lake Harbor simply because it was a place we could go unsupervised, where our parents could leave us for hours and trust that we would be okay. We grew bored of the locker room and walked back into the lawn near the swimming pool.
And then we saw the Kickers.
*
We saw them in the parking lot, leaning against their gray and forest-green trucks, smoking and drinking, the guys with their arms around the small Kicker girls. A new truck drove fast into the parking lot, spinning its wheels and shooting up gravel. Several of the girls jumped out of the way. The Kicker who got out of the car, laughing and holding up a flask, we recognised as the leader of their pack. In seventh grade he got pulled out of school in handcuffs. Nobody knew what he did – there were rumours he had set the boys’ bathroom on fire – and whether it was true or not did not matter. We all were afraid of him.
Minna whispered, “Hey you guys…” and all our heads turned, expectant. Minna did not let us down. “I have an idea. We’ll go spy on them.”
We knew better than to take this sort of risk. But we all had gone along with Minna’s games before.
We crept single-file around an empty lifeguard’s hut. We were so close that we could see the spark of their cigarette lighters, the glimmer of the thin silver bracelets on the Kicker girls’ arms. The sound of beer cans being crunched under boots crinkled the moist night air.
Then one of us got the hiccups.
“What’s that sound?” a voice said. It was a man’s voice, nothing like the half-squeaked uncertain tones of the boys in our freshman classes.
“Shuddup, man,” said one of the others. “You’re making shit up.”
“Naw, naw, listen. Hang on.” And we heard the sound of heavy boots coming down hard on paved concrete, and suddenly Minna begin to run.
The Kicker saw. “Get ’em!” he hollered, and within seconds a stampede of boots pounded in our direction.
We raced after Minna in our flip-flops, not caring about a thing except that we did not want to die, not tonight, not by the Swiss army knife of some drunk angry sophomore pseudo-cowboy.
We ran and they chased – through the empty parking lot, past the clubhouse, past the swimming pool with the cantina that sold fried mozzarella, and all the while they were hollering things at us like, “You bitch-hos!” and “We’re gonna kill you!”
Up ahead we caught sight of Minna’s blonde hair glowing in the blue light of the swimming pool, then disappearing into the darkness of the gravel path leading down to the lake. We followed her blindly, madly, and somewhere on that path, the Kickers lost us. Either that or they lost interest, figuring they had scared us enough.
Down at the docks, the other girls stood around Minna, catching their breaths, laughing. I could taste at the back corner of my mouth the sour saliva bitterness that comes from breathing deeply and running too hard. The moon gleamed above us, illuminating the boats on both side of the lake. Then there was Minna’s deep baritone voice like honey, saying: “You guys, that was hilarious.”
The other girls nodded, agreeing, their chests heaving like mine, like Minna’s. Did they mean it? How were they not as terrified as I was that we hadn’t been caught by the authorities, but instead chased by other criminals?
We waited by the docks for Minna’s mother to pick us up. She was late. By the time our Swatches read 11:12, our lungs had stopped heaving.
Mrs. Stephens didn’t ask any questions, and we were quiet in the car. Within 15 minutes we were home, safe, close to our sleeping bags where nothing else could go awry, no more of Minna’s plans could be concocted, no other dangerous adventures could be offered up for us to agree to.
In Minna’s bedroom we changed into our pyjamas and spread out our sleeping bags on the floor next to Minna’s bed and in the sleeping loft that you got to by climbing a ladder. The rest of our moms would never have allowed us to have a ladder in our bedrooms. Our mothers would never let us do half the things Minna’s parents didn’t even notice that Minna did. We giggled nervously at the events of our night, and drifted off to sleep.
Everyone except me.
Even tucked deep inside my sleeping bag, I felt a ripening danger in Minna’s room. I stayed awake for hours, lonelier than I had ever been. Revelation after revelation struck like waves. Since first grade I had shadowed Minna because she was fun, she took risks, she wasn’t afraid, and most of all because her recklessness brought the rest of us into the aura of her “we.” But however generous the embrace of the other girls’ “we,” it did not include me. Not truly. This night I knew with complete and humbling certainty that I did not belong.
I fell asleep knowing for the first time in my life that I was an I, just an I, a solitary and fearful I.
But somewhere in my brain, gold and silver synapses fired away, brimming with a trust that there was more to the story. There was something sacred here, even if I was too thick to see it. I was still awake at dawn when the other girls began stirring and Minna Stephens let out a surprising and charming snore. In the darkness behind my eyelids, sparks were beginning to spell out the truth: At least you are an I who values her own life.
I like the Dalai Lama’s concept of death: the thought that it’s like changing your clothes when they are old and worn out, rather than as some final end.
Apparently, the grief felt after someone you love dies is not measured by the number of tears shed. No, it’s measured by scales. Not the type used for baking a cake, although of course food is synonymous with grieving.
When Dad died, my friends brought round a range of sympathy sustenance: lasagne, muffins, chocolate. And there was the amount of food consumed at the wake. He had been a popular man, so we ordered enough for a platoon of mourners. It all went. Dad would have loved it.
One of his favourite past-times, apart from golf, was eating a meal with friends or family. Sunday roast around our massive kitchen table was the highlight of his week. As our family grew bigger with the addition of girlfriends, boyfriends, friends, so did the table. It was Victorian with a crank handle that opened up the middle section so that extra leaves could be added. It was ironic that the cancer he had took away his appetite completely. One of the saddest moments was watching him trying to enjoy the food in front of him but giving up and pushing the plate away.
No, grief scales have nothing to do with weighing food. The Grief Intensity Scale weighs up feelings, thoughts, and behaviours after someone close to you has died. It’s pretty straightforward. You answer a set of simple questions (How often have you felt yourself longing or yearning for the person you lost? Not at all, at least once, once a week, once a day, several times a day?) and just like that, in not much more time than it takes for you to step onto a scale to measure your weight, you can quantify the amount of grief you are feeling that day.
And then there’s the Anticipatory Grief Scale (AGS), which evaluates the anguish you feel in anticipation of someone dying. Consisting of 27 statements it measures anticipatory grief on a Likert scale, which allows you to express how much you agree or disagree with a particular statement. The higher the score, the higher your levels of anticipatory grief. Simple.
*
1) I feel close to my relative who has incurable illness.
Strongly Disagree/Disagree/Agree/Strongly agree
We’d ordered a hospital bed to put in the sitting room because Dad had become so weak he found it difficult to walk from his bedroom. The flat had an open plan living space so we could make meals in the kitchenette and chat to him at the same time. His pride and joy, a 43-inch flat screen TV, hung on the wall. My brother bought it for Dad after he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer so that he could watch his beloved sport in glorious, ultra HD.
My sister, the efficient one, created a timetable each week and labelled our daily duties in different colours. It was stuck on the fridge door with magnetic “dots,” so it was clear for us all to see who was due in that day. None of us fancied looking after his “bottom end,” so we employed a domiciliary care nurse, Stephen, to keep it all shipshape down below. Dad liked him.
“It’s very matter of fact. There’s no social chit chat, it’s all flashing flannels and a quick towel dry,” he said over lunch one afternoon.
“Lovely,” I said as I tucked into vegetable soup and slices of granary bread. We were both sitting on the sofa, watching Pointless on the TV. Dad’s food lay untouched on the side table.
Jenny, an occupational therapist, had been to the flat the day before to oversee delivery of the bed and other essential “living and disability” aids: commode, Zimmer frame, shower chair, elephant feet to raise the height of the sofa.
“It’s like sitting on that wall overseeing the harbour in Dartmouth,” I said as I peered over my soup bowl. My feet were a fraction off the floor. “Remember? We’d all sit in a row and dangle our legs over the wall, eating fish and chips.”
“You used to love fishing for crabs,” said Dad. “You’d sit on the pier all day with that little fishing line, filling up your princess bucket.”
He turned away to look at the TV. I placed my hand on his arm.
“Perhaps we could go there next year. We could hire a mobile home and drive down. Take our time.”
Dad covered my hand with his own. “I’m so lucky to have you.”
*
2) I very much miss my relative the way he or she used to be.
Strongly Disagree/Disagree/Agree/Strongly agree
This Woman’s Work was interrupted by the sound of my mobile ringing in the car. Kate Bush was put on hold as my sister’s name lit up on the dashboard.
“Hi, Em, all OK?”
“I’m at Dad’s. I need your help.”
My heart dropped. I was on my way to lunch with a friend. It was supposed to be my day off from Dad day care.
The front door was ajar. “Hello,” I called out as I walked into the sitting room. Dad was lying on the floor in between the bed and the sofa. From what I could see he was naked. A blanket covered him up to his chest. Emma had placed a pillow under his head. The room stank of faeces. Dad looked up at me, his face almost as grey as the carpet he lay on.
“Shit, Dad. What’s going on?”
“Shit is pretty much right,” said my sister as she walked in from the bathroom, carrying damp towels and a bowl of hot water. Dad smiled weakly.
“I’ve had an accident,” he said.
“He’s been lying on the floor for more than eight hours. Covered in shit.”
“I’ve had better moments,” said Dad. “I’m sorry.”
I smiled. “We’ve all had better moments. It’s not your fault.” I turned to Emma who had flicked up Dad’s towel. He moaned as she gently moved him onto his side and finished off cleaning around his bottom and the tops of his legs.
“What can I do?”
“Clean the walls.”
The wall at the back of his bed had brown marks smeared all over it. He’d lost control of his bowels and used the wall to prop himself up as he tried to walk to the bathroom. The sheets hung off the bed, covered in woody slime.
“Oh, Dad, why didn’t you use your alarm?”
I wanted to cry. I couldn’t bear to think of him lying alone all night on the floor, in that state.
“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” he said.
*
Dad’s cancer moved to his brain, giving him dementia-like symptoms. We’d been through this before with my mother, who contracted vascular dementia and passed away in 2013. Unlike Mum, who didn’t recognise any of us towards the end (apart from Dad, who visited her in the care home, every day at the same time for five years), Dad’s forgetfulness seemed to relate mostly to the remote control and kitchen appliances.
Before he became too weak to get out of bed, he’d use his Zimmer to potter about the living area and make himself a cup of tea, or a piece of toast. He kept forgetting to fill up the kettle. We got through five in two months.
We gaffa-taped the remote so only the on/off and programme up and down buttons could be used. Before that, I think the most times I’d been called to explain how to turn on the TV or asked to drive over to his flat and work out why the screen looked like snow was 15 in the space of 24 hours. I used to dread those phone calls.
*
3. I have periods of tearfulness as I think about my relative’s illness.
Strongly Disagree/Disagree/Agree/Strongly agree
Stephen had turned up as Emma and I were cleaning the flat. We’d been unable to lift Dad back into bed. He was so frail we were worried about hurting him. Stephen shooed us into Dad’s study and expertly collected underwear, pyjamas, Dad’s teeth, a damp flannel, and a hairbrush from his bedroom. We’d already put clean sheets on the bed and within 15 minutes he ushered us back in.
Emma put the kettle on. Having spent his allotted time, Stephen was putting on his coat.
“Thank you so much.”
He put his hand on my arm. “It’s a pleasure. Your father’s a lovely man. Will you call someone?”
“Yes,” I said, looking over his shoulder at Dad who now lay sleeping peacefully in bed.
“Just, let me know if you don’t need me tomorrow,” he said as he left for his next appointment.
“We should call an ambulance,” said Emma bringing over two cups of tea. “We need to get this problem under control.”
We both sat on the sofa, legs dangling, looking over at Dad. He still looked pale. His translucent skin taut over now pronounced cheekbones. At 6’4”, he’d always been a real presence. Whenever he walked into a room he seemed to take over the space. But now, lying in the bed, he looked almost childlike.
I walked over and held his hand. “I’ll call.”
“He’ll be back here before we know it,” said Emma.
“Yes.” I turned around to face my sister. Her face was tight, almost contorted. I moved towards her.
“Don’t,” she said. “I won’t be able to stop.”
*
4. No one will ever take the place of my relative in my life.
Strongly Disagree/Disagree/Agree/Strongly agree
Dad’s suitcase lay unpacked on the high-backed chair in the Sue Ryder hospital room. The sun shone through the window, lighting up the bottom of the thin blue-green bedspread. A tiny flat screen TV was fixed to the wall next to his bed.
Headphones dangled out of the bottom of the screen and lay on the over-bed table next to the small remote. I looked at the remote with a feeling of dread.
Dad seemed to improve in the ambulance. He’d put on his funny-man mask, so the ambulance men couldn’t see he was afraid. This alter ego has served him well over the years. As a child he’d had numerous problems with his “waterworks,” which often left him smelling of urine. It was something to do with certain tubes not being connected properly. In the 1930s, there was nothing to stop his teacher from making him sit in the corner of the classroom and allowing the other children to ridicule him.
When he was 12, Dad had an operation to rectify the problem. But rather than becoming introverted and withdrawn, the bullying he’d received as a child made him determined to make everyone like him, and being able to make people laugh came naturally.
“Do you think they’ll let me bring my telly in?” he asked as the nurse busied around the man in the bay opposite.
“I’m not sure, Dad. Where would they put it? Anyway, as soon as they’ve sorted out your little problem, you’ll be going home.”
Dad smiled. He felt safe at Sue Ryder. He’d been visiting their day centre once a week for the past few months. To me, the day centre seemed like purgatory – a room full of old people all talking about their health problems, but Dad had a new audience to tell his stories to and many of the inpatients were women, whose husbands had already died. Heaven.
After the nurse left the room, the man in the bed opposite introduced himself. Like Dad he’d been an engineer, like Dad he had pancreatic cancer and was dying.
“Fantastic,” said Dad. “We have so much in common. Darling, would you mind unpacking my suitcase?”
*
5. No one will ever take the place of my Dad in my life.
Strongly Disagree/Disagree/Agree/Strongly agree
There’s nothing sweet about the sugar in A Tall History of Sugar, the fifth novel by Jamaican writer Curdella Forbes. Its sweet, sticky menace oozes from the opening pages, mingling with the blood of the slaves who were worked to death to sweeten European tea: “You will see this in the annals of the sugar plantations, how it was that the bright brown crystals came about, how bone and blood got mixed in the métissage, tips of fingers, sometimes knuckles, and even whole arms bitten off by the great machines. The crystals at first wine-dark in blood, then soakaway to brown when the crushers smoothed them out.”
Most of the main characters have some form of extreme reaction to sugar. One has a long-running diabetic sore, another is allergic to sugar in all its forms, and another has a birthmark that gives her excruciating pain every time the sugarcane harvesting season comes around. The lasting violence of sugar and slavery and its intergenerational effects pervade the novel.
But this is a tall history, with the emphasis firmly on the word tall. Ghosts and visions are commonplace, characters can communicate without speaking, fortune-tellers enter people’s dreams, a Chinese book takes away a girl’s ability to speak. There is nothing realistic about it, and yet Forbes makes the rural Jamaican setting feel so real and its people and mythology feel so familiar that it’s easy to suspend disbelief and go along with the high-wire act of an author weaving a deliberately tall story and somehow making it all hang together.
Alongside sugar and slavery, of course, Christianity also played a large part in Jamaican history, and the biblical resonances in A Tall History of Sugar are strong. Moshe is the Hebrew form of Moses, and like the biblical Moses, he is found as a newborn baby abandoned in a basket by water. Rachel, like the biblical Rachel, is unable to have children, so Moshe’s appearance seems like a miracle to her. And when she discovers the baby, she has a brief vision of a woman in a blue cambric dress trying to breast-feed the child – a scene that seems reminiscent of many painted scenes of the Virgin Mary with the baby Jesus, except for the detail that she “hoisted up her skirt to piss” at the same time. Moshe’s adopted father, a fisherman, also has a biblical name: Noah.
The novel explores issues of race through the unique character of Moshe, who doesn’t fit into any racial category: His skin is pale, his features African, he has one blue and one dark-brown eye, and his hair is straight blond in the front and “short, black, and pepper-grainy in back.” Although there are rumours that his father was a teacher and his mother a student at the school where “dreadful tings di white man-dem do to people young girlchilds,” this explanation does not fit the facts. Moshe is not mixed-race, a common enough category of its own in Jamaica. He is outside any categorisation at all. His sexuality, too, is ambiguous. The novel is essentially an exploration of how a boy who doesn’t fit in to any of our normal boxes gets through life.
At the centre of the book is a love story between two outsiders who, for different reasons, feel misunderstood by the world around them and take refuge in their own close relationship – so close that, from a young age, Moshe and his friend Arrienne are able to communicate without speaking. The book charts the decline of that relationship as the two grow older, losing the innocence of childhood and trying to understand the very different feelings of closeness and attraction in the adult world. Moshe’s attempts to discover the truth of his origins also drive them apart. At first, they go together to meet a mysterious old woman who communicates with Moshe through his dreams and reveals frustratingly little of what she knows about his real parents. But then Moshe begins to go alone, and eventually he travels to England in a desperate quest to knock on doors in Bristol and somehow find his long-lost father.
But even though Moshe and Arrienne lose their telepathic connection, they are still held together by fate, and they will continue to be drawn together even as the years pass and the book nears its conclusion. Although A Tall History of Sugar bears some hallmarks of a romance novel, it is not a romance. The author has called it a fairy tale, but that label doesn’t seem to fit any better than another possibility that she rejects: magical realism. In truth, it is a book that, like Moshe himself, resists classification. Despite the biblical allusions and the constant presence of sugar, there are no straightforward allegories or conclusions on offer here.
The story is told in a complex and deliberately inconsistent style. It is ostensibly narrated by an older Arrienne looking back on her childhood and frequently interjecting her own observations from the future into her stories of the past. And yet, for long sections, Arrienne either refers to herself in the third person or is replaced by another unspecified narrator. And, really, it’s Moshe’s story, told through Arrienne, thanks to their close connection. This is a story, it seems, that does not belong to anyone, that resists not just classification but also ownership, even by its own narrator.
The register also shifts wildly between formal English and Jamaican patois. In the early parts of the book, Forbes gives “translations” of the patois that are so stilted and formal that they seem designed to show the absurdity of the attempt: “‘Dat skin an dat hair gwine mek him way in dis world hard-hard. Hard travail. Mi si it. Ehn-hn.’ This unresolved body in which history has made ructions will make his pilgrimage difficult. This is what I have seen.”
These awkward “translations” mercifully start to tail off and, by the second half of the book, they’re gone altogether. We’re still left with the mix of registers, but there is no attempt to explain or translate. Some things, it seems, just sound better in patois, and the reader is trusted to be able to follow the code-switching.
The mixing works well, not just because it’s true to the cultural mixtures of the Caribbean but also because much of the language in both registers is beautiful. Two characters struggling to find the right words “approached speech sidewise like crabs.” The shadows of a sinking afternoon sun “had fallen like tongues on the hills.” A woman’s deformed feet are “like the image of feet held under water.”
There are frustrating moments in A Tall History of Sugar. It doesn’t set out to be a realistic novel, and its characters sometimes behave in ways that don’t make much sense. Moshe and Arrienne’s childhood friendship is beautifully depicted, but their later estrangement is less easy to understand. Moshe’s abrupt departure for England, without telling Arrienne and with only a slim hope of finding his father based on some sketchy information from a fortune-teller, is quite incomprehensible.
It feels sometimes as if the characters are being manipulated by the hands of fate: The fortune-teller foresaw that he would go across the seas, so he had to go. But in the world of a novel, fate and the author are hard to distinguish, and the hands of fate can feel like authorial manipulation.
It’s hard to be critical, though, of a lack of realism in a novel that doesn’t try to be realistic. It’s best to read it not so much for its plot as for its themes, its beautiful prose, and the way it brings the world of rural Jamaica to life so vividly and memorably. It’s a complex, thought-provoking, multilayered novel that, as you’d expect from a writer who’s also a professor of Caribbean Literature at Howard University, gives the reader plenty to work with, plenty to analyse, plenty to reread and reinterpret. It’s not always an easy read, but it’s a rewarding one.
A Tall History of Sugar
By Curdella Forbes
Canongate, 366 pages
A bee flew into my ear and woke me up. You can foretell how the day is going to progress by the way it starts. At work, David called me to his cabin. “London is seeking to cut costs,” he said in his late night DJ FM voice. “We’ve been instructed to let go of staff. Sorry, but the axe has fallen on you.” I stopped chewing gum and my mouth felt paralyzed on hearing this.
I packed my stuff and was leaving with my box of belongings in my arms, when Jon came running towards me. “I sketched this quickly as soon as I could,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper. “Such short notice for a proper farewell present,” he added wringing his hands in an act of despair. I glanced at the sheet. It was pencil drawing of a man screwing a woman from behind. I crumpled the sheet of paper, dumped it in my box, and walked away without another word. What an office!
On returning home, I had a strong urge to smoke a joint. I knew that there was some marijuana in the apartment. I raided the jar on the kitchen shelf where it was normally kept. When I did not find it there, I turned the place upside down hunting for it – under the mattress, inside the pillow cushions, in the medicine cabinet, between books. Finally, after an hour of desperate search, I found a couple of joints beneath the couch.
The stuff was strong, and I was already high when I reached the Coral Arms. There I met a guy named Brian. He said he was a medical student in Middlesex. I invited him back to my apartment and we made out. “I need to leave now,” he said in the middle of the night.
“Can’t you stay till morning?”
“No, I really must go. I have tons to study.”
He excused himself to go the bathroom, and I used this opportunity to go through his wallet. His ID read that he worked as a scaffolder for Fulcrum Steel. Medical student, really? What a con! I mentioned nothing as he let himself out of my flat.
I was still too high to go to sleep. I tried to watch TV, read a book, but my mind was abuzz with thoughts. Then I pulled out a diary that my sister Farah had given me at the start of the year. On the first page she had written:
Hope you have a great year ahead. Hugs and Kisses, Farah.
Some start it has been already, I muttered to myself and grabbed a pen to write a journal entry.
24th Jan 2019:
I got fired from work this morning. To top it, I got screwed by an imposter. I feel locked in a grid of unfortunate coordinates. Where is the reset button? And seriously, how did a bee get into my apartment?
I stared at the writing for several moments and an image of a Venn diagram came to me unprompted. The space was divided into two circles, Screwed and Bored, with the intersection between the two reading Desperate. Blame the bee, I thought and then on an impulse, I wrote down a title – Once Upon a Time in a Corporation. I underlined the title and doodled a sketch of a man in a suit. Wolves in pinstripes, all of them, I thought to myself as images of David, Jon, and the motley crew at my erstwhile firm swam before me.
What began as a single journal entry that night slowly morphed into a full-fledged memoir in a space of five months.
Larry at the Writers Agency reviewed my finished manuscript with a keen interest. “Once Upon a Time in a Corporation is startingly original. I must admit that this book is an acutely observed portrait of life in and around a cube office,” he said as we sat sipping coffee in a local café. “And your manager David,” he snorted, “comes across as a perfect fit for a corporate zookeeper.” He turned over the pages and declared, “Done. My agency will represent you and your work.” He offered his hand to shake on the deal. As I extended my arm to meet his, I considered the developments in my mind: the bee, the sacking, the fake medical student, the diary writing. Strangely enough, the bee was sitting at the start of a string of events that hardly had any connective tissue between them. So, in a bizarre way, that bee had led to the book. And in that lucid moment, I decided to dedicate the book to the bee that had dared to fly into my ear on that fateful morning in January. But I needed a name for that bee. How about Zahlala?
I notice him as I’m waiting for the Number 3 bus. He’s standing there outside the Power Up Nutrition Supplement Store…
I’m transfixed immediately. I stare and stare, caught in his magnetic power. Two threes arrive and leave, and I don’t get on either. I heave myself up from my bus stop seat and stand at the edge of the pavement for a better look.
He’s immense, like a landscape, like somewhere you pass through then suddenly stop in awe of the view.
My peepers travel all over him, exploring the bulging swamp-green hillocks of his forearms, the rivulets of veins, the plateaus of his manly chest, the ridges of his six pack. And finally, I arrive at his underpants; colour purple. I want to tear those pants off and fondle their contents, cradle them in my own bare hands. But I don’t. Don’t, because I can’t.
I cross the road and pretend to shelter from the rain in the shop doorway but, really, it’s to get closer to him.
What a face! Small compared to the rest of him; rows of teeth like a white picket fence and eyes like two little meatballs. I measure the distance between his grabbing arms and picture how snugly I’d fit between them. It’s unusual for me to fit anywhere, frankly, which is why I think we’re such a match.
The rain’s making him supernatural. The car lights flow down his body, turning him from green to red. And in the streaming gleaming light, his face looks different – not ferocious, like he would crack me open, but gentler, like he’s smiling at me. And I swear, I see him wink – yes, wink – and that wink’s just for me. And then I hear a voice and it’s his voice.
“Take me back home,” he says.
That’s it.
“Take me back home.”
So, what I do next is completely insane.
As he’s blown sideways, I catch him and drag him away from the Power Up Nutrition Supplement Store like a she-monster returning to her cave after the hunt. I’m flustered and panting, I’ve turned crimson with the effort, my hair’s plastered to my skull and my drab jersey dress clinging to my blubber; my black snout boots are leaking and my shopping slapping my thigh.
I WALK home carrying my Hulk and take him immediately to my bedroom.
*
I shed my wet clothes and stand in front of the mirror naked, kneading the doughy flesh of my vast belly into as many different faces as I can make. This evening, I pummel my tum into a face that’s sweet and contented because that’s how I feel.
Behind me is the Hulk. He’s looking at me with such desire no ordinary man comes close.
“Take me back home,” he says.
“You are home,” I whisper, and I haul him into bed and lie in his powerful arms, and feel his great hands over my body and sink into his green swamp.
*
Well, I’m like the cat that’s ate the cream. I’m pouring it over my cereal and taking it in my coffee with two sugars. When I’m not looking, breakfast will manifest itself in flesh. Bof! Bulge here! Bof! Bulge there! Bof! Bof! Bof!
After last night, I don’t even care.
My green giant is sitting right here. I smile, pour him coffee, butter his toast, but he’s not hungry, which is strange, given our night of passion. I eat his toast for him.
In the cruel cold light of day, he’s looking…diminished… and his eyes have the blank mineral hardness of the reptile.
“Take me back home,” he says, and even his voice is more of a hiss.
“You are home,” I repeat, as lovingly as I can manage.
I clear the kitchen table and wonder if they’re missing him at the Power Up Nutrition Supplement Store. I don’t suppose they’d pay a ransom. It’s strange to think there’s probably a factory somewhere in China turning out thousands of Hulks like mine.
*
Back in the bedroom I attend to myself and sit down in front of the mirror. Because of my size, I blush easy. It’s the worst thing when I misjudge my girth, knock into someone, and flush scarlet. But here’s my salvation: green concealer to neutralise the high colour. I dab at the pot and apply it to my face.
This shade of green is not swampy, like my man here; it’s more…pastel…
And as I apply it, I begin to think, Well, why not go the whole hog, like I did last night?
So, I pull out of the wardrobe a shaggy black fright wig and put it on.
…and then a purple skin-tight dress…
In my narrow mirror, I am transformed. The reflection spooking back at me is a vampy green hulk. I curl my tongue and punch the air.
Bof! Bof! Bof!
So, this is what they call female empowerment!
*
I’m empowered, but my Hulk has got a misery vibe and his charm is wearing thin. He’s shrinking while I’m definitely growing. It’s time to launch ourselves into the world, so I put him in a shopping trolley and tether him to the handlebar, which he doesn’t particularly like, and off we go…
As I rattle down the street, a woman dashes up to us.
“You look AMAAAZING!” she says. “Can I?” She waves her phone at me. I’m flattered.
“Sure,” I say. “Go right ahead.” She takes pictures of us. “You’re perfect together,” she says.
“You know, you could make cash from the way you look…”
*
So, fellow vloggers and cosies out there, this is how I woke up and realised my true self.
I solved the issue of my size, not through diets, gastro belts or any of that surgery shit. No, I left the pounds happy where they were and let my inner hulk out…
Oh, I almost forgot, here’s my pal, my mentor, you could say, who showed me the way. Say hello everybody to the one and only HULK!
I can’t hear you! Louder!
Say hello back, HULK.
Maybe you can’t hear him. He’s kinda shy these days. I worry he’s living too much in my shadow. That’s common, isn’t it, when one side of a partnership becomes famous with 23 million followers on YouTube, while the other’s left out in the cold.
Well, peeps, why not follow me and HULK into our weird green world? I’ve got one crazy adventure coming up! It’ll blow your minds!
*
Guys, I’m on my way to China! I’ll be touching down in Guangzhou province and from there I get a bus to the factory where HULK was made. Yes, he’s coming too. I booked a second ticket for his seat.
Truth is, I want an upgrade. Not the seat, I mean, this is business class, but I want a new Hulk in my life. This one’s worn out by the advertising gigs and gameshow conferences. He gets jealous of the attention I’m getting, the green-eyed monster, you know. So, I’m returning him to his birthplace to retire, like he always wanted, and I’ll pick myself up a shiny new model.
What do you say, HULK?
Hmm, he’s got a slightly fanatical look in his eye today…What’s up, you?
Oh, it’s the weirdest thing but…. did his hand move just then?
And, well, oh, oh, oh NO!
OH MY GOD!
Is this for real? They’re calling it turbulence! They’re saying stay in your seat! Seatbelt on!
But, but, but….
HULK’s left his seat!
HULK’s charging towards the cockpit!
HULK’s in with the pilot!
WAS THAT THE PILOT SCREAMING?
OH! AND THE OXYGEN MASKS HAVE DROPPED DOWN!
OH, OH, THE DEEP GREEN SEA IS FLYING UP TOWARDS US!
THE WRATH OF MY GREEN-EYED MONSTER!
My hands are women. They are housekeepers, hairdressers, babysitters, copy editors, and typists. My Right Hand does all the hard work; she’s tireless, strong and organized. She can listen to every whisper, she can see in the dark, she takes initiative. My Left Hand does not do anything. She looks blind and deaf, I do not trust her at all. I don’t care about her, I don’t talk to her. She only wakes up sometimes when the Right Hand is shouting and offers her some help in a clumsy manner. Afterwards she hibernates again. Always absent.
Dislocation of the right shoulder, says the doctor whilst looking at my X-rays at the screen. Complete immobility of the right hand for three weeks. He does not know that my Left Hand is always sleeping. I don’t say much and return back home. I want to drink some water. My Right Hand, despite being severely injured, is shouting at my Left Hand, Wake up! Give her some water! Her voice is braking.
My Left Hand is slow and clumsy, my Right Hand gets angry, but she is in pain so she doesn’t move. She can’t anyway. I have no other choice other than training my Left Hand. I need to teach her how to make the bed, bathe me, cook simple dishes, feed me, brush my teeth, wash my clothes, pick up the phone, type my novels. In the beginning she gets tired easily, she drops things, she breaks my dishes, she’s typing nonsense. After a while she gets used to it, she holds the fork properly and feeds me, washes my Right Hand, sometimes she even strokes it. In the evenings she stays awake. She falls asleep at dawn, but sleeps lightly and immediately wakes up to take care of us. She is becoming almost like my Right Hand, she can almost listen to every whisper, she can almost see in the dark.
Nonetheless, she seems to be lost in thoughts and abstracted lately. I am afraid she might get tired and change her attitude all of a sudden. What if she stops showing solidarity, self-denial, and self-sacrifice? What if she adopts a more radical stance? She might start ignoring the people in need, the different and the unproductive ones. She might become arrogant and start going to the Left Hand assemblies. She might demand overtime payment and additional employment allowance. What if she starts complaining about the injustice and negligence that she suffered all these years? Some might say, It’s never too late! You should look after yourself!
I wake up and look at my Left Hand in a new light. I am afraid that something has changed. She silently picks up the brush and brushes my hair, like every morning. Only in a hurry this time and a little carelessly. When she is brushing my teeth though she’s moving abruptly. My gums are bleeding. Calm down, I tell her. You are hurting me! It’s a firm-bristle toothbrush, she answers, you should get the medium one!… I pretend to agree even though I know my toothbrush is soft. I am afraid of her now and I am not speaking. My Right Hand is doing the same.
It was summer, the busiest time of year for any midwestern, middle-aged motel owner – and the only reason I wasn’t underwater financially. That week I was especially frazzled, since Raphael, a friend from college days in Upstate New York, was staying with my wife and me at our house. Or rather just with me, since Tanya had conveniently needed to help her mother organise her attic – in the next county. Not a Raphael fan. Her only specific complaint was that he wore the same clothes several days in a row, but I was sure there was something else. I promised her he would be gone before she got back in a few days.
I was outside the motel on a windy day, waiting for Raphael to show up to have lunch at a new restaurant across the street. To pass the time, I scanned my to-do list. By the time I got to “REPLACE MATTRESS IN 14,” I was ready to chuck everything and place an ad: “Motel for sale, cheap. Softest mattresses in town.”
But then I thought of my employees, all hard workers – and there was my newest one now, leaning over a metal railing, her head and body shaking. I tossed my clipboard onto the grass and rushed to her. “Jackie, what’s the matter? Why are you crying?”
Jackie spun around, beaming as she wiped a tear from the side of her nose. “I’m not crying. I’m laughing. Come with me. You have to see this.”
Jackie led me into the nearest room, past the queen beds and into the bathroom, where she yanked open the daisy-print shower curtain. In the sparkling white tub half-filled with water flopped a fish. And I’m not talking minnow here – this thing had to be three feet long!
I closed my eyes. “Not again!”
“Not again? This happened before?”
“Yes. I gotta tell Walter never to give a room to Dennis Illbeck.”
She seemed impressed. “As in Illbeck Auto Body?”
“The same.”
Jackie leaned down and stroked the fish’s head. “Don’t worry, pal, we’ll have you back with your friends in no time.” Then she popped up and asked, “So, do you have a big net?”
“No, but could you get the large pail from the utility closet? Lost Lake is a short walk. Just take the trail behind the motel through the woods.”
Jackie and I were heading for the motel office when Raphael pulled up in his rental car, a subcompact. “Is that the guy Tanya was talking about?” Jackie whispered. I nodded.
Raphael towered over the car when he got out. His rangy body had thickened since college days, giving him an imposing look. And, sure enough, he was wearing the same bowling shirt and pleated pants as the day before. He looked up at the motel’s towering sign. “Comfort Pines,” he said, his French accent lending the name some cachet for the first time. “This is a most inviting name.”
“I hate it,” I said. “We didn’t change it when we bought the place because it’s so well known. Raphael, this is Jackie.”
Raphael smiled, stooped – Jackie was barely five feet tall – and shook her hand. “Is Jackie short for Jacqueline?”
“Hey, is that a short joke?” she said, feigning indignation.
“No, I am serious. This is also my mother’s name. She lives in Bordeaux.”
“Well, you say hello to her for me. Right now I have to join a bucket brigade.”
Raphael seemed curious, so I led him into the fishy bathroom.
“Hmmm. He is quite a large fellow,” said Raphael, peering into the tub. The fish slapped its tail against the side, sending an arc of water onto Raphael’s pant leg. “Did I ever tell you that I spent my youth trout fishing in the Dordogne Valley in France? I never saw a fish with this particular profile, however.”
“It’s a buffalo carp.”
Raphael folded his arms and stared admiringly at the fish. “Well, it is a privilege to have seen one before they are hunted to extinction,” he said with a wink. “Still, it is quite sad, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Imagine, you spend your entire life waiting to be of sufficient size to spawn and have children of your own. But when the time arrives, where are you? Among others who share your hopes and dreams? No! You are alone, in a bathtub, without even a book to read.”
“Are you talking about the fish or yourself?”
“Yes, Andrew, you are the family man, and we shall highlight this contrast with me at every opportunity.”
“Sorry, Raphael.”
Raphael smiled weakly. “And who has placed this prodigious creature here?”
“Dennis Illbeck. His family owns a chain of body shops. He travels around, checking up on them. I don’t even think he has a house, because he’s on the road all the time.”
“And what do you plan to tell this Dennis Illbeck?”
“Well, as much as I hate to lose a paying customer, I’m going to tell him he’s no longer welcome here.”
“Gangway!” yelled Jackie as she squeezed between us to get to the tub. She scooped up the fish on the first attempt.
“Such finesse!” exclaimed Raphael. “You have done this before, Jackie?”
“Never with a fish,” she said, flicking a few droplets of water at Raphael’s face as she passed.
“Ah, to find so much pleasure in one’s work,” said Raphael. “It is a gift.”
I opened the tub drain and listened for gurgling. “That’s our cue to go get lunch.”
At the restaurant Raphael was his usual effusive self, taking delight in everything from the freshness of the salad to the waiter angling for a good tip with his merci after every interaction.
“Do you know what pleases me most about staying in your home, Andrew?” asked Raphael. “It is normally so full of sound and life. There is always something happening. If only Tanya and the children were here this week.”
“Well, I can’t say I mind the kids being at summer camp,” I confessed.
“Yes, Andrew, you deserve a respite. And here I am taking up your precious time. I hope I am not as unwelcome as our finned friend in the tub.”
“Just stay dry and we’ll be good.”
When Raphael was finished raving about his salmon, he started peppering me with questions about Dennis Illbeck. I couldn’t understand why he was so interested and didn’t believe his claim of idle curiosity. After paying the check, he insisted we go see him, so I drove us to Illbeck Auto Body on the other side of town.
Illbeck was in the parking lot, talking to a woman next to a car with a deeply dented front fender. He was a wiry, animated guy, constantly pointing at things – the fender, the body shop, the sky – and swatting away strands of his wayward ponytail as they blew into his face.
“Andrew,” whispered Raphael, “you are feeling annoyance toward Mr. Illbeck, so I suggest you let me – a neutral third party – talk to him. I assure you the result will be satisfactory.”
With Raphael jonesing to talk to him, I relented and then watched from a distance. I’d never seen two strangers seem to get on so well in so short a time, with Raphael mirroring Illbeck’s body language and laughter and then wrapping up their encounter with a double handshake.
Raphael, looking pleased, marched back to me. “He’s an interesting fellow. A bit eccentric, but he has a good heart. And just as I suspected, his little practical jokes have been a form of flirtation. It seems he is fond of one of your housekeepers: Naomi.”
“Really? That’s beyond eccentric. Anyway, she left to start medical school two weeks ago. So, did you tell him not to come back to the motel?”
“No, but he and I have reached an understanding. In the future, any fish he leaves in the bath shall be no longer than twelve inches.”
“What!”
“I am only teasing, Andrew. He has promised there will be no more practical jokes.”
“That’s good, but I still don’t want him at the motel. I’m going to talk him.”
“Andrew, please don’t. There is something I need to tell you.”
“Now what?”
“I should have told you before. I have a new job. It is part of the reason I have come to visit you.” His posture quickly straightened. “Before you stands a bounty hunter.”
“You? A bounty hunter?” I barely suppressed a snort.
“I understand your surprise. Perhaps you judge my neglected physique unsuited to apprehending fugitives. It does not matter, because I am the kind of bounty hunter who only locates and reports.”
“So go ahead and report me. I didn’t do anything.”
Raphael laughed. “No, no, Andrew, it is not you I have been looking for, other than to enjoy a visit with my dear friend. The fugitive is Mr. Illbeck.”
“Well, that explains a lot. What did he do?”
“It seems he has stolen from the company, and that is not to mention his troubles with the IRS. When you mentioned his name, I recognised it but needed to be sure. Now, I merely need to phone my contact with law enforcement. So, as a favour to me, Andrew, please allow him to return to the motel.”
“Why can’t they get him here?”
“They tell me that the place of residence is preferred. Apparently, the fugitive is more likely to be caught with his pants down, so to speak. Once he is in custody, I will receive my payment and leave to start my next pursuit.”
I liked that last part, so I agreed.
*
Raphael must have made his phone call, because the next morning a squad car pulled up in front of Illbeck’s room while Raphael and I were outside the office. Two officers got out and starting rapping on his door.
Jackie stepped out of a guest room and walked over to us. “What are the cops doing here?”
“They’re here to take Illbeck away,” I said.
“Just because he put a carp in the tub? Isn’t that a bit harsh?”
“It’s for something else. Embezzlement, I guess.”
“Really! Well, I was hoping to meet fish boy before he checked out, and now, with the added excitement of a perp walk – ”
“It’s no big deal,” I said.
“Are you kidding! I’m going over there.”
As we watched Jackie walk away, my doubts about this whole plan deepened. It must have shown on my face. “Do not worry, Andrew,” said Raphael. “Mr. Illbeck is not known to be armed or dangerous. Your other guests will – ”
“Wait, did you hear that?”
“The sound of breaking glass, perhaps.”
“He must have broken a window. We better tell them to go around back before he gets away.”
After our tip, the officers did walk behind the motel but didn’t bother taking the trail into the woods. Maybe they didn’t like mosquitos.
Raphael looked dejected. “You still get paid, right?” I asked him.
“No, that obligation does not begin until the person is taken into custody. But there are always other scofflaws out there for me.” He gazed across the street. “Do you see this hardware store? I guarantee that among the patrons picking out paint and light bulbs is a wanted criminal. Perhaps a bank robber! Do you know how much the authorities will pay for a bank robber?”
*
The next morning, I was determined to do my usual Thursday fishing and assumed Raphael would want to spend the day tracking down Illbeck. That’s what I told Tanya he’d be doing when she called the night before. But no, he wanted to go with me. Even though this risked delaying his departure, I didn’t feel it was my place to tell him how to do his job. Off we went to Comfort Pines, where I grabbed my pole from the office closet. Raphael, having no license, would have to be content to just enjoy the scenery. We took the path out back through the woods, all the way to my rowboat, which I kept tied to a dilapidated pier. We were soon floating beyond the cattails.
The panfish must have been hungry that day. I pulled in at least a dozen within 20 minutes. I tossed them onto the bottom of the boat, having forgotten to bring a stringer.
“So, Raphael,” I said, “have you given up on finding Illbeck? Are you just going to head home?”
“Andrew, are you trying to be rid of me?”
“Absolutely not.” At least for that day this was true. Tanya was coming home on Friday.
“I am glad to hear that. The outcome yesterday was disappointing, but I believe I may have another crack at Mr. Illbeck. This morning, though, I wanted to talk to you about something else.”
“What is it, Raphael?”
“About a year ago I met a woman – a very special woman. We became inseparable, and then she moved into my home. I felt sanguine about everything until a few weeks ago, when suddenly she rejected me. Do you know what she did not like? After observing me in many social situations, she concluded that I am a bully. Yes, a bully.”
“I don’t believe it. She really said that?”
“Because I was upset, my memory of this time is somewhat smudged, but I know that is the word she used. It was a painful moment for me, because I had formed deep feelings for her and planned to propose marriage.” His eyes glistened.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Raphael. Do you still love her?”
“This is a confusing subject for me, Andrew, because of my need to move forward. But since you have asked me – ” He paused and looked toward the shore. “I do,” he said, his face flushing. “None of it matters now. I am alone, and I am still a bully.”
“I don’t know, Raphael. I’m still trying to process you being a bounty hunter, and now you’re a bully?”
“I understand your confusion, Andrew. I am not the kind of bully whose muscles bulge and whose face scowls. No, my ruthlessly persuasive methods have their genesis in the brain. Did you want me to stay at your home? No! And yet where are my belongings at this very moment? Piled within your guest room. Did you want me to speak to Mr. Illbeck for you? Of course not! But now I have, all because I used carefully selected words to control you.”
“I never thought of it like that, but I guess it makes sense.”
“There, I did it again!” Raphael sighed. “I feel I am swimming through life as though through the muck at the bottom of this lake. The real question is: Why?”
The more Raphael talked, the more confused I became. “Why what?”
“Why did I turn out this way? I believe the answer is in the Dordogne Valley, and years ago the answer washed away in the current of a trout stream. You know, I always fished alone there. Just the elusive trout and I. And when I would catch one, I would release it. In one way or another, I have been doing this very thing ever since.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Raphael.”
“Tell me nothing. Instead, I wish you to hand me my comeuppance.” He stood up and steadied himself. “Please join me, Andrew.” He motioned upward with his hands while giving me an expectant look, but I wasn’t about to help capsize us. “This is the only way, Andrew. I must have the cathartic experience of being violently expelled by my victim. Go ahead.” He nodded encouragingly. “Remember, I am the scoundrel who stole your college girlfriend. I am the roommate who repeatedly consumed your beer and wine. Oh, you didn’t know that? Well, doesn’t it fill you with rage to hear it now?”
“I’m really not angry with you, Raphael, other than for stupidly standing up in the boat.”
“Then let us work with that. Imagine the inconvenience for you if we were to capsize. You would spend the entire day dealing with the calamity. Your expensive fishing pole? Lost forever! But do I care about those things? Apparently not. You see? Not only am I a bully, but I am selfish as well. Go ahead. Push me. Don’t worry – there is surely a buffalo carp below who will break my fall.”
I wasn’t having any of it. “Just sit down, Raphael.”
“Well, Andrew, I see you are resolved not to push me, so I will just imagine it. The fire in your eyes is enough.” With that he launched himself backwards over the hull of the boat and plunged into the dark water of Lost Lake.
I hung over the edge, trying to spot him through the bubbles and churning debris rising from the eelgrass below. Finally he bobbed up, grabbed the gunwale, and used one hand to pull away the mass of tangled weeds adorning his head.
“Well, was it worth it?” I asked.
“Yes, Andrew. You have done me a great service by standing up to me. I shall not bully you again. Today you have chosen water, but imagine where you might push me the next time!”
“Whatever works for you.”
“I think I should get back in the boat,” said Raphael, his voice sounding tighter. “I am feeling rather chilled.”
I straddled the centre seat and grasped his right hand. “Okay, together now.” He was just too heavy. All we achieved was a severe tilt of the boat. After several more attempts, I collapsed, exhausted, onto the seat. “It’s no use. I’ll have to swim to shore and get help.” Raphael looked too drained to speak.
“Hey! Do you guys need help?” A man was waving on the shore about 50 yards away.
“Yes!” I yelled back.
He pulled off his shoes and dove into the lake. He wisely swam wide of the morass of thick weeds hugging the shore before turning toward us. That’s when I recognised him: Dennis Illbeck!
A fast swimmer, he reached us within seconds and then, grabbing the gunwale with both hands, vaulted into the boat. “I thought that was you guys,” he said, smiling broadly. “What the hell are you doing in the water, Raphael?”
“Would you believe that Andrew pushed me in? No? Then let it remain a mystery.”
With Illbeck and me pulling together, Raphael was soon dragged onboard. He raised himself enough to flop onto the stern seat. I joined him while Dennis sat on the centre seat, facing us. He looked pretty good for someone who had spent the night in the woods, without a single visible insect bite. Maybe he was distasteful even to those ravenous, razor-mouthed devils of northern forests, deer flies.
“Now that you guys are staring at the elephant in the boat,” he said, “I may as well explain.”
“Please do, Dennis,” said Raphael. “We have been concerned about you following your disappearance.”
“Well, it’s all because I get freaked out by cops – ever since I was a kid and got busted for a little shoplifting. I’m sorry about the window. I’ll pay for it. You have my credit card number, Andy, so – “
I nodded.
Dennis pointed to a tattered plastic bag at my feet. “Hey, do you have any food in that bag? I’ve been out here all night and day with nothing to eat.”
“No,” I said. “It’s just some fishing tackle. Let’s head shoreward and get you something to eat.”
Dennis grabbed the oars and started rowing. “I want you guys to know something. I’m innocent, and I’ve got the company’s records to prove it. I had to fire some guy, and he made up a story to get back at me. That’s all this is about.”
Maybe I’d watched too many courtroom dramas, but I felt compelled to offer advice. “Dennis, if you have the records, just show them to the DA. Or have your lawyer file for a summary judgment to dismiss.”
“I don’t trust them,” said Dennis. “Any of them. They’ll find a way to convict me.”
Now it was Raphael’s turn to weigh in. “I urge you to reconsider, Dennis. I have looked into your eyes, and I believe you. In fact, I will donate the entire bounty to your legal defence.”
Dennis froze in mid-stroke, his mouth falling open. “Bounty?” He pointed threateningly at Raphael. “You ratted me out!”
As Dennis lunged at Raphael, his right foot stepped on the panfish pile, squirting bluegills against the hull of the boat, and then slid backwards. Down he went.
“Are you okay, Dennis?” I asked.
I was relieved when he started laughing. He sat up and wiped the fish slime off his face with his sleeve. “Raphael, were you serious about giving me the reward money?”
“Completely and most sincerely.”
“Can we do it on Saturday? I want my lawyer to be with me.”
“I’m afraid I must take leave before then. Andrew’s wife is returning tomorrow, and – ”
“How about this?” I asked. “Raphael, let’s move your stuff into a room at the motel. You can stay there no charge. You can have a free room too, Dennis. Just don’t mention that part to Tanya.”
“That’s very kind of you, Andrew,” said Raphael.
“Let’s do it,” said Dennis.
I took the centre seat and began rowing back to the pier.
“Andrew,” said Raphael, “would you and Tanya care to dine with me on Sunday? My treat. You must try the salmon across the street. Magnifique!”
“Don’t press your luck, Raphael.”
It is a cold Wednesday morning. The harmattan breeze settles over the city like the heavens have come to meet the earth. It touches the earth and everything is brown and dry and cold and more brown. It is mid November but the people on the streets have begun to talk about Christmas, its merry moments and how everything skips past with each bottle of beer. You want Christmas, too. Your mother says Christmas has a distinct smell, and that fried beef tastes better then. You inhale but dust fills your nostrils. You put a palm over your nose and quicken your steps.
The church is a warm embrace when you enter. It is like heaven doesn’t touch here. A statue of a bleeding Jesus stares down at you, its eyes sullen from pain. The pews shimmer under the tiny bright lights on the ceiling. At a dim corner is the confessional; a space where trapped sins roam. You walk up to it, your heart clinging to your throat, ready to jump out.
You cross yourself, then you kneel. There is a purple curtain before you, keeping you from seeing the priest. You wonder if he can see you, if he had same clenching tightness in his stomach.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is three months since my last confession.” You pause. You cannot feel your tongue. “I am a student of Biology at the university,” you continue, “This is my confession.”
You take few minutes going over trivial acts you knew wouldn’t count as sin; a mild quarrel, a swear, a midnight erection, but you said them anyway, because the things you truly wished to say were broken vowels, refusing to stick back together.
“Is that all?” An airy baritone arrests you.
The church is suddenly hot. You can feel beads of sweat running down your thighs. You remember your holiday in Kano, last year, and how the sun there was always a boiling orange. When your mother asked you if you would like to visit there again, you told her that Kano felt like hell, but a busy hell. She laughed.
“Can you know a thing and never speak of it?” you ask, peering into the curtain.
A chuckle sieves through.
“I am under oath,” he says. You bite your lips. Of course he was under oath, you had heard about the Seal of Confession.
You drag in air, a little too much, and as quick as you blink, you say, “I lust after a boy.” There is silence from the other side. You can feel air leaving your body through your ears. “Father, I look at him same way I look at girls, and I think of us entangled in bed, naked.” More silence. You want him to say something. Anything.
The last time you touched yourself, you were alone in the bathroom, trying to hold a mental picture of him in your head. You saw his face, then his lips, and when his butt swayed in your head, you stopped and let the soap slip. That night, you invited you girlfriend over and while you were inside her, you told her you would write a poem about slippery spiders. She stared at you and for a moment, you thought she would scream and run out. The next day, she told you you were weird. It was not a compliment.
“I once loved a boy in the way one loves a girl, too,” the priest says, finally. Your heart skips, a painful thud. You want to snatch the curtain away and slap the priest. You do not know why.
“How did you overcome it? How did you win the devil?” you ask.
He chuckles again.
“There is no devil. It is natural. One can only manage it, for love is of God. And God is love.”
“How do I manage it, this love?”
Right. Wrong. Just. Evil. The priest is saying so many things you do not understand. You nod. Love is a thing with faces, this is how you would write it in your diary. Or perhaps, a poem.
As you step outside the church, the sun sits in the sky blurred by the harmattan fog. The earth is now warm, heaven ascends slowly, you can see the full stretch of palm trees in the distance.
You walk to a corner beside the ixora hedges in the churchyard and remove your phone from your pocket to call your mother. You tell her you can smell Christmas and that you can’t wait to see her again. Then, you begin to cry. She doesn’t tell you to stop. She only says, she understands. You cry the more, certain you cannot know a thing and never speak of it.
The protagonist of Khadija Agdalla Bajaber’s The House of Rust seeks to own her name – Aisha, which means life – to wrestle it from both her enemies and her allies because “names had power, even hers, and they could be used.” Called girl, child, or the endearing fishling by the adults in her life and viewed as a “monster girl weirdo” by the spying crows who watch her, Aisha has a fight on her hands. Haunted by thoughts of her mother, Shida (meaning trouble and indicating her illegitimate birth), who was unwillingly bound to a domestic life and died young, Aisha struggles to untangle herself from the obligations of being a woman in a Hadrami community in the coastal city of Mombasa, Kenya. Convinced that her rightful place is at sea but unsure, believing her weakness to outweigh her courage, Ayesha is ripe for an adventure. When her father Ali, a talented but wayward fisherman, disappears at sea, Aisha sets out to find him. She has five days before he is declared dead by her grandmother and funeral rites are held. In a boat made of bones, she undertakes a feminist anti-quest, driven by a rage that “rippled through her veins” and guided by Hamza, a talking cat, whose transformation from stray to wise protector tips the narrative from magical realism into the realm of legend.
The novel stakes its claim as ocean literature by combining the perilous purpose exemplified by Moby Dick with the fantastical interspecies exploits that readers might be familiar with from Yann Martel’s Life of Pi. It also has elements in common with coastal stories from African and elsewhere in which lives are governed by a sea that itself becomes a character; generous and capricious, alternately swallowing, battering, sniffling and murmuring as the characters negotiate its dangers. From the bloodied maws of the three increasingly terrifying sea monsters that Aisha encounters to disembodied flesh-eating eyes, the prehistoric horrors of this ocean world stretch imaginative limits. The narrative is lush and lyrical – “Sharks rising like foam as Aisha choked on her kicking heart” – with wave after wave of visceral imagery forcing the reader to cling on with Aisha as she chases her father’s fate, knowing that it will decide her own. Asked by the Sunken King, the second of the monsters, “‘What historian follows a fisherman?’” Aisha replies, “‘One in love with story-craft.’” She is weaving her own origin story to rival his gruesome one in which, he explains, man has long been at war with the sea: “I adorned myself with your dead, I wear their skins and eat their drowned.” Aisha shows herself to be a new kind of sailor, wild and wary but poised to learn painful lessons.
The House of Rust reminds us that the revolutionary power of fabulist stories is that they are so close to reality it hurts. Aisha’s fragile skeleton boat is repeatedly drenched in blood, the liquid of life but also the drying rust of death, connecting human and animal in a huge ecological drama. As Zubeir, shark hunter, “heart-cutter,” and Aisha’s second guide, explains the secrets of love and the heart, she vacillates between incomprehension, repeating, “I do not understand,” and a flinty determination to find out exactly how far, and how deep, she can go, literally and metaphorically.
Aisha is an anti-heroine in an era of climate crisis when the danger of and to the human has risen to the surface. Her vulnerability – as is often the case with child characters – enables her to see past the stock characterisations of other creatures and to reveal both their strangeness and their power. Most notably, sharks play an important role in the novel. Initially, they are instinct-driven eating machines operating en masse at the violent command of Baba Wa Papa, the father of sharks. But under Aisha’s influence they become a smoothly operating army of liberation, a “retinue of devourers” bearing her forward against her foe. The shark as a creature assumed to be fearsome but essential to marine ecology becomes a metaphor both for the need to interrogate ordinary beliefs (in which Aisha as a girl in a traditional society is trapped) and for the complexity of planetary relationships in which every creature plays a role. Repeatedly Aisha is told by her guides, “Pay attention, Aisha. Everyone must have their share.”
The novel critiques dull-eyed human life through Aisha’s interactions with animals, from goats to rats. The political manoeuvring of a city that cannot stand “the pompous” is scrutinised via another mistrusted creature, the crow. When Aisha returns to Mombasa, a rebel crow standing up against the birds’ tyrannical leader known as The Burned One, becomes her “shadow.” Following the “eerie” girl’s perambulations around the city as she seeks the mysterious House of Rust that Hamza has promised her makes him a witness to delusions of power, adorned with the spoils of empire. Mombasa itself takes shape in a briney rain-swept atmosphere of competition in which knowledge is both a treasure and a mortal danger. It is the scene of “an old game” that Aisha must play.
“I don’t need you to believe in the story,” Aisha tells her grandmother. “I just need you to believe in me.” In a world of magic and trickery, this is no simple demand and it involves reckoning with the past. At the beginning of the novel we learn that “for Aisha, in her mother’s name hung rainstorms and rust. Ungalvanised, galvanizing, sharp.” Through her quest, this odd heroine sweetens the sharpness as an ingredient in her own story, discovering that there are “songs about girls like me” and they are full-bodied and worth pursuing. A debut novel that won the inaugural Graywolf Press Africa Prize, The House of Rust is a masterful weaving of Hadrami storytelling into an unusual coming-of-age journey that demands the attention it is getting.
The House of Rust
By Khadija Abdalla Bajaber
Graywolf Press, 272 pages
The wedding between Adanna Njoku and Matthew Okoro was the most anticipated event of the year at the Exalted Church of God, especially since there had been a drought of weddings of late.
As the bride proceeded down the aisle in her dusky red lipstick and elaborate headdress, all the mothers in the congregation were plotting an even more elaborate event for their own daughters. They were envisioning white doves, loudspeakers blaring traditional music, vigorous dancing, sweet food, and an abundance of both cold and hot drinks. Mrs. Olamide reflected on what Adanna Njoku had done properly to arrive at this moment as she approached the podium. Adanna was humble but not overly demure. She could speak her mind in a spirited conversation about the greed of the oil companies back home in Nigeria. She cooked her jollof rice sweet but not too spicy. And when she genuflected to show respect to her elders, her right knee always kissed the ground. Mrs. Olamide glanced at her daughter, Lola, out of the corner of her eye. Lola still had a long way to go in that regard. Lola didn’t like to stay in the kitchen and learn how to cook, and she spoke back more times than she held her tongue.
The bride and her family were new to the church, Mrs. Olamide noted. They had recently immigrated from Nigeria and ingratiated themselves into the culture of the congregation. Adanna’s mother went to the workers’ meeting each week and had ascended to the status of an usher. She distributed flyers during the service and was selective with the offering envelopes. Those with deep pockets got their offering envelopes right away and those who sometimes looked the other way when the basket was passed around were forced to flag her down. Mrs. Njoku’s smiles were reserved for the elders and the select echelon of church royalty that she escorted to the front row each Sunday morning. Despite her performance of dutiful servant, Mrs. Olamide had it on authority that Mrs. Njoku could not pay her tithe in full and so made up for this deficiency with her volunteer work.
The family of the groom was a different story altogether. Sister Sheba Okoro was head of the women’s group, women’s convention group, and organised all the dramas at Christmas, New Year’s, and Easter. She feverishly sought out the latest designs in Nigerian fashion and carried herself like the Head Overseer. Though her voice dripped with saccharine confidence, her tongue was sharp when she corralled the children into Sunday school. There was no business or happenings in the church that Sister Sheba was not privy to. Occasionally she would pass on unsavoury tidbits of news to the pastor as she deemed appropriate. The pastor had no choice but to heed her counsel. He was deeply grateful that Sister Sheba had taken over the assortment of complex tasks and managerial positions that the other women in the church had eschewed but were necessary to create an undercurrent of enthusiasm in an otherwise rigid environment. Sister Sheba had noticed Adanna almost immediately when she joined the congregation and identified her as a suitable match for her son.
When the bride and groom finally reached the apex of their journey, the congregation dutifully averted their eyes as the pair faced each other. They occupied their minds with what they hoped would follow the union, the expanding midsection, the baby dedication ceremony, and the wild children running up and down the aisles whom they would view as a reflection of a young mother’s inability to discipline her kids.
A clatter drew their gazes to the rear of the church. Sister Sheba’s younger son had arrived just in time for his brother’s wedding. He appeared unkempt and ignorant of his appearance. A transformation had been taking place in him that they all ignored out of respect for his mother. Everyone watched as Sister Sheba’s painted eyebrow jumped out of place before marching back into its correct position. Lola watched Joshua even after everyone else had turned their gazes back to the ceremony.
Sister Olamide noticed her daughter’s attention lapse. She allowed herself to entertain the union for a moment, but the thought of having Sister Sheba as a sister-in-law was mildly unbearable.
“What’s the time?” she asked Lola.
Lola broke her stare to check her phone. “It’s 9:00 a.m., Mom.” She was wondering why her mother couldn’t check her own phone.
The church wedding lasted longer than it should have, and the congregation was consequently late to the reception. The Olamides were the exception. They arrived early because they were planning to leave early. The location was not to Sister Olamide’s taste. She found that the lace tablecloths did little to conceal the cheap corkboard tables. Further, Mr. Olamide was beginning to grumble that he was hungry, and the food had yet to arrive. Sister Olamide rose to help warm the food over the gas burners when it finally made it to the party. She noticed Lola did not follow her.
This was because Lola had drifted outside to the balmy parking lot where those that were too young to break kola nut and too old to run around like untamed spirits had congregated. When they were still in Sunday School, they had learned rhymes together and recited Bible passages because it is what everyone else had done. Now they had arrived at an age where they had to decide whether to continue to do what was expected of them or to become distinct human beings. This decision was easier for young men; their sins were more readily forgiven.
Joshua was passing a flask amongst his friends when Lola approached.
Lola made a gesture that was intended to accept the flask, but she decided halfway through that she didn’t want it after all. “How does it feel to have a new sister-in-law?” she asked.
Joshua eyed her. He had inherited his mother’s disdain. “Feels like he’s a sell-out. I expected him to hold out a little while longer.”
His friends erupted in laughter. From the moment he had first opened his mouth, he had always commanded an audience.
Lola didn’t know what to say. “Adanna seems cool,” she concluded. She didn’t know the bride well, but no one knows a good woman well.
“So you’re off to college this fall?” Joshua said, taking another swig. His gaze was aimed somewhere a few centimetres above her head. “Where did you finally decide?”
“Princeton,” she muttered.
“Why don’t you say it louder? Shouldn’t you be proud?”
She shrugged. She didn’t mention the rejection letter from the Parsons School of Design that she kept under her pillow.
“Do you want to see my brother’s wedding gift?” he continued. He pulled out of his phone and showed her an intricate drawing of his brother and his newly wedded wife. It was rendered with a human eye that saw colours and textures that no one else did. The picture had gathered thousands of likes on social media.
“Do you know what it feels like to do what you love?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been toying with the idea of free will.”
The crew had wandered away. Lola and Joshua found themselves in a secluded part of the parking lot. The sun was lazing on the horizon, orange-yellow light crisscrossing with shadows on concrete.
“Take my brother Matthew for an example. He dumped his long-term Italian girlfriend at the end of college cause Mom didn’t approve. And when he was flunking his law school classes, she used to go through flashcards with him on the phone all night. She even helped him write his vows last night. One day he’ll wake up and realise his life is not his own.”
Lola had never thought about who owned a life before.
“I’m thinking of opening a painting studio where people can come have an easel on their dinner table, sip some wine, and think about art.”
“It would be nice to think about art,” Lola agreed.
“Yeah, ’cause we use art at church when we sing, dance, or act dramas, and then we leave all of that on the altar.”
Joshua took a small step towards her that felt much closer. The molecules in the air were accelerating more quickly now, bouncing off of each other and creating something new. “How many people are plotting our trip to the altar right now?”
Sister Olamide appeared suddenly with spoon in hand. “Lola, come and help me serve the food.”
Sister Sheba was there as well. She placed a hand on her son’s shoulder. “The family dance is about to start.”
“The wedding was beautiful,” Sister Olamide said to Sister Sheba, a smile stretching across her face like a well-starched piece of gele.
Sister Sheba nodded in agreement. She was thinking that she hadn’t seen Sister Olamide’s face in the women’s meeting or Lola at the youth prayer summit in quite some time. As far as she was concerned, the Olamide family was wayward.
“We thank God,” Sister Sheba said. She turned her son in direction of the building.
“God is good,” answered Sister Olamide. “Let’s go help with the food,” she instructed Lola. In a lower voice, she advised her daughter. “Now is not the time to get distracted. You know the plans we have for you.”
*
At church the next week, Joshua found Lola just as she was putting on her jacket at the conclusion of the service.
“Greetings, Mr. and Mrs. Olamide. I just wanted to inform you we have a youth prayer meeting on Saturdays at 6:00 p.m. Is it possible for Lola to attend?”
Sister Olamide saw this as a way to atone for her continued absence from the women’s meeting. She always told herself she would attend the next meeting, but a new excuse presented itself each week. She did not like to mix with the other women outside of church and thought a weekly Sunday service was sufficient to fulfil her religious obligations.
“Yes, of course Lola can attend. As long as she finishes all her activities before going.”
Lola started to protest, but something in Joshua’s gaze stopped her short. He slipped her an offering envelope with his number scrawled on it when her parents’ backs were turned.
Later that night, he texted her. “Please wear something more interesting than your Sunday outfits.”
Lola couldn’t concentrate on her classes or her afterschool violin lessons, dance rehearsals, or soccer practices. Suddenly, she was deeply dissatisfied with the conversations at lunch about finding a college roommate or the perfect date to prom. When Saturday arrived, she dressed in a sleeveless cream turtleneck and leather pants with her favourite heeled boots and made her way to the address that Joshua had texted her.
Sister Olamide observed Lola closely as she pulled out of the driveway in the family Jeep. She had been young once, being young could derail many carefully laid plans.
The group meeting was being held in a community hall. From the outside of the building, music boomed from loudspeakers and multicoloured lights flashed from the window.
She texted Joshua to ask if she was in the right location. Moments later, he flung open the door open and called to her. “Lola, what do you mean is this the right place? Of course, this is the right place. Welcome to AKC.”
He took her arm and ushered her into the throbbing Afrobeats music. The hall was thick with smoke and damp with sweat molecules. Lola coughed once, and then twice. “AKC?” She recognised a few others from church. There was Jessi who always dressed like she was going to the club, Robert napping on a couch like he did during Bible study, and the twins Sade and Toni synchronously performing one of the latest Nigerian dances.
Joshua grinned at her, his face exuberant with pride. “AKC. African Kids Club. This is where we come to process our generational trauma.”
Jessi made her way over to them. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Joshua. This is the last person you should have thought about inviting. She’s going to blab to her parents.”
Joshua shoved Robert off the couch and made space for them to sit. “Maybe. And maybe not.”
They drank, feasted on pizza and wings, and danced to music under the cover of disco lights. Lola tended to her whisky and Coke all night and tried to find a group she could join as Joshua flitted from person to person.
At half-past ten, Joshua turned down the music and stood atop an overturned speaker. “Quiet, quiet, you animals. Welcome to this week’s AKC meeting. What’s on the agenda for tonight?”
Sade waved a crumpled list of paper. “Dues!”
“Does everyone have their dues?” Joshua demanded.
“It’s just like Sister Sheba’s son to be asking for dues,” Robert shouted, to rapturous laughter.
“When was the last time your family contributed to any of the welfare funds? It’s just like Sister Sheba’s son to know everyone’s business, too.”
“I don’t think Lola has paid her dues,” Jessi pointed out.
“She’s new,” said Joshua. “She doesn’t even know what we’re about.”
Lola felt their eyes on her. She stammered. “I thought this was a prayer meeting.”
Another peal of laughter, slightly unhinged at the midnight hour.
Joshua looked almost motherly. He stepped down from his pedestal and threw an arm around her shoulder. “This is paradise; this is where every misunderstood African kid buckling underneath the weight of their parents’ expectations can come to escape. However, there is a price.”
“$5,000 to enter the club,” Jessi said.
“Where do you expect me to get that kind of money? And what do you even do with all that money?”
“We help people get out of the life,” Robert chimed in. “Just last month, we paid for Toni’s first year of cosmetology school. And we hope to open up Joshua’s Paint and Sip spot by the end of next year.”
“You didn’t answer my question about where you’re getting this money.”
An eerie silence fell. “We get it how we get it,” said Jessi. “If you can’t hang, then it’s no problem. Carry your stuff and go.”
They concluded the meeting by promoting their various projects, whether it was art, music, or baked goods. Then the music was turned back up to an intermediate level.
“So what do you think?” Joshua asked as Lola was getting ready to leave. She turned to find him leaning in the doorway.
“I’ll be back next week.”
*
Lola had less than $2,000 saved in her banking account from gifts from family and friends over the years. Her college fund was untouchable. As the next week approached, she found her opportunity when her father left his wallet with the checking book on the kitchen table. He had gone into the garage to gossip with one of his friends about how a third friend was broke. She wrote herself a check and tucked it into her pocket.
He smiled when he came back. “Mr. Roger’s daughter is going to be going to Princeton as well. You girls should connect and be roommates.”
“That would be great, Dad.”
Once her dues were paid in full, the group opened their arms wide to accept her in. They played the latest Afrobeats, argued about who was the biggest artist in Nigeria, and whether they were more Nigerian or American. The group did not only meet on Saturdays, but dropped in throughout the week whenever they were free. Lola found herself skipping a rehearsal there, an occasional soccer practice, and a couple recitals just to make time to be at AKC.
*
Lola came over one afternoon to several packed suitcases lined up at the front door.
“We don’t often like to do this,” Joshua was announcing to the scattered group. “But sometimes we don’t have a choice.”
“I’m running out of time,” Jessi said. She was sitting alone on the couch and looked small in her Chanel jumpsuit.
“What’s going on?” Lola whispered to one of the twins.
“Jessi is catching a flight to California tonight,” said Sade.
“And she hasn’t told anyone,” Toni added.
They each loaded a suitcase into the trunk of the taxi when it arrived. Joshua looked a little too gleeful to watch Jessi go. He was standing outside with a glass of clear vodka mixed with water long after the car had disappeared around the bend. His lone figure reminded Lola of a streetlight that only switched on when darkness descended.
*
The church responded with appropriate uproar. There were several missing posters dramatically taped to the front doors. Each Sunday service, the pastor opened with a prayer hoping to bring Jessi back into the fold. He even titled one of the services “Prodigal Daughter.” Joshua always stood straight with his legs spread a shoulder’s width apart during these services. He sat in one of the front rows so Lola would focus on the resolute shape of his ears or the plaintive embrace of his intertwined hands. She knew he would never waver.
Once, Joshua accepted the pastor’s request to lead the youth prayer on finding Jessi. Lola had difficulty looking at Jessi’s parents during the prayer. Jessi’s mother overdressed in fur coats and red-bottomed heels just like her daughter. Her father wore discreet thousand-dollar suits. They seemed like the type of parents that unintentionally neglected their children. These days, they were clutching their small pompously dressed son a little closer.
“Please,” Jessi’s mother pleaded with the congregation. “If you have any information about my missing daughter, please call me or leave me a note. I won’t hold it against you.”
Mrs. Olamide asked Lola the next afternoon what she knew about Jessi’s disappearance. Lola was on her way to AKC and told her as much. “We are holding a special prayer session to bring Jessi back.”
Lola found Joshua alone on the couch sipping from an opaque cup. She felt a strange excitement knowing she wouldn’t have to share him with anyone else.
His eyes were flat when they landed on her. “What are you doing here?”
“I just thought I would drop by.” She didn’t say what she wanted to say, how the attendance at AKC had dwindled since Jessi had gone. Or how her absence gnawed at them. His creation had become something bigger than he could have anticipated, and she couldn’t tell whether it was his own free will or the absence of it that was at fault.
“This isn’t like school, Lola. You don’t get extra points for perfect attendance.”
“This is the only place where I feel like myself,” Lola said. “Like the real me.”
“Are you here for you or for me?” He jumped on her hesitation. “You’re trading one identity for another. You just need someone to tell you what to do and how to think. You still haven’t learned anything.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Then prove it. Email Princeton and tell them you’re not coming. Do it right now where I can see you.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Do it, or don’t come back.” His tone softened. “Sade showed me your designs. She told me what happened with Parsons. You can work on your portfolio and apply again.”
*
Several weeks later, Lola came home to a thick envelope from Princeton that her parents were sitting at the kitchen table to read. Her father also had a letter from the bank.
Mrs. Olamide didn’t look upset; instead she appeared thoughtful. She belonged to a new generation of parents that was trying to be better than their own parents. “We are going over to Sister Sheba’s house to hear both sides of this situation,” she said.
Lola tried her best to protest but found herself in the back seat of the family Jeep. They arrived at Sister Sheba’s house. Her house was slightly larger than their own home, which Mr. Olamide noted begrudgingly.
“What a pleasant surprise,” said Sister Sheba once she opened the door. Sister Sheba was wearing heavy eye makeup and a sleek, straightened wig.
Mr. Olamide’s tone had not cooled during the car ride. “Please bring your son down here. We need to talk about how he has been corrupting my daughter’s life.”
As Lola expected, Joshua was not home. Sister Sheba got him on the phone and yelled that he should come home immediately and explain himself. Joshua staggered in with his shirt looking dishevelled and his eyes half-glazed. Lola saw him in the same light that her parents were scrutinising him now. She saw that he didn’t have the answers that she thought he did.
His eyes focused more when he saw Lola and her parents in the sitting room. “I thought this might happen.”
“Where are you coming from, Joshua? Why are you looking so shabby?” Sister Sheba said in a shrill tone of voice.
“I’m coming from youth prayer group, Mom. We went to dinner afterwards to celebrate Toni’s valedictorian status.”
“Okay, please arrange yourself and come back downstairs.”
He scrubbed himself well and came back to a more amicable gathering. Peanuts and cool drinks were being passed around. They had almost forgotten the subject of the occasion.
“So what is this I’m hearing about my son?” Sister Sheba broached.
“We’ve received a letter that Lola is no longer attending Princeton in the fall. And overnight, I’ve noticed that $5,000 has disappeared from my account. Lola has never done anything like this before. This all started this summer when she started attending your son’s prayer group. Not to mention that missing girl.”
Sister Sheba blinked multiple times. “Why don’t you ask Lola to explain herself?”
They all stared at Lola.
“I have been thinking for a long time that I do not want to go to Princeton. I’ve always wanted to go to fashion school.”
“No,” Mr. Olamide said. “There are no jobs in fashion. You know that we have put every penny we’ve earned in America into your training. If you don’t succeed, we won’t be able to retire.”
Joshua crossed his legs in an agreeable manner. “I wonder what your thoughts on free will are, Mr. Olamide. We’re all intellectuals here.”
“My son is right. Your daughter is free to make decisions of her own. I have to confess, I’m more inclined to believe that Lola is the wayward one. She’s never attended prayer group before. My son created this group on his own, I have nothing to do with it.”
Mr. Olamide’s forehead started throbbing. He shook a finger at Joshua. “This was all your handiwork! She has never disobeyed or stolen from us before. Not until she started hanging around with you.”
“Mom, have I ever disobeyed you or stolen from you?” Joshua wanted to know.
“Never, not once,” Sister Sheba said with fire. “Please, my friends, it’s getting late.” She pointed to the door with her chin. “You ought to be going home.”
Joshua escorted them to the door like the dutiful son he was. Lola was the last one outside of the door. “Will you remember me fondly? I encouraged you to do what you didn’t have the audacity to do.”
“And in doing so, you became the thing that you hate the most,” Lola returned. “I wonder how free you truly are.”
As she sat in the backseat of the family Jeep, she thought about the new application to Parsons tucked underneath her pillow, the red hot tips of the back of her father’s ears, and her mother’s bewilderedness. She thought about the plans they had for her curling away from the tail of the car like a world-weary sigh from the exhaust pipe, away into the air from which it had come.
I have tasted the grim drip at the back of my throat and blown out blood bogeys flecked with white.
I’ve grown certain of my own importance and cornered others to make them feel the same.
I’ve experienced the deep sorrow of realising the night will not go on forever, no matter how much powder’s in the bag.
I’ve glimpsed daylight through some stranger’s curtains and understood that shame was on the way.
I’ve walked streets in the early morning and felt the eyes of every smug dog walker and Lycra-clad jogger trained on me.
I’ve taken the tube through London at rush hour whilst my heart tries escaping through my chest.
I’ve paid at corner shops with unfurling five pound notes and smelt chemicals seep from my pores.
I’ve spent the next day failing to sleep and the next week failing at work.
I’ve seen twitchy, geared-up men fly off the handle at a drink spilt in their vicinity. I’ve seen these men break each other’s noses and still try to snort with the result.
I’ve heard of those who’ve chased the high too long, and ended up as low as one can go.
I’ve read of mental illnesses caused or brought to the surface, and of the deaths of first-timers and old-pros alike.
I’ve seen pictures of one great mono-nostril, all the middle cartilage worn away. And I’m aware there is a chain of production, of which I should be more aware. Disadvantaged young dying on the streets of London, caught up in reaching for a better life. And beyond that communities destroyed in Latin America, just to give the middle class here their drug of choice.
But, and I realise this counts for very little, it helped me tell a friend of mine I loved him, when otherwise I might have not.
*
I was 23 and back in my hometown for Christmas. The Two Willows was suitably packed, the town young and old having gathered to let off the steam built up over the dark months since the clocks went back. It was the sort of night bar staff dread. A hundred punters for every one of them. They must have felt like they were trying to stop an onrushing tsunami with good manners and a sheet of tarpaulin. By necessity, there were more people outside the pub than in it. They’d spilled out into the concrete garden and beyond that to the parking area. And even though the weatherman was reporting it as two below, no one felt cold.
In London, where I lived at the time, you could go into a packed bar and be sure you knew no one but the group you’d come with. Here things were very different. You were at most two degrees separated from anyone, and those degrees melted away as the drinks flowed and the night wore on. So that soon you’d have your arm round an old mate of your brothers, the two of you reminiscing about jumpers-for-goalposts and cuppies at the park. Or you’d be sharing a fag with a girl you kissed at youth club, who’s got three kids now and can’t believe how little you’ve changed. Or you’re getting bought a pint by the psycho football manager you had at under-tens as he explains how he packed it in once the world started going soft.
When the Two Willows kicked people out, a good portion of us moved on to the Cork. Still a pub but slightly more at the nightclub end of things. Darker and grimier, with bouncers, strobe-lighting and a square of Vinyl chessboard flooring for those fucked enough to dance. There the atmosphere became generally sloppier. Beers were swapped for Jagerbombs and Sambucas, glasses were smashed and fights broke out. The toilets gave off a vomity tang, tears were shed, makeup ran and couples chewed each other’s faces off with no regard for the people looking on. Some staggered from the pub, defeated, and others were carried out by their friends, like heroic wounded soldiers.
By the time the Cork shut its doors, a ramshackle group of us had firmly decided that the night could not end. Some of this group had already been busy in the cubicles, and some of us put our orders in there and then. We got into taxis and headed to the house of someone I’m sure I was great friends with on the night.
In general, my memory of the evening is very fuzzy. If pushed I’d say about ten of us made it back to a new build in the nicer part of town, but that could have been a different, similar, night. I have a vague recollection of everyone sitting around in the living room, trying to get some sort of game going as one of the music channels played on TV. But cocaine is not a drug conducive to group activities, and soon we had splintered off into our own little pairs or threes.
I ended up with Toby. We found ourselves, somehow, in a child’s bedroom, doing lines off The Very Hungry Caterpillar. For some reason I have a very clear memory of what that room looked like. Maybe that’s down to the sobering effects of cocaine or possibly it’s due to the intensity of the moment that took place in there. There was, I should mention, no actual child in the room. It was a childless child’s bedroom. The curtains, duvet, and pillow covers were a matching shade of dark green. Three of the walls were painted the same colour, whilst the fourth was covered with world map wallpaper, complete with kangaroos for Australia, penguins for Antarctica, and a hammer and sickle for Russia. The floor was varnished wood, and there was a treasure-chest toy box in one corner. The bookshelf had only one row of books, along the bottom; the other three shelves were reserved for figurines. Dinosaurs, Lego soldiers, and superheroes were all neatly lined up, ready to be played with. I cannot recall what the lampshade covering the main light looked like; I just remember it diffused the room with a warm, inviting glow. But the main impression the room gave was one of waiting to be used. It was perfectly arranged and well maintained, as if it were a Google image or the sample room from a catalogue. Anyway, the room is not the story (although, thinking about it now, it may have had an interesting one to tell).
Toby had been in my year at school, and though we weren’t in quite the same friendship group, our circles often overlapped. And there, in the Venn diagram intersection, we often found ourselves, discussing ’60s music, chord progressions, or the current Arsenal squad.
I’d barely seen him since school, save for a few chance encounters at the pub, but had heard through others that he’s dropped out of uni after only a couple of months and was now working in the sorting department of the local post office. Various reasons had been given for this – death in the family, illness, mental health – but nobody really seemed to know.
I was struck by how little he’d changed. Still small, waifish, and pale. A face so thin and boyish you could clearly see jaw and cheek bones operating beneath the skin, with an expression of permanent uncertainty still etched onto it. Only his deep brown eyes hinted at some ageing, them and the dark rings underneath.
We sat together on the perfectly made single bed, passing the book back and forth at more and more regular intervals as I chewed his ear off about the recent death of my grandad. How he had gone from the man we called on to fix anything and everything in our house – the man who still lifted weights in his 70s – to eight stone of skin, bone, and morphine.
It was the first real tragedy of my life and until then I’d been surprised by how little it had seemed to affect me, but cocaine brought all the truth and hurt to the surface.
I went on and on, round and round, about the man he’d been, his positivity in the face of it all, and his assurances he wouldn’t be defeated. And about how cancer had made a liar of him. The skeletal figure he’d become, the one that still haunted my dreams. Wheezing, retching, begging for it to end. Hollow cheeks, huge sunken eyes, brittle bones set to snap. The nurses had let him grow stubble in a way he would have hated. My mum was strong, my auntie was weak, and my dad struggled to find the right words.
I don’t think Toby interrupted my rambling, powder-fuelled monologue even once. No commiserations or condolences given. But he was wholly present in a way that meant more than empty words ever could. Previously, in conversations at house parties or the sixth form common room, I’d always felt that Toby was only ever two-thirds listening to me, or anyone for that matter. Not in a rude way. He seemed to be trying his very best to concentrate on every word you said, just not quite succeeding. He’d have his two eyes firmly trained on you,but the third was wandering somewhere else. That night, however, he was all there. I felt he understood my every thought and feeling, and cared about them just as much as me. Possibly that had to do with the coke, I don’t know, but I do know that he was exactly what I needed. He listened and cared until eventually I ran out of words to say.
The subsequent silence I found pretty unbearable. It brought with it the awareness that things end. I could speak until my throat was sore, but not forever. Just like we could keep this party going until the sun came up, but not forever. Just like my grandad could live and my parents could live and I could live, but…
I fought back against the notion with another line. A little powder tipped from the bag, crushed with my debit card and sorted into a neat white streak. I took an unfurling note from my pocket and was in the process of rolling it back into a tight cylinder, when Toby said something, in a soft whisper I still remember to this day.
“My mum’s got cancer.”
It took me a moment to register exactly what he’d said. When I did all I could do was put the book down and look at him, with wide eyes that I assume displayed something close to terror. The cocaine only half-responsible for this.
“Yeah, I’m not trying to one-up you,” he laughed. “I’m just trying to say I know how you feel. Or I might do, a bit.”
I’d admired him – maybe even been slightly jealous of him – at school, but could never quite tell why until that moment. He’d always hidden his light under a bushel, in a way I never had the integrity to do. Unlike me, he never put his hand up in top set English and yet when called upon he still gave answers more astute than mine. He was known to be a very good guitarist but didn’t play in a band, whereas I was bang average and played in two. And when I’d try to impress him with some new music I’d discovered, Procol Harum’s A Salty Dog or Future Blues by Canned Heat, he’d know it already but not be smug that was the case. It seemed now the same was true of pain. Whereas I had taken the opportunity to bring up my grandad’s cancer without any good reason, at a party no less, he had only mentioned his mum to empathise.
“Is she…like…?”
“Stage four,” he grimaced, almost apologetically, like he felt bad for not being able to give me better news.
“I’m so sorry, man.” Empty words but all I had.
“It’s all right,” he said, and shook his head dismissively. Like it was nothing, rather than the absolute worst fucking thing in the world. “It’s been years we’ve been dealing with it, so it’s not like new, or a shock or anything.”
I felt almost unbearably close to him then, like the two of us knew each other better than anyone else ever could.
“Is that why you left uni?”
It was a question I’d never have been able to ask him in usual circumstances; in the few times I’d seen him since school, we’d mainly just stuck to our safe old topics or shuffled anecdotes from the pack, but at that moment I felt it wasn’t out of bounds.
Instantly, I regretted it. The words seemed to hurt him physically. He winced and looked away. “No,” he said, “that was different. I just couldn’t…that was different.”
I tried to look him in the eye. Show him I was sorry for asking. Show him how fucking much I cared. But he wouldn’t meet my gaze. He was staring resolutely into the world map’s Pacific Ocean. His face was tight and jaw trembling, more from the effort to keep it all in than the coke, I believe. With the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he pulled at a loose strand of wool from the left cuff of his frayed Christmas jumper. His hands, not fully sticking out from the jumper, looked so tiny and delicate. Like a child’s. I took one in mine and squeezed it hard.
This was a gesture only conceivable on cocaine, which I know reflects negatively on me rather than positively on the drug. Never had I shared a moment as intimate as this with another man. Not even my dad or closest friends. Gently, I stroked the top of his hand with my thumb.
Toby turned to look at me. He seemed surprised in a way that didn’t know whether to be angry or grateful.
“I love you,” I said. “You know that, right?”
With that, tears came to his eyes. He went to say something but released only a shaky quiver of breath. He nodded and squeezed my hand hard in return.
We stayed there, locked in the intense tenderness of that moment, holding on to one another’s cold and sweaty hands for dear life, until one of us could bear it no longer.
I made him promise to call me if ever he needed to talk, then I snorted my waiting line and tipped him a little powder from my bag.
After that, conversation turned to something else. American politics or the end of the world, I think. Possibly both.
I didn’t see him again that Christmas. I spent the next few days with family and then left town to see in the New Year with friends from London.
And he didn’t get in contact with me, nor I with him.
There were times, few, when it crossed my mind. When I resolved to make the effort. But it was always something that could be put off until later.
The next time I was back in town was the following May, to hug his sister and shake the hand of his stepdad. They reminded me of Grandad in those final weeks. Haunted ghosts of people. Barely hanging on.
Afterwards, we gathered in the Cricket Club’s Function Room, to say things that sounded right but meant nothing, whilst sipping on cups of tea and eating small rectangular sandwiches with no crust.
A group of us moved on to the Two Willows, and with alcohol we loosened up somewhat. We shared our favourite stories of Toby but still danced around how we really felt.
It wasn’t until much later that night, when only a select few of us remained, that we were able to be honest with each other, and peel through the layers to all the shit that lay inside.
In idle moments, it’s true, you wonder whether getting a tattoo declaring Actually, I’m fine in curly cursive script would have been more worthwhile.
Still, you’ve committed now, and unlike some you’re not afraid of commitment, even if the kefir you’ve brought into your home is proving harder work than anticipated.
In layman’s terms, kefir is a fermented dairy drink. If asked about it by your mother, say exactly that.
If a colleague or your sister asks about kefir, rhapsodise about how the taste and mouthfeel of every batch is entirely unique, because kefir is alive and active. Talk about how (accompanying your words with deep, satisfied inhalation and exhalation) vital it makes you feel. Say: “Every batch is different, just like every human being.” Smile beatifically.
Try to believe your smile.
When asked if kefir can go bad, be evasive. It’s possible the person addressing you with this question is really trying to find out if you’ve gone bad, and whether, as your mother’s sighs hint, your isolation since the divorce is cause for concern.
If they stare at you searchingly, lock gazes until they’re compelled to glance away.
Repeat: “Each batch of kefir is unique.”
Admit as a caveat: “It may present as fizzy, or even sour. Don’t assume that means it isn’t doing amazing things for you.”
Take a breath if they insist on asking, “But how can you be sure it hasn’t spoiled?”
Refuse to be baited.
Instead, lower your voice and comment that mottling is natural to the aging process, and in no way indicates that the kefir is past its best.
Say the same thing with regards to kefir that has separated, smells off or comes across as “too strong, whatever that means.”
Say blithely: “Often, a little kindness is all that’s needed.”
If this reply prompts confusion, remind them that every individual’s perception is distinct. “Sour kefir is perfectly safe to consume, even if you, personally, find it a little sharp at times.”
Don’t mention him. Don’t confess that the person he now lives with is 10 years younger, and looks it.
If your colleague or sister opt for the easy option and buy kefir from a supermarket, they’ll probably want to observe the best-before-date printed on the label. Point out that since kefir is fermented, they ought to offer it more respect as it ages rather than less. The package date is merely an indication of how long the kefir’s flavour will appeal to oversensitive, arguably juvenile, taste buds. While store-bought kefir may become more intense with time, propose they adapt their palette rather than rashly casting it out.
Tell them that their experiences of kefir may have more to do with them than the kefir. Offer the recommendation that they try accepting it as it is: “You can’t force it to fit your preconceived ideas of what tastes good.”
Daydream about retreating to somewhere windswept and isolated with only gulls for company. And, perhaps, a cat that will greet you eagerly in the mornings.
Advise your sister that once the kefir is stripped bare of its packaging, there’s a chance of microbial contamination. In other words, the vulnerable kefir can easily be damaged by careless treatment.
Reconsider the cat and instead envision a garden with a bird-table made from reclaimed driftwood, where bluetits will squabble over the fat balls you’ll hang for them.
Muse that fat balls might be a good nickname for someone.
Warn your sister’s boyfriend that to reduce likelihood of bitterness developing they should keep their kefir cool and calm. Counsel them to shield it from impurities and to treat it with reverence.
State that under no circumstances ought they to freeze their kefir. While it’s possible to thaw, stir back into life and consume, there’s a chance they will have killed off everything they once loved about their active, opinionated kefir.
Resist rolling your eyes regarding the silky hair, smooth skin and pleasing disposition of your ex’s new partner – all qualities he noted in his helpful farewell WhatsApp message as now lacking in yourself.
Cling to the knowledge that it’s his fault you’ve grown so bitter and that with a little self-care and attention you have it in you to regain your former sweetness.
Hold tightly to your certainty that the kefir will restore you to your best, most vibrant self.
The year was 1987. I was 22 and had just escaped from my first Buddhist retreat.
May all beings be safe.
I chanted as I drove my ’71 Ford Falcon away from the compound down a dark desert road.
May all beings be free from suffering.
I had bought the Falcon for 350 bucks from a guy in North Hollywood wearing a white sweat suit and turban.
May all beings be healthy.
I knew nothing about cars, having grown up with a father who ironed creases in his jeans and never even showed me even how to change a doorknob.
May all beings be at peace.
But even I knew something was off about the Falcon. For one, the engine was too small – more like a go-cart motor. “Yeah, it’s not the original engine,” the man had told me. “That’s why I’m only asking 350.”
May all beings be safe.
Safe from buying pieces of shit cars.
Safe because they’re too stupid to know any better.
At the retreat, my 13 fellow participants and I were awakened before dawn by a banging gong. We rose in the chill of the high desert blackness and marched in a single file line to the meditation hall. There we found our cushions and settled in for the morning session, which was comprised of four 35-minute meditations, starting with a sitting meditation. Just as I was convinced my lower extremities would never work again, it was time for a walking meditation, at which point I couldn’t believe the joy of a few simple steps. I rose slowly and stumbled out onto the warm rocks and sand, hands in mudra, eyes cast down. Red-tailed hawks circled above, as we, the zombie sangha, circled below.
For lunch I peeled an orange in an awareness exercise that lasted over an hour, and I, too, exclaimed I had never fully tasted the sweetness of an orange before.
I learned that the desert is very dry and that moisture is hard to come by. I learned about grey water and conservation and how to wash a sink full of dishes with no more than a thimble full of liquid. I learned how lonely one can be surrounded by others, and that no matter where you go, there you are. I felt I understood the mind of one of the 20th Century’s greatest Buddhas, Marlon Brando – I remembered once reading that Brando could sit all day watching a line of ants cross a kitchen floor. Of course!
The retreat teacher had said that delusions of grandeur would try and take hold.
On our first night he warned: “You will all think yourself kings and queens one moment, and rapists and murderers the next. You will spin from elation to despair in the blink of an eye. You will be amazed at the worlds you create and the stories you weave.”
Sitting on my cushion, I tried counting my breaths and then counting my counting, but forgotten memories padlocked deep in boyhood boxes floated to the surface of my mind and bobbed like stinking, bloated fish. I rolled each memory over, poking at its jellied eyes. I wanted a switch to turn myself off. I wondered how the hell I ended up in a Buddhist retreat in the middle of the desert in the first place. Then I remembered. I had come to free myself. To know my source. To kick self-loathing and doubt to the curb. I wanted the brass ring, the Holy Grail, the supreme burrito in the sky. I sought The Big E – Enlightenment.
At night I shared a musty prospector’s cabin with three other seekers. After meditating all day, the thin boundary of myself had evaporated, so the wheezing and nose whistling of my sleeping cabin-mates seemed to penetrate every pore of my body. I tossed and turned on the rickety bunk. I wrapped my head in blankets and stuffed my ears with wads of toilet paper to block out the noise. I yelled out, as if talking in my sleep, “Shut the fuck up!” A ball of rage churned in my belly as the sounds continued. I wondered: How fast could I kill three people? Under a minute? What blunt object could I use? The heel of my boot? A loose cabin board? What was happening? Where was my metta? My loving kindness? I had come to the desert to develop equanimity, and all I could think of was slaughtering a few snoring strangers. “Shut the fuck up!”
May all beings be safe.
May all beings be happy.
May all beings please shut the fuck up.
I wanted a switch to turn myself off. I took a breath and watched the show inside my lids. Fireworks exploded and turned into letters. The letters danced and fell into place. L-E-A-V-E. Leave. Leave. I could go. I wasn’t chained to the bunk. No one had taken my keys. All I had to do was get up, walk to my car, and drive away. I lowered myself off the bunk and slipped into my boots. I clutched my keys, wincing as the loose floorboards groaned under my weight.
My car was parked in front of the teacher’s cabin. The teacher who spoke with an affected British accent. The teacher who just happened to have the hottest Buddhist girlfriend on the planet. Why did he get a private cabin? I imagined them naked, slowly peeling each other’s oranges. In Dokusan earlier that day – Dokusan is your private interview with the teacher to discuss your practice – the teacher simply stared at me…for a very, very, long time. I thought: Should I look away? Was this a test? He’s not blinking. It’s a trick. Finally I blurted out, “I’m not sure this Buddhist shit is good for me.”
He tilted his head and stared even harder. “I mean I’m an actor, and maybe having an empty mind – whatever that is, because I still don’t get how one even does that, or what it feels like, or why anyone would really even want that in the first place – I’m thinking maybe having an empty mind isn’t the best thing for me. And plus my back hurts, and my balls ache, and I’ve found a lump in my neck the size of a golf ball that I’m pretty sure is cancerous. And on top of it all, I can’t stop thinking about you and your incredibly hot girlfriend fucking, which I know is sick. And you know what else? I was the first one done peeling my orange. And when no one was looking I actually put the rind back around it like a fucking puzzle and pretended to peel it for another 45 minutes! That’s sick. That’s a sick thing to do. Right?”
“What is?”
“To pretend I’m peeling an orange when I’m actually not peeling an orange. That’s messed up, right?”
“Do you play the sax?” he said.
“The sax? You mean like the saxophone?”
“Yes.”
“No,” I said, and then changed my mind because I thought maybe he was using a Zen koan to shake me out of my ordinary awareness. “Yes. Yes, I do play the sax.”
“Well, which is it? Yes or no?”
“For real? Like in real life?”
“Yes. Like in real life.”
“No,” I sighed. “I don’t play the sax. I only said I did because I thought the question was a Zen koan.”
He adjusted his robe and brought his foot into half lotus. “I had a student who played the sax. He was very good. Even made a living at it. But he wasn’t happy.” He paused for a minute. “He doesn’t play the sax anymore.” Another pause. “And he’s very happy now. Very.” He rang a small bell by his knee signalling that the interview was over. “Remember, there are more important things in life than drinking beer and shooting pool with your friends.” Shit, the dude was reading my mind. I got up off my Zafu meditation pillow and backed out of the room.
Quietly, I closed the cabin door. The moon, otherworldly bright, illuminated the desert valley like an old Hollywood movie shooting day for night. Starting the car might wake someone, so I shifted it into neutral and released the brake. The dry earth crunched and popped as the car rolled away from the cabins. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. A curtain fluttered. A black-throated sparrow landed on a branch. The car stopped in a soft patch of sand. I turned the key and the Falcon sputtered to life. “Grinding Halt” by the Cure blasted over the car’s speakers, shattering the silence.
“Only don’t know.” That was Zen master Seung Sahn’s main teaching. He was the first Korean Zen master to live in the West. The story goes that after his awakening he went into the mountains and began a hundred day retreat, eating only pine needles and chanting the Great Dharani Sutra – a Mahayana Buddhism scripture considered to be the oldest printed text in the world – pausing only to sleep. When he came down from the mountain, he met Zen master Kobong, reputed to be the most brilliant Zen master in Korea. Seung Sahn said to Kobong, “How should I practice Zen?”
Kobong said, “Why did Bodhidharma come to China?”
Seung Sahn remained silent.
Kobong spoke again. “The pine tree in the front garden. What does this mean?”
Seung Sahn understood, but he didn’t know how to answer. “I don’t know.”
Kobong said, “Only keep this don’t know mind. That is true Zen. Only don’t know.
I followed the fire road toward the flickering lights in the distance. On the horizon the jagged San Jacinto Mountains stood silhouetted in black, a pale blue dawn breaking across their peaks. Reaching a paved road, I saw a sign: 10 Freeway–Los Angeles. I took the ramp, patted the dash, and pushed my boot to the floor. The Falcon bucked and coughed, its neon orange needle struggling to break 30. I put on the flashers, hugged the shoulder and took the Cabazon exit, coming to rest under a life-sized tyrannosaurus rex. I got out and stretched. I walked behind a massive dinosaur leg and took a piss. A few yards away, the Wagon Wheel Diner’s lights flashed: HOT FOOD. I went inside and slid into a booth, still wearing my zebra strip meditation pants and purple tie-dyed bandanna. Truckers and locals eyed me with suspicion.
“Coffee, honey?” said the waitress.
“Yes, please.”
“Know what you want?”
“Um. How about… I’m starving. All I’ve eaten in two days is an orange. Um, give… give me… the biscuits and gravy.”
“Be back with your coffee, sweetie.”
I eventually moved back to New York, and in many ways became the actor I thought I might become. A few years later I heard that the teacher with the hot Buddhist girlfriend transitioned to become a woman.
Only don’t know.
Looking back, I realise a great secret had been whispered in the desert to that young man wearing the zebra parachute pants. And I’ve come to realise…the secret has no meaning. Meaning, that it’s not a secret at all.
No light
May all beings be safe.
No speak
May all beings be at ease.
No people
May all beings be happy.
No cars
May all beings be awake.
No people
May all beings be free.
Stopped
Short
Grinding halt
Everything is coming to a grinding halt Everything is coming to a grinding halt
“They’re calling you a King Maker, can you believe it?” the aspiring actress said to her husband. “They’re calling us Turkish Beauty and the Beast.” She clapped loudly before throwing her head back; her laugh full-throated and sudden, like the crack of a pistol.
“Who’s calling us that?” he said.
“Don’t you think it’s a good idea for me to be in your next movie? Don’t you think it’s my time to shine?” She spoke with the ringing confidence of the young: with such ambition and charm that he had no choice but to plunge a butcher’s knife into the soft flesh of her throat.
She was eleven years his junior. Just a baby, just a baby. Surely, it would be all downhill from here. Surely, a life spent under the glaring light of scrutiny would strip his young wife of all purity. A life spent dancing atop all those thick and unhappy tongues, performing. And then what would they do, the two of them? And then who would be to blame? What had he been thinking, marrying someone like this?
He needed to perform his duty. He said it out loud: “I am performing my duty. I am doing you a great service.” Really, she was such an innocent. Straight to Heaven, she’d be delivered, spared the fate he had now cemented for himself. The knife came out reluctantly. But each time he pushed it back — again and again and again — into the skin of her, he was born anew.
I first came across the photographs of David Wise in the Independent Magazine (24 March 1990) where they illustrated an article about drinking in Hartlepool pubs. The black and white pictures were raw and honest – brutally so – but they also depicted moments of great tenderness: a man looking at his crying girlfriend unable to comfort her, a drunken kiss, a last desperate hug before kicking out time.
I forgot about the photographs for 30 years. Then last year I was looking through a book of pictures gathered by the late Bruce Bernard. Bruce Bernard had been the picture editor at the Independent and had commissioned David Wise’s photographs in 1990. Included in the book was his portrait of a young woman in a Hartlepool pub from 1986. She is leaning back with her eyes closed, her hand on her knee with a cigarette burning between her fingers. It is a wonderful study of exhaustion.
The pub pictures had also been published in Creative Camera (“From the Bridge to the Volunteer,” September 1989) and in Photography Magazine (March 1991), but after that David Wise seemed to disappear. There is very little information about him online, and the only biographical details were in the Bruce Bernard book which recorded that David Wise was born in 1959 and died in 1999 – aged just forty.
David Wise worked within a documentary photography tradition that has represented both the “North” and the pub. There is a popular visualisation of the North that goes back to the ’30s and that was reinforced by films and TV dramas in the ’50s and ’60s. It is of an industrial landscape and tight-knit communities and families. The North is seen as a different country – a bit like the Wild West – ungentrified, where the men and women work hard physical jobs in pits, factories, and docks.
The North has been widely depicted by photographers, whether it is outsiders such as Humphrey Spender or John Bulmer or photographers from the North such as Shirley Baker, Tish Murtha, Chris Killip, and Graham Smith. They have provided an “authentic” picture of working-class life in the North over the last 60 years, capturing in unflinching detail the effects of economic change and industrial decline. But they have also recorded the humour, tenacity, and strong bonds that continue to hold the communities together.
The pub features regularly in depictions of the North. It is a natural subject for social documentary photographers – pubs are full of big characters, unexpected action (sometimes violent), and fraught human relationships. Booze tears away people’s reserve, exposing their most extreme emotions. It is Graham Smith’s pictures of pubs in Middlesbrough that seem to be the greatest influence on David Wise – though both artists also owe a debt to Bill Brandt’s photographs of East End pubs in the thirties.
The other photographer who was an influence was Anders Petersen. His acclaimed book Café Lehmitz recorded a lowlife bar in Hamburg and his photographs have the same intensity and capture the same desperation to have a good time that we find in the pictures of David Wise.
David Wise photographed his hometown of Hartlepool. Hartlepool suffered greatly from the loss of heavy industry – first shipbuilding then steelmaking. In the ’80s it had an unemployment rate of 30 percent, and those men who were employed worked in hard physical jobs such as fishing and oil rig construction. Hartlepool suffered all the problems that have blighted former industrial towns in the North – unemployment, high crime, urban decay, drug taking, and alcoholism. Even amongst other northern cities, it has a reputation for being a hard place. John Bulmer produced a harrowing series of photographs of Hartlepool in the harsh winter of 1962–63, and the same proud, haggard faces can be seen in David Wise’s pictures thirty years later.
David Wise’s particular setting was the old port area of Hartlepool known as the Headland. In pubs such as the North Eastern, the Middlesbrough Tavern, and the Volunteer, he photographed men and women determined to get drunk and escape their environment.
David Wise must have earned the trust of those he photographed. This is an area where everyone knows everyone, and photographing in pubs is an intrusive activity. If a stranger tried taking pictures in these pubs, he would end up getting his camera smashed. David Wise has said that, “Photography is associated with voyeurism. But these are pictures of my life taken with full assent, so I don’t believe I have a charge to answer.”
The men and women depicted are strong but battered, protective of their independence. Their aim is to get drunk, to enjoy themselves, and to escape their problems. They are photographed at closing time when drink has taken its toll and their heads are bowed in an exhaustion that can look like despair. These are intimate portraits and the subjects are presented with compassion.
In the Independent article, Graham Coster said the word “hard” is on everyone’s lips – hard jobs, hard times, hard women, hard drinking. He says that hard means “difficult, intense, determined, proud, emboldened, and often pitiless.” These are the very qualities that David Wise captures in his photographs. They are not polemical. David Wise is not reaching to make some political point about poverty or social deprivation. He is just presenting the world around him as he found it.
After publication of the pub pictures, David Wise disappeared from the photography scene. There is no record of any exhibitions of his work, his pictures do not come up at auction, and his work is absent from the surveys of British photography of the ’80s or ’90s. Were the pub photographs just a one-off thing? A lucky coming together of photographer and subject?
Hartlepool Museums Service hold a collection of David Wise photographs that were donated by him before he died. The collection is not catalogued, but a few of the images are included on the Hartlepool History Then and Now website (www.hhtandn.org). These portraits of Hartlepool men speak of the dignity of skilled, physical work – of jobs that have now disappeared – and of male camaraderie and sometimes loneliness.
There is also reference online to a book by David Wise called Gravity and Grace: Boxing Culture in Hartlepool, which was published by Hartlepool Borough Council in 1992 but which now seems to be unobtainable.
Biographical details about David Wise remain elusive. A brief biographical note in the ’90s said he was self-taught and that he had worked for a while as an unemployment benefit officer. Although he was regularly commissioned by Hartlepool Borough Council to take photographs, he does not seem to have been a professional photographer.
The history of photography includes several individuals like David Wise. People who take a brilliant series of photographs of a particular subject, get those pictures published to some acclaim, and then disappear. It often takes someone with a discerning eye like Bruce Bernard to recognise such talent and bring it to public attention. It would be a pity if David Wise were forgotten. His pictures of Hartlepool pubs are amongst the most moving images of working-class pub culture we have. He also took tender, powerful, humane photographs of other subjects and captured the dignity of men working in punishing, physical jobs.
David Wise said, “My pictures are inevitably personal, in describing life I describe myself.” He wanted his photographs to work like poems, and he succeeded. When you look at his work, you see the human spirit standing against adversity, in anger and resignation, and with a determination to squeeze moments of pleasure from a lifetime of grind. His photographs deserve a wider audience, and he should be recognised as an important contributor to British social documentary photography at the end of the last century.
All reasonable efforts have been made to trace the copyright holders of the images used in this article.
The first time I met Claire it was New Year’s Eve, on a cold and blowy Saskatchewan winter night. I was five years old and my mother and father were going out to a party and asked Claire, who lived behind our house with her parents, Dorothy and Lewis, to babysit me for the evening.
I liked Claire as soon as I met her. She was tall and slim and elegant looking, and covered in white snow, the day she came to babysit me. She shook the snow from her toque and stomped her rubber boots on the mat. Her cheeks were flushed with the look of the outdoors. She brushed crystals of snow from her eyelashes, with a dainty flick of her hand.
A few months before my father had lost his job, and we’d left and headed west. Not long after, we stopped en route, landing in a rented house where we lived for a year, across the street from a biker gang, just north of Fort Qu’Appelle on the eastern shore of the Quill Lakes, in Wadena, Saskatchewan.
My mother told me Wadena is a native word that means a little round hill, but it didn’t have any hills that I could see. It was flat land, covered with snow and ice in the winter, hip-deep mud flowing through the gulley’s in spring, dusty roads in summer. There was no running water and a huge water tank, painted white, flagged the lane that led to the front doorstep of our house. On one side was an open field; on the other was a farm you couldn’t see for the trees, and in behind was where Claire lived. And all that stood between my five-year-old legs and Old Lewis’ giant bull that guarded the gate was a short wooden fence.
To cheer me up, a few days before Christmas a Simpson’s Sears truck pulled up in front of the house. Two deliverymen carried in a brand-new RCA Victor stereo cabinet and set it down against one of the bare walls in the living room. On that New Year’s Eve, I sat, mesmerised, as Claire walked gracefully into the living room all dressed up, wearing her new string of pearls, and put on the album my father gave my mother for Christmas. Claire held out her hands to me and we danced to “Santa Bring My Baby Back to Me” and “Blue Christmas.”
Up until that night things had always been pretty quiet across the street, over at the biker’s house, but seeing as it was New Year’s Eve, I guess everyone was getting pretty drunk over there, and it kept getting louder and louder as the night went on. My mother still hadn’t hung curtains on most of the windows. We kept going over to the bay window in the front room and peering out, but it was too dark to see much, other than lights glowing through the curtains on the house across the street.
The bikers were usually pretty friendly to both of my parents, and to me too, for that matter, saying hello in their gruff voices, nodding in our direction with their helmeted heads, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, whenever we went by. Hawk was the only one who was friendly to Dorothy and Old Lewis though, and that was on account of what everybody already knew – that he was sweet on Claire. The rest of the bikers didn’t like Old Lewis, we found out later from Hawk, because he’d been out hunting for Quill Lake geese a couple of weeks before Christmas and he trespassed through the laneway, in behind their property. He’d done it before too, and been warned, so I guess that New Year’s they decided to come over and teach Old Lewis a lesson.
Our house was in front of Old Lewis and Dorothy’s place and you had to go up a short road to get there. Old Lewis kept a locked gate at the entrance to the road and he’d put up a fence all around his property so if you were on foot you had to climb over it from our yard.
The first sign of trouble came when I was in the bathroom. There was a clear glass window and when I sat down on the toilet I looked up and saw a biker with his face pressed up against it. His eyes were looking straight at me. His hot breath steamed against the cold glass. I screamed as I jumped off the toilet seat, pulling up my pyjama bottoms, and Claire came running in to see what happened.
Neither of us knew what to do. Claire checked the bolts on the front and back door and we huddled together on the living room couch. The men from across the street surrounded our house as they went through toward Old Lewis’ place. Without any curtains we were like prey to the outside world, and it felt as though we were being circled and stalked in a hunt. Somewhere off in the distance, one of them started yelping and chanting, and the others joined in, a few at a time. We were both petrified, still wrapped around each other on the couch, not moving or doing anything. We heard thrashing sounds, and lots of whooping and yelling. After a while their voices subsided, and we moved toward the windows. They had torn the fence down all around Old Lewis’ house; it lay on top of the snow. We saw the backs of their heads, faces pressed up against all the windows at Dorothy and Lewis’ place. The bikers stayed there for a while. Then, as suddenly as they’d appeared, the faces started moving away from Old Lewis’ windows. We saw them as they ran past our windows again, heads of long hair flowing behind in the wind. The bikers, I guess, having had their revenge, went back home to carry on their New Year’s festivities. Claire phoned my parents. They rushed home from their party, and the ordeal was over. But, somehow, after that night I was bonded to Claire, and always wanted only her my babysitter.
*
Most babysitters I’d had before never seemed to enjoy it that much; they just watched television and gave me my snack and put me to bed at the appointed hour. But Claire was childlike almost, and seemed to enjoy sitting on the rug on the living room floor with me, playing “Snakes and Ladders” or “Go Fish.” And she talked to me and told me things.
One afternoon, in early spring, my parents were out grocery shopping and I was sitting cross-legged beside Claire on the old brown couch in the living room. She was reading to me from Uncle Arthur’s Bedtime Stories. Partway through, Claire’s voice started to get shaky. I could tell she was trying not to cry and didn’t want me to see, like I used to get sometimes when my mother wouldn’t let me leave the table until I’d eaten everything on my plate. Something about the story she was reading to me, a story about a father and a daughter, seemed to upset her.
“What’s the matter, Claire?” I asked. I touched her hand and looked up into her eyes. That seemed to make her want to cry even more and she broke down sobbing then, covering her face with her hands. I wasn’t sure what to do next.
“Won’t you tell me why you’re crying, Claire?” I said, taking her hand.
After a few minutes Claire pulled out a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose. “Well, if you promise not to say anything to anyone, I’ll tell you a secret. But first you have to swear on the Holy Bible so I’ll know for sure that you won’t tell a single solitary soul.”
I ran and got my mother’s white Gideon Bible from where it sat, on the coffee table, next to her La-Z-Boy chair. The two of us stacked our hands, in solidarity, one on top of the other, on the cover of the Bible. Then, huddled on the couch, we sat silently and I looked up at Claire in anticipation, waiting for her to impart her secret. It was so quiet the hum of the refrigerator buzzed in my ear and the clicking of the clock on the kitchen wall seemed to be getting closer.
Claire stood in front of me and slowly pulled her sweater up to her neck and held it there with her hands over her head. I had to suppress a giggle as I stared straight into her small breasts that filled the cups of her white brassiere. Then, she turned around and showed me her back, covered in welts from belt straps, crusted in splotches of dry blood. I winced and sat in hunched silence looking at her, not knowing what to say.
Claire leaned in close to my face and whispered. She told me Old Lewis – she called him that – beat her up with a belt with nails on it, and that he’d done it lots of times before, too.
Up until then I had never heard of anything bad happening to anyone, and I didn’t know whether or not to believe Claire.
“How come Old Lewis beat you up?” I asked. “Did you do something bad?”
“No. Of course not,” said Claire. “He just wants to scare me, so I won’t say anything to anybody. So I won’t say anything…anything about…about…what he’s really like. I’m too afraid to tell anyone anyway, not even my closest friend, Hawk. Old Lewis would kill me if he found out. He said he would kill me if I told anyone. But nobody would believe you. Nobody would believe a little kid.”
“Old Lewis sure sounds mean – our father would never do anything like that,” I said.
“Well,” said Claire, “that’s because Old Lewis is not my real father. My real father was Einos Anders. He died when I was just a baby.” Claire hesitated for a few moments before continuing. “He got run over by his tractor when he left it running and then got out to close the gate. The gear slipped. Killed him instantly, my mother said.” Claire sat for what seemed the longest time after that, lost in thought and not saying a word. I held my breath.
Claire said that now that she had told me everything, we had to prove we were both sworn to secrecy. She said if Old Lewis knew he really would kill her, and to seal our bonded secret we had to make a pact. “Then,” she said, “we’ll be blood sisters for life.”
Claire told me to go and get a pin from my mother’s sewing basket. But I wasn’t having fun anymore. I didn’t want to get the pin. My lower lip quivered and I was about to protest but something about the look on Claire’s face told me there was no point in crying. That I was going to have to do this no matter what.
When I came back to the living room, Claire took the pin out of my hand and quickly pricked the end of her middle finger on her right hand. She held a Kleenex underneath to keep blood from dripping onto the carpet. Claire looked at me and I hid my hands behind my back. My heart raced. She ordered me to hold up a finger, so I did. I closed my eyes and waited for the sting. A quick prick and blood trickled out. It happened quickly but hurt more than I thought it would. I bit my lip to keep the tears from coming, anxious to be part of this intimate moment. Claire held up her finger and pressed it hard onto the end of mine. We both swore we would never tell. Our blood pact was sealed.
“Now,” said Claire, “as blood sisters we must go into the woods and bury one thing that each of us treasure.”
It was late Sunday afternoon on Easter weekend, a week to the day after my sixth birthday, and the sun was still shining in Wadena, Saskatchewan. A whiff of unearthed soil and damp leaves seeped into my nostrils as I crouched beneath a white birch tree on my hands and knees, digging a hole in the ground. Everything was completely silent. Not even the hint of a soft spring breeze sifted through the branches. I heard the crunch of footsteps on half-thawed leaves and momentarily froze, afraid to look, but when I turned around, I saw it was only Claire.
I watched as Claire took the pearl necklace that she had worn on New Year’s Eve from her coat pocket. The string was broken now, where the clasp had been, and she let the necklace drop with a soft plop into the bottom of the hole. I started to ask Claire what had happened to her necklace – she told me she had saved her babysitting money for over a year to buy those pearls. But her shoulders were shaking and her mouth was clenched, so I didn’t say a word.
Claire looked over at me. It had all sounded like such a fun adventure at the time that I don’t remember feeling apprehensive about giving up the silver dollar from my stocking at Christmas, and somehow, I just assumed I would be able to get it back.
The soil was wet and mucky as I plunged my hands farther into the earth to deepen the hole. I dropped my precious dollar in, then hesitated before refilling the cavity with dirt.
“Go ahead, Lori, bury it,” she said. “You must completely bury it.”
After that Claire told me to cover everything over. I heaped a pile of leaves on top and looked around for something to wipe my hands on. Instinctively they veered toward my wool coat, but I stopped midair. It would give away our secret if I were to go home with mud on my clothes. I slid my hands back and forth over the wet leaves until my palms were almost clean.
Claire set a large stone in the centre, a monument to our secret, and we walked back, hand in hand, toward the house. I kept turning and looking behind to try and see where it was, where the spot was. But the mound on top had already gone from sight, and now I wanted it back.
A few days after that I got curious to see whether I could witness Claire’s step-father in the act, for somehow, I still wasn’t quite sure how, if such a thing was going on, he could get away with it, and, if it was going on, I somehow felt compelled to save her. I sat, huddled on the front steps, plotting conspiratorially about what Claire had told me.
I cupped my hand around my mouth and with moist breath said quietly into my Beverley doll’s ear. “Let’s go peek in the windows and see if we can catch Old Lewis in the act! Let’s find out if it’s really true. I don’t see how come he doesn’t get caught if it’s really true. And if it is,” I said. “we have to save Claire!”
Even at a young age, I somehow intuitively understood that I was responsible for this information that had been entrusted to me.
I started spying on Claire’s house, getting braver and braver until I would go right up and stand and peer in the windows. I went back several times and everything seemed to always be quiet over there until one day, in early summer, I heard Claire crying softly from a distance as I walked toward the house. I kneeled low in the grass and made my way up to Claire’s bedroom window and heard her.
Her mother was standing on one side of the room and her step-father stood behind Claire, in an undershirt, with the top button to his pants undone and his arm held threateningly over her with the belt in his hand. The nails Claire had told me about looked more like studs. The belt was thick and leathery, like something used to tame a wild animal. Claire cowered below him, her shoulders stooped as she crossed her arms over her breasts. The right shoulder of her floral shift seemed to have been ripped, and her brassiere strap was pulled down and dangled loosely on her upper arm. Old Lewis was telling her mother to make Claire stop crying and stop making noise or he’d hit her again. Her mother remained standing where she was, stoically, seemingly impassive, not saying a word. As if Claire had taken her step-father’s pleas to her mother upon herself, realising she was defenceless, she quieted herself to ward off further attack. Her mother looked relieved at not having to get involved in the altercation. After Claire had quieted down, I watched for a minute, things seemed to subside, and, with legs shaking, I ran back toward my house.
As I ran past, the flash of my white sweater, or something, caught the eye of the huge bull moseying on Old Lewis’ property, and he gave chase. He was way behind me as I ran, but when I looked behind, at the last second, he’d caught up to me, just as I managed to straddle over the fence in time, the bull looking meaner than Old Lewis.
I think Old Lewis must have heard all the commotion or seen me at the window or found out Claire had said something to me, because after that she wasn’t allowed to babysit me anymore. But still, I felt compelled to hold Claire’s secret – after all, we had sworn over our fondest treasures – so I didn’t say anything to anyone. After actually witnessing it, somehow it all seemed too real and too horrible to talk about out loud anyway.
I didn’t see Claire for quite a while after that. Then one day, in early September, when it was still really hot out, I was inside, having supper. Someone knocked on the front door, and my father stood to answer. I heard a policeman saying Claire had disappeared and asking if anyone had seen her. Wadena is a small town so everybody was talking about it. I overheard my mother say the principal from the high school had reported Claire missing after she hadn’t shown up for her classes.
The police and several neighbours continued to search for Claire through the woods around our house, in behind Dorothy and Old Lewis’ place, and over in the laneway at the back of the bikers’ place. Police officers questioned everybody, including my parents and the bikers, and especially Hawk, since he was the last one to see her. But nobody questioned me. Right from the beginning everyone suspected Old Lewis and even her mother, Dorothy, because they hadn’t called the school or the police to say she had gone missing.
I overheard Hawk talking to my father and he said he had seen Claire the day before she disappeared.
“I went to her house,” he said. “I went up there to see if Old Lewis would loan me his sickle. When I arrived, I could tell that Old Lewis – well, he’d been drinking all afternoon. He didn’t even get up from his chair in front of the TV when I arrived. ‘C’mon in! he hollered through the screen door. Grab yourself a beer outta the fridge. Ed Sullivan’s coming on!’
“Well, I felt I had to be neighbourly,” Hawk said, “so I went into the kitchen and there was Claire, cooking dinner, potatoes boiling away on the stove. She said hi and opened the fridge door up for me. And I’m telling youse, without a word of a lie, every shelf in that fridge was filled with beer. I swear, you could of eaten everything else in there in one sitting!” Hawk said.
“Anyway, I grabbed myself a bottle and went in and set down on a chair next to Old Lewis. Something didn’t smell too good in there, and bluebottle flies were buzzing and hovering around the television. The heat was kind of getting to him too, Old Lewis said. He’d taken off his shirt and was sitting in his white Jockey undershirt, with his shorts and belt undone, trying to cool off. Dorothy was kind of huddled off in the corner, afraid to make a move like, and Old Lewis, he just sat in his chair, cool as a cucumber. He was guzzling back a Black Label. ‘What in bloomin’ hell is going on around here?’ Old Lewis yelled into the kitchen after Claire. ‘Shit, I’m sitting here trying to watch Ed Sullivan. And all day long these goddamn flies are everywhere.’
“Claire peeked around the kitchen door then, with the fly swatter,” Hawk said, “and the whole time, Old Lewis just kept yelling at her, louder and louder. ‘In this stinking heat the toilet out back just attracts them flies like bees to nectar. Goddamn it, Claire, I don’t know how many times I’ve had to tell you to shut the damn door. They been buzzing around my head all bloody afternoon and I been busier’n a two-dicked dog, bashing at ’em one by one. And just when I thought I got rid of ’em all and sat down to watch TV, God damned if you didn’t let more a them in, and two or three landed right square in the middle of the bloody TV screen. Well, I just had it by now.’
“And then Old Lewis up and pulled his hunting rifle out from under his bed and shot up the flies, right square in the middle of the television screen. A puff of smoke lingered in the heat above the TV set,” Hawk said. “And then, I guess realising what he’d done – blowing the television set to smithereens – Old Lewis took it out on Claire. He yells out wanting to know where Claire’s at. He jumps out of the chair and whips off his loose belt and takes off after her with his shorts drooping down, quite a sight, as he was thrashing at the back of Claire’s calves, right out of his head. Claire was so scared she didn’t know what to do,” Hawk said. I whipped the belt out of Old Lewis’ hands and was about to tackle him. “That’s when Claire ran out the back door and up the hill behind the house and I haven’t seen her since.”
After overhearing what Hawk said, I felt scared. I wondered then whether I should tell Claire’s secret. But I was afraid I would get into trouble for not telling sooner, so I kept quiet.
After several days of searching, a policeman went out with a K-9 sniffer dog and found Claire hiding in the old deserted outhouse in the bush at the back of Dorothy and Old Lewis’ place. She had run away from home and been living there for a week, surviving on food she had stashed away there, bit by bit, sleeping on a blanket on the floor right next to the smelly old toilet hole.
I still have the article with Claire’s picture on the front page of the Wadena News. It was a snapshot of a policeman taking Claire by the arm, gently guiding her out the door. My mother had read the story out to my father and the paper said her legs were weak from being crouched in the outhouse for so long and she was a bit wobbly and had to be held up as the police took her home. In the photograph, her blonde hair looked shiny with grease and stuck to the sides of her head a bit, but even so, it hung in a tidy bob that gave the illusion of pedigree. Her dress and cardigan sweater, usually always neat and clean, were filthy and looked shabby. But she still looked pretty as she posed in front of the outhouse door for the local newspaper reporter, more like she might be modelling a summer dress for the Sears catalogue than being rescued by the police. With one arm held slightly back, balancing her brown leather handbag, the other arm straight down at her side, shoulder back, one leg bent at the knee, she stood in front of the door, frozen in a pose. Only her eyes that, even in black and white, you could see were glazed and panicked, gave a clue of what may lie behind the door in front of which she was standing.
At the time, I felt left out and was hurt and disappointed that Claire hadn’t taken me with her, hadn’t included me in the adventure. But now I can see what courage she had had to run away and how desperate she must have been to hide in the outhouse alone, for a whole week.
Shortly after that a big dark car, like a limousine, with letters painted on the side, pulled up in front of Claire’s house, and a very official-looking man and woman, both in uniforms, got out and waited, not stepping inside the front door. Claire came out all dressed up, wearing her hat, like she was going to church, with her white-gloved hands clutching a little brown suitcase she was holding in front of her.
“Where’s Claire going?!” I asked my mother. “Whose car is that?”
“Well, sweetie, they’ve found Claire a nice foster home to go to,” my mother said. “It’s Children’s Aid, come to get her.”
“But why does Claire have to be the one to go away?” I asked. “It’s not fair. Old Lewis is the bad one. Old Lewis is the one who should be sent away, not Claire!”
I rushed out to the back yard and picked a bouquet of dandelions with white puffy tops for Claire to blow on and make a wish for good luck. I ran up the driveway to give them to her, but just as I reached her, she was ushered into the black car. She seemed peaceful and calm, her small gloved hands still clutching her bag, climbing into the back seat and not looking back, not even to wave to me, as I watched her drive away down the long, winding dirt path toward the road.
From a distance, Dorothy skulked behind the window in the front door with her arms crossed and a dark expression on her face. She didn’t run after the car to try and stop it as she stood and watched Claire being taken away, or even cry out. Her weary face seemed to belie a wash of relief.
In my mind’s eye, in the background, the string of pearls half dangled from Claire’s neck, with the rest of the pearls scattered around her feet, like a pool of milky teardrops. Old Lewis was telling Claire’s mother to make Claire stop crying and stop making noise, or he’d hit her again. And what struck me then and still does, even to this day, is that her mother did nothing to help her.
Old Lewis stood next to Dorothy until the car disappeared around the turn at the end of the road, and then he slammed the door shut on the rest of the world.
*
Awhile later I started thinking about my silver dollar, and I wanted it back. I went off to try and find the spot where we had buried it. I followed the trail, away from the house and into the woods, past the big birch tree at the corner – our blood sisters marker – and across the wooden boards thrown down on a puddle, now dried from the summer heat. I searched and searched and dug under familiar looking logs, but could not find the right spot.
A few months afterwards, in late fall, just after the start of the school year, my parents packed up the house, out of the blue, almost a year to the day after we’d stopped off on the doorstep in Wadena, and we moved away to Canora, Saskatchewan. On the last day, standing in my bedroom, I can still remember looking through my empty dresser drawers after everything had been packed, trying to find my silver dollar from my Christmas stocking, somehow hoping I hadn’t really buried it. I looked back at our house as we pulled out of the driveway for good, and realised I had lost my silver dollar forever.
I don’t think about Jean-Paul that much anymore. He’s the man who I’m reminded of when I hear Stevie Wonder’s “I Just Called to Say I Love You.” Jean-Paul’s the man I formed a first impression of, as a man to stand away from, a man I’d prefer not to enter into conversation with, even at a social distance. In his late 70s, he had a tanned, unwrinkled face. With bushy eyebrows at odds with his matted silvery hair, he looked like a retired physical education teacher, but Jean-Paul was one of Tahiti’s few qualified pharmacists from the French mainland.
I was standing a few metres away from him. It was the lifeboat security drill on the Aranui, our first full day at sea on this improbable and – by social convention – unwise journey.
“Can you please respect the regulations, you must wear your mask, not just for us, but for you too,” asked Anne, a Swiss passenger with shaded spectacles. Jean Paul leant into her closer. I didn’t catch what he said, but she didn’t look impressed.
I was already feeling jumpy. Ever since I ruminated on the bottom bunk of the cabin I shared with Mum as a kid on Channel crossings to France, I’d say I’ve feared drowning above any other outcome in life. I’d pray for weeks before I took family trips. Perhaps one root of this obsessive thinking was the 1987 capsizing of the MS Herald of Free Enterprise roll-on/roll-off ferry, minutes after it departed Zeebrugge in Belgium. It was one of my first real memories of absorbing the news when I was five-and-a-half years old. Hypersensitive, I replayed the image of the boat on its side in my mind’s eye; the different angles the ship was photographed from in the sky would stick and repeat, like a song on a scratched vinyl.
Throughout those first few weeks in French Polynesia, much as I felt thrilled by the foreign sights of sand crabs shifting left and right, I was sure I’d taken too many liberties during the pandemic. I told my partner, Mehdi, it was silly to come on a cruise. “It’s crazy enough that we’ve decided to travel here, why do something even crazier?” I didn’t protest convincingly. I didn’t want to be a stick-in-the-mud. There were subsidised tickets for people residing in French Polynesia and we were residing there during lockdown, weren’t we? Or so we comforted ourselves.
*
It feels incongruous listening to Stevie Wonder’s “I Just Called to Say I Love You” in adulthood. When I first heard it, I was seven years old and blew on my multicoloured party blower as the number one hit was turned up loud at my cousin’s disco.
Possibly the song meant something else to me back then. I felt safe at the family party. Stevie Wonder’s pop classic was an echo of all these facts lined up in a row of dancing relatives. There were my family, all four of them healthy, young, and alive, legs akimbo. Mum was smiling, her two rows of teeth on show, and my sisters gleefully shook plastic maracas.
*
“I’m going to avoid sitting on this balcony, you know how I hate heights.” I pointed to the serious drop from our cabin terrace to Papeete’s industrial docks below.
“You’re hardly going to fall,” Mehdi responded, easing me into his bearish hug.
I felt lucky. After years of disastrous relationships, this was love. Coming on a cruise when you fear drowning is love.
As soon as I heard we’d been upgraded to a “superior” cabin I was hypocritically immersed in this peculiar floating world. I’d fallen for the Edenic ideal of the South Seas, the paradisiacal charms that had done for Gauguin, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Herman Melville.
The daily routines felt satisfyingly smug. We’d have breakfast laid on, after our temperatures were checked at the entrance to the canteen. Antigen tests would be taken every three days, and we’d breathe sighs of relief when negative results were returned. We arrived at low-lying Fakarava, an atoll in the Tuamotus archipelago, which lay there knowingly on our third morning. We opened our curtains and there was an unreal toothpaste blue hue to the ocean, with ribbons of turquoise and white spray, enticing us, drawing us into its upside logic, 12 hours away from anyone we would ordinarily call to say, “Look at us, we’re here, I just called to say, I love you.”
Mehdi and I enjoyed sitting at our socially distanced table in the Halloween-themed canteen, plastic pumpkins adorning the serving station on which crew members deposited dishes of chèvre salad, steak, and profiteroles for the mainly French expat passengers. Jean-Paul asked to be moved to a table one metre away from ours. When he sat down – his battered Sudoku books and biro pen in hand – he’d ordered what was to become his staple every night: a glass of red wine topped by San Pellegrino sparkling water.
On the eighth night of the12-night cruise, and dressed for dinner in his striped iris and bottle green rugby shirt, Jean-Paul grumbled something to himself, squinted, and concentrated on his puzzle book. I didn’t notice anything particularly amiss. I imitated his raspy voice, in a hunched conversation with Mehdi in a stupid school boyish way, nothing to feel proud of. He was out of earshot, but still, I shouldn’t have. We didn’t exchange words. That his eyebrows were furrowed was nothing abnormal. It’s only now I imagine in his eyes a sadness, a determined stare designed to hide away pain. After that, he’s a clay figure.
I imagined he was homophobic, but friends on the crossing suggested he might have moved to the table next to ours because he might have been gay, albeit not “out.” Possibly his repressed sexuality troubled me, but this would be venturing too far. The truth is, I think it was his solitude that creeped me out. I once feared becoming that man – older and single – and in some ways, I still do.
On the ninth day of the cruise, heading back towards Tahiti, we heard a breathless announcement. The ship’s Tannoy crackled with static.
“Bravo, Code Bravo, all crew members, this is not a trial run. Bravo, Code Bravo.”
Horns sounded an intuitive alarm from my listing stomach. An announcement came through. Jean-Paul might have been missing since late at night; we were told we were going to retrace the route we’d charted for 200 or more nautical miles.
We stepped outside under greying skies and passed the pool. Its water sloshing about, it was a miniature sketch of Hokusai’s “The Great Wave off Kanagawa.” There were shoals of Tahitians going about their daily work, taking orders at the bars, mopping communal toilets, avoiding all talk of drownings or death.
All the emphasis seemed to be on preserving a cultivated sense of calm. The public emphasis on dying, states Robert I. Levy in Tahitians. Mind and experience in the Society Islandsis “Don’t get too upset and get over it quickly.” There can be a drive to act as though things are normal, and although I wasn’t expecting histrionics, I also wasn’t expecting one of the crew to reach for her guitar.
*
They say the Tahitians don’t like the ghosts of mischievous spirits, but I’m the one revisiting. Jean-Paul’s not haunting me. It’s me who wants to bring him back from the dead. I dismissed him, an older man, a man I should have sympathised with, with his desperate eyes and, who knows, homosexual leanings.
*
My senses heightened, I listened to the swishing sounds of the Pacific. Where were we exactly, I wondered? Surely nowhere a man could be located. Had one of the younger passengers gone missing – a husband accompanied by his wife – who knows what wailing would be taking place, but instead we heard the strumming of strings.
A day later, “I Just Called to Say I Love You” was playing on a stereo – I suppose to calm us. Stevie Wonder’s lyrics jarred in my ears, and then, the passenger relations manager entered the salon.
“We’re sorry to say that despite the Captain’s best efforts, we haven’t been able to find Jean-Paul. C’est triste. It’s sad.”
Husbands’ heads turned in tandem as if engineered by their wives.
The passenger manager didn’t utter the words, “Jean-Paul is dead.” No one did. Neither did she or any of her fellow crew switch on the Stevie Wonder track again to encourage a false sense of cheer, but they might as well have. There was no body on which to perform an autopsy, nor any witnesses apparently to confirm his fall. No crew members were visibly dressed down for dropping their guard. Passengers weren’t rounded up and questioned.
We were left instead with a simple stated fact, or was it an opinion? Jean-Paul going missing was triste. I couldn’t help wondering: What would have happened if it had been me or Mehdi gaily walking on the deck one night, or more likely, on our cabin balcony, and then one of us slipped?
A documentary was hastily screened by crew members: a tale of Makatea’s solitary place in the oceans, a sceptred isle, sometimes thought of as the “missing island.” These banalities itched like the bites of the Marquesan nono flies. Was I the only one who found evening banjo renditions of Polynesian songs awkward and oafish? What were we all so keen to celebrate?
Normality was only interrupted by the briefest of silences – a memorial service to Jean-Paul where all of us were invited to toss Tiaré tahiti, ivory-coloured gardenias, beneath a skyscape as silvery and slippery as the whale in Melville’s Moby Dick. The memorial felt like a question mark placed at a curious position halfway through a question; there were no answers, just uncomfortable looking mourners. Anthropologists write about the lengths the living will go to deny the realities of death when it interrupts a small community. Here we were, a cult in a sense, determined we must go on enjoying our expensive cruise, that not even Jean-Paul was allowed to ruin with his inconvenient death.
*
Hindsight rarely tells you anything about the causes that drive people to go missing or specific motives they might have had in mind. In a 2017 article titled “Britain’s Escalating Missing Persons Problem,” Francisco Garcia highlighted how, in the UK, 180,000 people are reported missing every year. Someone goes missing every 90 seconds, according to figures Garcia quoted from the charity Missing People. Speculation is all I’m left with.
*
A few days after docking, I phoned Dad and told him, “I love you.” I reflected on how unwell he was and how determined I was that he should reach his 76th birthday and receive his vaccines against the coronavirus. I often have a sense that something must go wrong in life; the conviction that around every corner misfortune waits. It would be glib to suggest this fatalistic outlook coincided with Mum’s terminal illness. It won’t end when Dad passes.
We returned from Tahiti, and the lush rainforests metamorphosed into darkened Parisian street corners decorated with Christmas lights and paper icicles. The last croaking sounds of the roosters finally disappeared, and so with it our memory of Jean-Paul faded. I’d search for news reports on Jean-Paul but very few column inches were filled. The longer articles – the ones hogging headlines – were filled with the incalculable damage of COVID. The story of one man’s death hardly warranted attention, it seemed, let alone a man who sat down for dinner each night on his own.
*
I didn’t like Jean-Paul, not on first appearances, and it’s nonsense to imagine any of us on that boat could have loved him, but Mehdi and I could have called him: by his name. I could have crossed the one metre divide that separated his table and mine. He could have been encouraged to look up, perhaps just the once, from his solitary sitting position filling in his battered puzzle book.
The hunter gets it in the shoulder. Clean shot straight through, but no one around but a duck. The hunter feels the rush of leaking blood staining his quilted vest. The red wound soaking through and widening, widening. The duck a likely suspect after the hunter wiped out the duck’s quacky family. But how, the hunter wonders. Gunless, armless, and the tiny duck head doesn’t seem big enough to hold thoughts of revenge. The hunter’s face is turning blue and no one to call for help. Too far into the forest for phone bars, the duck is all he has. But the duck would have to swim out of the shadow of the willow tree that is dipping into the pond, follow the trail out of here and remember the exact spot where he left the hunter. Not easy for a duck, the hunter thinks. And then, too, the duck would have to tell the authorities exactly what happened, even if only in quacks. Even harder is that the duck’s only alibi (no obvious way to hold a rifle) would be far outweighed by motive, and would, therefore, be unlikely to stick.
Mike’s left me in charge, so I’ll be home late again. Mandy won’t be happy, but then again she never is.
Outside the wind is howling, the streets are empty. But inside here, it’s quiet. Just the same old regulars who’ve decided to ignore the weather warnings. Clive’s sat at a table by the door, his border collie at his feet, head between paws. Mac is on the fruit machine, swearing as he feeds coins hand over fist into the slot. Rick is supping his fifth pint. There’s another hour till closing, so he’ll get probably get another two or three in by then. I wouldn’t say he was drunk, but fact is, it’s hard to tell with him. He’s got to be mid-50s, though he looks older and has been drinking his whole life – you can tell by his face; pink and bloated, with a nose like a fat raw sausage. His elbows are on the bar top; forearms overlap and his forehead is scrunched up, deep in thought. He’s staring into his pint glass, looking like he doesn’t want to go home, like home’s about the last place on earth he wants to be right now. That’s something I can sympathise with. I’m here eating a packet of roasted peanuts. I’m supposed to be cutting down, to keep the weight off, but I eat when I’m bored. And I’ve been bored too long.
Time is going slow. I text Laura. “How’s things.”
I clean some wine glasses, polishing them to give me something to do. My phone vibrates. A reply from Laura. “Bored. Coming over?”
I feel a burst of excitement. Her straight blonde hair seems exotic compared to the wavy brown of Mandy’s. As does her golden tan to Mandy’s pale white.
There’s a flash of light outside, followed by a snap of thunder. I look up and see Rick. Still looking glum. “You okay, Rick?” I say. “Your missus got your tea ready?”
His bushy eyebrows wriggle. He looks up at me. Shakes his head.
“Why is that?” I say.
He gets talking about his son, Sean. He’s in trouble with the police again and this time it’s more serious. Assault. I try and gauge what happened – maybe it wasn’t that bad. Rick goes on to explain how Sean had apparently battered his girlfriend so bad she had to be kept in hospital; broken ribs, fractured eye socket, the works.
“What set him off,” I ask.
“She came home late from work.”
My first instinct is to laugh, though I’m not sure why, and looking at his face I can see this is no laughing matter. “Oh,” I say.
Rick puffs out his cheeks and blows. I can see him struggling to get his head around what’s happened. It starts raining hard. I look out of the window. The wind is whistling outside, firing raindrops at the glass.
The first time I met Sean was when Rick brought him in for his 18th birthday and I poured his first pint. Sean was average height and broad, strong-looking. But there was something about him, I mean you could tell. I don’t know how else to explain it. Just that I knew what Rick had told us about Sean was true. It was there to see.
Rick starts telling me again. How that when Sean was seven years old, he was hit by a car. Young lads, high on weed and drink and speeding meant that Sean had been flung more than 30 feet into the air. He was critical for six weeks. “Should have died instantly. But he didn’t,” Rick says.
As his wife stayed by Sean’s bedside in hospital, Rick was at work. He drove lorries all over Europe; besides needing the money, he wanted to do something useful. It occupied him, distracted him from the truth. He tells me that before the accident he had been happy, he just didn’t realise it at the time.
Rick looks at me in a way that conveys his need for me to understand. He says that as he drove, he prayed continuously for a miracle. He laughs. Despite being Roman Catholic, he didn’t go to church, but even so, he had prayed. On each road, in Belgium, France, Germany, and the Netherlands, he whispered those prayers. Each night he would call home and speak to his wife, Francine, who gave him the updates: the news neither good nor bad. The same. By the sixth week Francine explained that the doctors were coming to the conclusion that there was no prospect of recovery and that the treatments were simply prolonging the dying process. That it may be time to withdraw support. “To let him go,” as they said. When Francine asked Rick what he thought about it, he was at a service station in Twente. He was looking out the window and a lorry emblazoned with the words A New Dawn pulled in. Rick told Francine to ask the doctors for a few more days. And the doctors agreed. And on the last day Sean woke up.
Even then, the doctors had said not to raise their hopes. Sean would be substantially brain damaged, they said. But over the weeks Sean began to recover. Slowly. At first, he could only move his right hand, then his left. He then began to speak, but not as before, it was slurred, but he was improving rapidly, and soon, following physiotherapy, he was walking. Rick’s eyes glowed as he told me this. Tears welled up as he explained how doctors nevertheless insisted Sean would never make a full recovery. “Managing his expectations,” they called it. But Rick was determined to prove them wrong. And Sean did recover. Sort of. Despite the hopelessness of the situation. He made it.
He made it. Rick told me this story how many times and each time when it came to the end, I felt uplifted by this story of this miracle. It was as if, somehow, Rick himself had brought it about, in the cabin of his 18-wheeler lorry, scattering those prayers over thousands of miles of tarmac all over Europe. That he may not have accomplished much in his life but he had done something good. But now listening to him tell the story again, he doesn’t look the same, he seems frail and unsure. Like he’s no longer trying to convince me that a miracle had taken place, but himself.
By closing Rick is slumped on the bar. I call him a cab, and with the help of Mac and Clive, we lift him off the stool and out to the taxi without getting too wet.
After clearing everything, I lock up. I get in the car and drive, but I don’t go home or to Laura’s either. I keep driving, over dark and wet streets. And I think about Rick, driving all those miles, and of Sean asleep in hospital, unaware of the storm outside, and of Francine waiting at his bedside.
And after a while, I pull over to the side of the road and wait for the sun to creep up from the horizon.
The city of Galway is protected from surging tides and increasingly ferocious, year-round, storms by a fabricated wall of rocks stretching from the modest docklands four kilometres west. The promenade, snaking alongside this wall, has allowed the city’s residents a much-needed outdoor respite throughout a year of rolling lockdowns. It is, mercifully, within five kilometres of my sublet and so I break no rules by going there.
I park my bike at the shelter by the diving board where, no matter the storm warnings nor below zero temperatures, swimmers can always be found throwing themselves into the North Atlantic. Yanking my keys out of the frozen lock, I eschew their camaraderie and attempts to make small talk about tides and jellyfish. I do not have the energy to reply, nor do I trust myself enough to speak without them noticing the crack in my voice or the pools of saltwater threating to spill from my eyes. I smile politely but hurry off, saving my tears for the rocks.
Moving away from the diving board, on the final stretch of promenade before reaching the edge of the city, the crowds begin to thin. I clamber the metre or so up onto the top of the wall and pick my way across the uneven folds and crevasses of the badly poured concrete. Shards of crushed rock pinch my feet through the thick soles of my winter boots. I approach the edge of the wall, looking for the secret spot I found at the beginning of the summer. But it, or my memory of it, seems to move around. In the end, I settle for any suitable perch above the tide where I remain hidden from view of those promenading on the other side.
Galway Bay opens out before me. The beach is blissfully empty. Hardly anyone ventures down this far: The tide is almost always licking at the very base of the wall and when it recedes it leaves behind vast islands of bladderwrack which make walking a slippery pursuit. I rest my back against the wall, lay my bare hands on the rock, and allow the soft breeze to caress my skin. The gentle lapping of waves, the click-clack of pebbles being pulled out to sea and the chirping of curlews fill my ears. The sacred peace of this liminal space, where the earth dissolves into the sea, and on the horizon, the ocean pours into the heavens, consumes me.
The rock I am sitting on, however, is not in its natural habitat. It was gouged out of the earth from a quarry in some other part of this country, set there by a machine and is held in place with a rough mixture of pulverised rock, sand, and water. Its purpose is to hold back the wild Atlantic swell from devouring Ireland’s most westerly city. I run my hand over its pinkish surface, my gaze catching on glinting quartz crystals, and feel a certain affinity with its dislocation. It is of this territory, but does not quite belong where it has been settled.
Across the bay, the rolling hills of the Burren’s grey limestone terraces, a 300-million-year-old landscape of fossilised sea creatures, rise out of the ocean. Some days they cut the sky with their sharp edges, their steps and crevices crystal clear even at a distance of 14 kilometres. On warmer afternoons they soften to a deep purple behind the haze and on other days they disappear completely behind the impenetrable sea fog.
I had never paid much mind to rocks. It was Carmen Alvarez, a Mayan Aj’ijq or counter of time, who first invited me to consider the life of rocks. Presiding over a full moon water ceremony to mark the beginning of the Mayan New Year, Carmen explained how the Mayans consider rocks to be among our oldest ancestors. By carrying the memory of the tectonic energies and the ancient creatures which formed them, rocks mark the passage of time on our planet. Humans have made sacred spaces of caves and used rocks to build temples for millennia, but I had always considered them lifeless forms onto which we project our spiritual beliefs, rather than beings in themselves.
Removed from the chaos of my house-share and the buzz of city streets, I mould my body to the hard surface of the rock wall and open myself to their energy and any wisdom they might have to offer. Carmen’s words have gained new meaning since the beginning of the pandemic. The permanence of these rocks grounds me as I find myself stranded and rootless in the land of my birth, mourning my prolonged separation from Guatemala. My mind slides down the wall, skims over the water and sails across the ocean, traversing tropical jungles and mountains, finding its way to the dusty city streets I learned to love as home and the people – my chosen family – I left behind there.
In a year during which human touch has been more or less prohibited for those of us who find ourselves removed from affective relationships with partners or family, I touch rocks to retain a connection to a world from which I feel increasingly disconnected. Their solidity slows my thoughts as I careen down the well-trodden alleys and dead ends of multiple anxieties: worries for the future, dwellings on the past, frustrations with the present and the sometimes overwhelming panic that what little is left of my youth, among other things, will be consumed by the black hole of the global pandemic.
For most of my youth I did not feel young at all but old beyond my years. Even as a teenager my friends’ parents knew me as “the responsible” one. The Spanish have a word for women like me, “niñora”: a mix of niña and señora, to describe a girl who acts more like an old lady. The opposite exists too: “seniña.” I chafed under my (pre)maturity and longed to be just another carefree, señina. And yet, recently, I have felt trapped in a kind of evolutionary stasis, which is only partly to do with the suspended animation of lockdown.
Over the last 18 years I have worked, travelled, gone to university, travelled again, worked some more, rented at least 20 different houses, gone to countless parties, had some lovers, and fewer relationships. Now I am back at university, muddling through the first half of a four-year PhD, of which the pandemic has already absorbed one year. But rather than progressing it is beginning to feel like I am going around in circles avoiding, unconsciously or not, the trappings of adulthood: a home and a family. There are days when the idea of property or children seems as distant and abstract as it did when I was 18. And there are days, more frequent of late, when I long for a modicum of attachment and the stability that comes with an encumbered life. Half my life ago, I assumed these things would happen in their own time, if I so desired. At 36, I realise I have spent my adulthood avoiding such burdens and eschewing responsibility.
Youth and aging are elastic concepts, whose weight is determined by gender, time, and territory: the reverence or contempt with which our shifting lifecycles are held by our cultures of origin. The West clings to its cult of youth as the currency of success. The Mayans believe a person reaches the age of their destiny, when they finally grow into the person they are meant to be, at 56. In Guatemala, elders still command respect. On days when the anxiety over my dissipating youth threatens to overwhelm me, I remember that in Mayan time, I still have another 20 years to grow into my full potential. Indeed, compared to the rocks I sit on, or the five-billion-year-old world I call home, 36 years are hardly more than a blip in time, a fraction of a heartbeat. So I sit on rocks and contemplate life cycles while waiting for the world to start turning again so things might start happening to me.
There is a tug in my lower abdomen, however, telling me my waithood is running out. A monthly reminder that despite the stasis of the last year, my biology continues leaping towards a barren abyss. I shift on my perch trying to find a more comfortable position and ease the pressure on my right ovary. The right one is particularly troublesome. I speculate as to how much longer the discomfort will allow me to stay. I worry about the cycle home and regret not keeping a blister pack of ibuprofen in my bag. I close my eyes again, letting the rush of waves breaking under the hollows of the sea wall wash over me. My attention turns to the throbbing gland encased in my bone cave and I imagine the microscopic ovum – a potential human – struggling to break free from its hundreds and thousands of potential siblings and push through the outer membrane. I will them on, imagining them breaking through and wish they would find their way to my womb.
A watery yellow sun hovers a few inches above the horizon. I pull my stiff limbs back across the rock wall before the sun is swallowed completely by the sea. I retrieve my bicycle from the shelter, where only a few swimmers loiter in the dusk, rubbing towels over their blotched red skin, and take the short route back to my shelter-in-place. The pain persists. It pulls me from sleep at two a.m. and sends me stumbling to the bathroom where I find a stringy egg-white-like substance caught on the toilet paper. It is streaked through with scarlet. I return to bed, slip an ibuprofen, and lament another failed ovulation, imagining the blister forming on the surface of my encrusting ovary. With each lunar cycle my own potential futurity is sealing itself off. It is not that I want to or plan to get pregnant this month, but I want the possibility of pregnancy to still exist for me.
The cells in the human body are constantly regenerating and replacing themselves, remaking us every day. Of the woman sitting on the rocks in late December 2020 there is almost no cellular material left of the baby born 36 years ago, except my ovaries. They were formed in my mother’s womb complete with their million or so eggs. My potential progenies, my mother, and I all inhabited the same body for almost 20 of the 40-week matrixial encounter. The ovule that would eventually produce me, inhabited my grandmother’s body while my mother gestated in her womb 60 years ago. Three for one, like a Russian doll, getting smaller with the penetration of each layer. My grandmother passed away when I was 10 and my own mother when I was 23, marking an abrupt discontinuity in my maternal line. To smooth the painful edges of the fissure this premature loss opened in my life, I take comfort in the memories stored in my cells from these Russian doll moments.
The resonances of these encounters give me strength as I struggle with the reality that I might never hold a potential child, with their own potential children, within my own womb. I am old and wise enough to realise this could be for the best. Contemplating children as a single woman, in her mid-thirties, still living in house-shares and earning less than minimum wage, seemed daunting before. In a post-COVID-19 world teetering on the edge of a climate collapse, it can feel all the more impractical, if not utterly foolish. The continuing uncertainty, coupled with preexisting conditions of wage stagnation, employment precarity, limited prospects for home ownership, and the exorbitant costs of childcare: A woman in my position must genuinely ask if she possesses the capacity to provide a secure and nurturing environment to a potential child.
Still more of my friends have decided against reproduction to avoid adding further burdens to our already over-burdened planet. My own desire to become a mother means I have struggled with the idea that individuals’ choices around reproduction bear the weight of responsibility for the earth’s future. And yet, the Mad Maxian and Waterworld-esque dystopias I watched on VCR as a 10-year-old are beginning to look like how-to manuals for surviving the climate apocalypse. That this could be the future any possible offspring of mine might inherit is something I can no longer turn away from.
I wonder if motherhood was to be part of my destiny, perhaps it would have happened by now? Perhaps I would have made a space in my life for it to happen, rather than remaining on this circuit of unencumbered, albeit precarious, liberty? Perhaps I would have chosen partners who wanted children as much as I, in theory, do? Sometimes I hope biology or destiny will relieve me of the burden of decision-making, one way or another. In the meantime I search for other sources of connection and community: whether it is the rocks which ground me, the traces of my ancestras in my own cells, or in gravitating towards other lost and lonely exiles with whom I might form a chosen family. The word saudade, in Portuguese, is used to express the feeling of missing something that never was. I may never be a mother, and there will always be a part of me which will mourn this unrealised desire, but the world is full of beings from whom to draw strength and connection.
Ursula K. Le Guin, in her Author of the Acacia Seeds, longs for the emergence of “geolinguists,” individuals capable of interpreting the “still less communicative, still more passive, wholly atemporal, cold, volcanic, poetry of the rocks; each one a word spoken, how long ago, by the earth itself, in the immense solitude, the immenser community, of space.” The Mayans, with their continued reverence for our geological ancestors, are perhaps the real world geolinguists Le Guin speaks of. It is not too late to recover and learn the languages of the cosmos, the earth, and the body, and in doing so fill our immense solitude and build immenser communities. The memory of the brief moment when my grandmother, mother, and I shared one body does not exist in my conscious mind; rather its resonances can be felt in the nourishment, love, and trauma communicated throughout the matrixial encounter, persisting across time, space, and territories.
The key to Emily Ratajkowski’s debut essay collection is in the title. My Body stakes its territory as a deeply personal and, at times, painfully honest examination of the author’s ambivalent relationship with her body. Through a series of revealing, in places clinical essays, she explores how this relationship has been shaped by the public gaze; the commodification of her body and the abuse inflicted upon her by men in positions of power.
I flew through this book as I rarely do essay collections. Throughout, I was torn between wanting to read on and wanting to linger over what I had just read. The skill of this book is in the way that Ratajkowski manages to cast her experiences in the glitter-plated hills of Hollywood and LA as entirely relatable which, all things considered, is quite a feat. For those who are unfamiliar with her work, Emily Ratajkowski is a model, actress and writer who became a global superstar, sex symbol and subject of intense scrutiny following her appearance as one of three virtually naked models in the controversial video for Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines”. She was 21 and was, at the time, quick to defend the video against claims of misogyny in the immediate aftermath of its release, citing it as an act of female empowerment. It was the controversy surrounding this video that thrust her body to the centre of a public debate to be picked over by critics, fans, and feminists alike. The opening essay in the collection discusses the experience of filming the video and its afterlife. Whilst the rest of the essays are ordered more or less chronologically, “Blurred Lines” functions as a natural starting point for the stories she goes on to tell about herself, her body and the impossibility of truly dissociating the two. It is of course the job that propelled her to global fame, but it also neatly captures the intersecting issues that she wrestles with through the rest of the book.
Ratajkowski is concerned with how power and control are exercised over and by the female body, particularly hers. “Blurred Lines” is structured around the gap between her experiences as a 21 year old and the way she feels about those experiences looking back. The self-awareness she shows in revisiting her younger self is compelling and analytical. It serves to highlight the complexity of the power dynamics at work on her that she was unable to see clearly at the time. One of the strengths of Ratajkowski’s writing is that she is prepared to complicate ideas but does so through clean, accessible prose that is in itself unambiguous. This allows her to unpick contradictory feelings that are familiar to women everywhere; for example, she talks about the strangeness of drawing pride and validation from her body but simultaneously being expected to feel shame in it. Interestingly, she quietly points to the feminist complicity in her objectification following the video’s release, highlighting that, “the politics of [her] body were suddenly being discussed and dissected across the globe by feminist thinkers and teenage boys alike”. Whilst the feminist thinkers may have been approaching the video from a well-meaning place, it is worth noting that they too treated her as a representative object rather than an autonomous young woman comprised of more than her body.
There is a good deal of meat to these essays as Ratajkowski discusses the role of early influences like her parents and particularly her mother on the formation of attitudes to her body and beauty as well as offering crystalline articulation of rape culture in her teenage experiences as she asks “Who had taught me not to scream?” – a question women everywhere have found themselves asking. It is disturbing, if not surprising, that Ratajkowski has been subjected to many experiences of this nature. Elsewhere, she refers to a sense of dissociation between her sense of self and her body when working as a model, but this comes across most clearly in the stark plainness with which she describes these violations. There are diverse themes that recur through the collection, and she treats them all with the same sensitivity and clarity in her writing; resisting over-simplification and setting out the complexity of the different circumstances she finds herself in. She delineates a clear connection between her body and her self-worth whilst at the same time distinguishing carefully between beauty and sexiness. She cites beauty “as a way for me to be special. When I was special, I felt my parents’ love for me the most”. The insecurity that this instils in her reverberates through the text as it creeps into her relationships, professional and personal, and the work she must do in her efforts “to resist the way I’d learned to conflate beauty with specialness and with love”.
Another standout essay is “Toxic” in which she discusses the connection she feels to Britney Spears who has in many ways become a symbol for the Noughties’ exploitation and abuse of beautiful, talented young women in and by the public eye. This essay picks up threads on the currency of beauty and sexiness, but it also speaks directly to the question that comes up again and again: “But did I have power?”. Ratajkowski cites the example of Britney as the ultimate commodification of womanhood to expose the sinister world young women like herself and Britney were thrown into and the vulnerability it deliberately created for profit. She describes a shocking exchange as an agent comments on a picture of hers: “Now this is the look, this is how we know this girl gets fucked!” She was sixteen when this exchange occurred. She draws on Britney’s breakdown in order to explore female friendship in a society and industry that breeds competition between young women discussing how she and another young model had “never known how to be real friends […] how to protect each other […] we began seeing one another as competitors rather than allies”. Ratajkowski exposes the ferocity and physicality of this competition as another mechanism for exploitation, another way in which young women are kept vulnerable, isolated and exposed. Again, as a woman, this feels familiar, an intensified version of an experience that is far more universal.
As a collection My Body is lean and disciplined in construction. It touches on lots of different ideas and themes that from a less rigorous writer could have the effect of diluting content rather than enhancing it. Each tangential exploration serves to further elucidate the central question: how much control do I have? This is brutally exposed in an essay towards the end of the collection, originally published in the New York Times, “Buying Myself Back”, in which Ratajkowski uses the literal ownership of artistic representations of her image to reveal abuses that lie behind seemingly business-based transactions around her image. This essay returns to another motif that patterns her pages: men in positions of authority exercising their power and influence to exploit, abuse and violate the young women in their path. The interactions she describes with the photographer in this essay exemplifies the principle of the collection’s epigraph from John Berger:
“You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, you put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting Vanity, thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for your own pleasure.
The real function of the mirror was otherwise. It was to make the woman connive in treating herself as, first and foremost, a sight.”
By the end of this collection, Ratajkowski has demonstrated repeatedly and unequivocally myriad ways in which the power and sphere of the male gaze operates as a tool for the moral condemnation of women. More than that though, she makes a clear and cogent argument that the real villainy at work here is the way that women are coerced into complicity in their own objectification, their own disempowerment, their own reduction from person to body. The collection as a whole seems, on some level, like an effort to reclaim her body from its status as a “mannequin”, something for someone else to use as they see fit. It is striking that the books of nudes that were published against her will had her name in large print across the front of them, just as this book’s cover does. It is fitting then that the final paragraphs focus on the demonstration of her body’s power in a completely different way in the birth of her son. It feels like she sees fresh possibility in this new understanding of her body’s utility and worth; the start of a new chapter in her body’s narrative, one with greater space for her, Emily, to figure in it; to write the story herself.
My Body
By Emily Ratajkowski
Quercus, 256 pages
On the east side of Austin, under the overpass of I-35, homeless people sleep – we drive on. She rolls her window down and lets the smoke of her cigarette spill out the window. I’ve asked her not to smoke but she does anyways and I don’t stop her but instead turn the music up and belt out lyrics to the song I’ve had playing on repeat.
I pull off the highway and emerge on the other side of town before pulling into the parking lot of a 24-hour café meant for college students and drunks and people like us who have nowhere else to be. I have work in the morning creating web copy for a company I don’t love, but I need the money. She’s an Instagram influencer and waits for brands to send her boxes of things she’ll only pretend to love. I’m jealous. Not that I’d ever say it.
We order coffees with oat milk and she picks up the tab because there’s an unspoken agreement between us that she will pick up the tab and I will not let my pride get in the way. There’s possibly dead flowers in a bowl on the table, and she snaps a picture of the possibly dead flowers while we wait for the cashier to place our coffees on the table. After, we manoeuvre through a cobblestone path lined with flowers and potted plants overflowing with green until we reach an empty picnic table with an umbrella opened up, shielding us from stripes of light from the setting sun.
“Fuck daylight savings,” she says. “It gets dark at, like, 5:30.” I nod, and I am grateful to have this extra hour of light that I wouldn’t get if I hadn’t left DC and gone South, fleeing a city that I thought would crumble from unrest and burnout. I open Instagram and see videos in people’s stories of beeping cars and waving signs and balloons depicting the president in a diaper. Even in balloon form, he has a cell phone in his hand, a curl to his hair. I want to pop them all to pieces and forget what he looks like. Instead, I double tap the photos until a red heart appears. I post a picture of my I voted sticker.
She is scrolling through something, too. Neither of us says anything. The sun sets, and the little bulbs that line the perimeter of the outdoor patio of the coffee shop flick on. It is the only thing that gets me to look up from my phone.
I haven’t seen her in a month since she kept rescheduling plans, so there was plenty that I could ask her about; but instead I say: “Yeah, it did get dark out fast. But at least it’s warm out.”
Pivoting from sunset patterns to weather. None of this is very interesting. I take a sip of coffee to have something to do, and it scalds my tongue. I cough and wonder why I’m not at home watching some TV show I’ve already seen 50 times so I don’t have to think about anything.
“It’s been a wild week hasn’t it – waiting for the election results to be called and all?” she asks, setting her phone face-up on the picnic table. I can see the blue light shining and open to all the conversations she’s been having with people who aren’t me.
Wild isn’t how I would describe it, but I still agree. “Yeah, his supporters are going to riot though. Way too many people like this creep.”
“Time to show up downtown in pussy hats like last time. Let them know that we’re still here,” she replies. I picture us taking a selfie in front of the Austin capitol building, which is even bigger than DC’s Capitol building, while wearing those pink hats and posting it on Instagram. She’ll get 4,000 likes. Strangers will post fire and clapping emojis in the comments. In reality, I get panic attacks when I’m in crowds.
I watch her suck on cigarettes while she scrolls, pausing to tap them against the edge of an ashtray. She breathes the smoke right in my face. I drink more coffee to have an excuse to look down. I wish we were still driving so I could have an excuse to have something else to focus on; something I am heading towards.
Back home, in the tiny town where we both grew up, we’d drive together on back roads with high beams on while looking around corners for stray deer that could emerge out of nowhere. Both of our parents thought we were at the other person’s house, but really we’d go nowhere in particular in the dark until we grew tired and mapped ourselves back home again. Now we have nothing to say to each other, and I wonder how we got here.
In high school, she was the hot one. I was something less than that. She was on the volleyball team. I came in last when we ran the mile in gym class. I was top of the class. She didn’t care about being anything close to top of the class. It was the perfect dichotomy set up to tell a story about the two of us, pivoting us against each other. Even now, I compare my moves to hers. I move to Austin because she tells me I should and I was looking for somewhere to escape to. Now we are here.
Our friendship is grandfathered in. I knew her before I left my hometown and tried to become someone different, so I let her stay. Sometimes, I let myself revert back to the teenage version of myself who smokes and doesn’t understand that women haven’t, in fact, achieved equal rights like I was told. I imagine that she does the same.
When I walk back into the coffee shop for a refill, cash she gave me tucked under my arm, I wait behind another girl who is taking a photo of the same dying flowers.
“You got finals coming up?” the cashier asks. He’s assuming I’m in college because I’m short and look young and I don’t have the energy to correct him so I nod. I could be the kind of person who is purchasing a second coffee with her parents’ money because I attend the elite university nearby and I’m pulling an all-nighter. But really I have never pulled an all-nighter, and I am here because I can’t think of anywhere else to be. The cashier hands me the coffee and says: “Good luck, I’ll be here all night too – if you need anything.”
I walk away and let myself imagine that he was flirting with me. A thought emerges before I can stop it: never the hot one. I push the thought away, go back to the table, and set the coffee down in front of her.
“I’ve been talking to this guy on Bumble and I think I’m going to meet him tomorrow,” she says before I’ve swung my foot around the bench of the picnic table. I picture her talking to him, some stranger, the entire time we’ve been together.
“I thought we were going to the rally at the capitol downtown tomorrow?” I say it like a joke, but it is also a question. I half wanted an excuse to bail on the loud noises and the crowd but also know I should go or risk being the apathetic young person people assume my generation to be. I also hate the idea of standing for that long under the Texas sun – hot even in November. Sweater weather for those cooling down from a 110º daily summer, boiling for me after living in 50º weather on the East Coast.
“I can do both. I probably won’t be at the rally the entire day. No one can even hear the speakers anyway.” I want to make a joke about her being there only to take photos and videos for her Instagram story, but I knew she would take it seriously. She goes back to swiping on Bumble. I watch her slide her finger left and right.
“How are the boys?” I ask.
“Too many guns and dead animals, TBH.”
“I guess that’s to be expected.” It could have been a dig at Texas, but men posing with dead animals has existed in all the states I’ve ever opened the app in.
“Clearly wanna marry him,” she says and shows me a profile picture that is just abs.
“You could do worse,” I joke. Neither of us mention the rally again. I consider texting her in the morning to firm up plans.
She extinguishes the cigarette, stamps it into the ashtray until there isn’t anything else. For something to do, I text my parents that 54 percent of people named Jennifer and 56 percent of people named Richard voted for the outgoing president, and neither of them replies. I retweet some videos of people chanting and cheering outside of the White House. I swallow the rest of the coffee which has now gone cold with the wind that has picked up.
When I am about to suggest that perhaps we head home, fireworks burst in the sky above us in celebration of this shift in our country.
I think: This is where we are now.
I have been working night shifts on and off for a decade now. During that time I’ve noticed a peculiar culture fostered by those rostered to work outside of normal hours, a set of customs which passes over the heads of my more diurnal friends. There’s a definite spirit of the night shift, one you wouldn’t recognise having spent your life only contracted from nine until five. I am fond of the night shift, though the relationship may be hard to justify
As I settle into a reversed sleeping pattern, a more contemplative mood emerges. In the quiet hours I see a more reflective version of myself. Even on the commute, both ways, I’ll have a feeling of sonder at the people I’m sharing a train carriage with or waiting beside at the bus stop. It’s probably the cotton-wool brain and perpetual jetlag, but I do find myself wondering who these people are and what are they up to, especially if they’re on the way into work, as I am.
There are many methods of easing yourself into the routine for a run of nights, and I think I’ve heard them all. If you have the time, you can adjust your body clock gradually and if you haven’t, you might have to power through it with a lot of coffee and hope for the best. That usually works for the first one. After that you have to pray that you can catch enough sleep during the day to allow you to function overnight. This is always the first question on any night shift worker’s lips’ it is the way we greet each other: “Good morning [at eight p.m.]. How’d you sleep?” When we part until the following night, almost universally we wish each other a good rest instead of saying goodbye. We become obsessed with comparing four or five hours of slumber snatched between construction work or childcare.
One of my colleagues used to employ a technique, gleaned from some Harvard Medical School study, which purportedly resets the body’s cortisol level by fasting for 16 hours. I found that this works for getting into the reversed cycle, not so much for getting out of it, and it is always more difficult to readjust to daylight. The morning after the shift is a wash; it is best to accept that early on and snooze on the couch for a short while if you want to readjust your body clock. Some people go out for a boozy brunch. I’ve tried both and can see the merits in both approaches.
A few nurses I have worked with lived in perpetual darkness – they woke up in the afternoon, picked up the kids from school, made dinner then went to work a full shift before coming home to do the school run, and then bed. Sometimes they maintained this astonishing routine for years.
Most of my night shifts have been spent in hospitals, already curious and superstitious places during the daytime. If you don’t believe me, talk to any emergency room nurse about the full-moon effect then wish them a “quiet shift” and ready yourself for wailing and the gnashing of teeth. Hospitals at night are liminal spaces. As the bustle and action in the wards settles to a quiet, we hunker down and carry the fire through the wee hours until the day shift pitch up to collect it from us. Emergencies aside, nothing happens overnight. The job is by nature transitional. Tasks are divided into what needs to be done now and what can wait until morning.
That’s not to say that these shifts aren’t busy, far from it. With fewer services and supportive staff around, you are forced to be more independent. As the stewardship of these situations is yours, so too are the decisions. If something can’t safely wait until morning, then it is down to you to sort it out or find someone who can. The night shift can be make or break for healthcare workers. Some dread them. It is when your honed skills and knowledge are put to the test as you struggle to remember guidelines and drug doses at five a.m.
Stranger issues tend to crop up overnight. It is when the bizarre misadventures arrive in accident and emergency. What drives someone to eat fifteen packets of silica gel or insert a light bulb into their anus glass-end first? When I worked in bars and retail, it was when the stranger customers started to pitch up. The daytime clientele are distinct from their crepuscular counterparts, those with strange dress and stranger habits from another walk of life. Like Chris Rock said, no one ever needs anything good from a cash machine after three in the morning.
The upside to this dichotomy of acute situations occurring only after hours is that all of the daytime bureaucracy melts away. The dullest tasks are those left for the day shift as by their nature they are the least important. Your time is for emergencies and excitement. For good reason too: One of my bosses used to say that working overnight was like trying to do the job after two pints. She was right; your brain isn’t in tune. This is why insomnia is carefully regulated by the logistics and airline industries, though sadly healthcare has yet to catch up.
On the other hand, if the night is a peaceful one, then you have time to read, listen to music, even watch some YouTube. If I can, I choose to write, leaving editing for sunlight hours. You can gather in a staff room or office under some blinking neon lights which dry your eyes out and sit with your colleagues and get to know them better over takeaway – another preserve of the night shift. The night shift draws out a different side of people. I am convinced that this is the frontal lobe going to sleep. Once they lose their executive function, you see them as they really are. The mask slips into delirium. I have had some of the most thoughtful and revealing conversations with colleagues due to this frontal lobe dieback.
Sit down with a good book and a cup of tea to greet the sunrise. You watch the clock while the dawn chorus starts. When the day team arrive, you pass the torch, either cackling at the mess or in a fugue from exhaustion. Then, as is the privilege of those folk who keep the lights of society on while everybody else gets to sleep, you’re free to walk out from the shift and into the daylight, feeling as though you’re 10 feet tall.
I am thinking about Amrita until Amrita raises her head and says stop and then I am dreaming about Amrita because we have knocked our heads together in the way only children can without dying except maybe I am dying because Amrita says it’s okay to hold her hand.
1.
Amrita is sitting in the shade next to the playground, as she often does. Amrita is saying, I wish you would stop making up stories about me. As she often does.
2.
We sort through the grain fields. In the early morning, when the sun only hits the tallest leafy heads and the air below them is cold and damp enough to crawl through.
Amrita and I do it like ladies: straight spinned, knees to the ground, two hands gripping the wheat stalks, gently. We are passing their stems between our fingers. Moving them aside with the care of our own hair, brushed strand by strand.
Why do you always make us farmers? Amrita asks me.
I don’t say anything. I never say anything if I can help it, words are made of carbon and carbon is just waiting to burn. Even breathing is enough to stoke the flame.
1.
Amrita wakes up with my hands around her hands around my throat. When she pulls away from me she knows that torture is not so different from relief.
Amrita and I talk about my pyromaniac phase and the dream I had about being a witch on a pyre, about offering my throat.
And she knows why.
2.
She’s a better harvester than I am. When she directs my fingers around the stem, she does it with her fingers on my fingers. And when I pull the root out, I pull my fingers away too.
1.
We’re playing with the Barbies in my basement, with the ceiling lights for twin suns and their flickering for the end of the world.
She says the carpet looks like corn stalks and harvests them between her plastic thumbs. That night we have a bountiful harvest, and my mother says I must replace the culled patch myself. I do not mind when Amrita goes home because her Barbie remains, hand as close as it can rest to mine.
2.
She’s just a breath behind my dirt digging knees. And oh the graves authored by these knees. When the mud dries in the sun – flakes off and falls down – it’s only red on the other side. When the hands resting on them – Amrita’s, spindly, rounded, almost nailess at the thumbs – they are bruising red again.
2.
We are standing now – it is too late to hide from the sun. I am forcing my breaths out, I say, There is something wrong in my chest. I grip the place inside where it burns. Amrita averts her eyes to preserve what is left of my modesty. I roll on the ground baking in the heat. Melting in its intensity.
It feels that way, sometimes, Amrita says.
1.
Amrita’s eyes are as brown as they are red. She’s weeping openly from those eyes. Hair longer than my mom will let me grow mine, it sticks to her wet cheeks. The sun is shining in the middle of the sky, burning up everything.
But not her. Amrita is under the shadow of the playground equipment saying, I don’t play pretend games anymore.
“I like beer. I don’t know if you do. Do you like beer, Senator?”
If the political circus that was Supreme Court Judge Brett Kavanaugh’s Senate confirmation hearing taught us anything, it’s that Kavanaugh likes beer. The titular, monomynous Cavanaugh of Joshua Kornreich’s new novel also likes beer. And yet, as Kornreich tells us early on, “Cavanaugh was not Kavanaugh,” and “Kavanaugh was not Cavanaugh.” This, then, begs the question, who is Cavanaugh?
Kornreich’s Cavanaugh draws this question out over the length of its darkly comical, booze-soaked duration, spinning the reader around in circles as we follow Cavanaugh on an anti-heroic adventure that is touching, repulsive, distressing, and hilarious all at once. Part political satire, part absurdist fiction, part existential meditation, Kornreich skilfully mixes questions of personal identity, family, sexual assault, alcoholism, and trauma into a melting pot of moral ambiguity.
Kornreich creates his whirling dervish of a narrative through his tight, repetitive, and refreshingly original prose, whilst bemusing the reader with the sheer absurdity of some of the inner workings of Cavanaugh’s world. There is a dash of Dostoyevsky’s The Double in the form of Cavanaugh’s “friend” O’Reilly, a touch of Kafka in Cavanaugh’s opaque yet open-ended encounters with those he encounters on his adventures, and a hint of American Psycho in both Cavanaugh and the reader’s inability to quite figure out what is and isn’t real.
Cavanaugh begins serenely enough, with Cavanaugh and O’Reilly attending a minor league baseball game with their two young daughters. With a quintessentially American scene in progress, peanuts and crackerjacks to boot, Cavanaugh is surprised to learn that his aural namesake Supreme Court Judge Brett Kavanaugh is throwing out the ceremonial first pitch. The adoring crowd, including O’Reilly, seems not to share in Cavanaugh’s opinion that Kavanaugh is “more or less… a sociopathic sexual predator”. This opinion stokes a moral quandary when his daughter pleads with him to buy her one of the Brett Kavanaugh bobblehead dolls on sale at the game. Against his better judgement, Cavanaugh buys his daughter the bobblehead, and in doing so triggers the unravelling of his previously uneventful life.
Kornreich confronts us with a man who slowly but surely sees his internal and external world fall apart around him. At the novel’s opening we are told of “a voice – a living, breathing voice,” that resides inside Cavanaugh’s head. It is this voice that first proffers the thought “I could use a drink”, and eventually drives Cavanaugh, who has been sober since the birth of his daughter, to begin the destructive alcoholic-binge that fuels his odyssey of personal crisis. As Cavanaugh blunders through a succession of increasingly surreal and grim drunken encounters, some entertaining, others mortifying, this voice and his own become indistinguishable, causing both Cavanaugh and the reader to question the nature of Cavanaugh’s reality. And perhaps unsurprisingly, the voice in Cavanaugh’s head sounds like none other than Justice Brett Kavanaugh.
The referencesto the real-life judge, rather than the Kavanaugh bobblehead that accompanies Cavanaugh on his “travels”, are expectedly frequent, creating the contextual milieu for Cavanaugh’s downward spiral. In particular, Kornreich draws on the events of Kavanaugh’s 2018 Senate confirmation hearing, which was marked by sexual assault allegations brought forward by several women against Kavanaugh. The most serious of these allegations was made by Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, who was called on to testify in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee. Dr. Blasey Ford claimed that whilst in high school she attended a small gathering at which Brett Kavanaugh and his friend Mark Judge, who were both “visibly drunk”, forced her into an upstairs bedroom where Kavanaugh pushed her onto the bed, groped her, tried to take off her clothes, and covered her mouth to stop her from calling for help.
The hearing that followed was a political farce, with the controlling Senate Republicans refusing to delay Kavanaugh’s nomination in order to hold a full FBI investigation into Dr. Blasey Ford’s claims, whist simultaneously using their allotted time for questioning to lionise Kavanaugh and his public service. Meanwhile, the Senate Democrats were reduced to scrutinising the minutiae of Kavanaugh’s high school yearbook, quizzing the judge on the meanings of high school slang phrases, such as “boofed” and the “Ralph Club”.
Many of Cavanaugh’s escapades reflect this real-life absurdity. As mentioned, like Kavanaugh, Cavanaugh has a penchant for beer, frequently guzzling three or four pitchers of it at a time. Kavanaugh’s “Ralph Club” turned out to be a reference to his apparently “weak stomach”, another trait shared by Cavanaugh, who frequently produces copious amounts of vomit after consuming said pitchers, often alongside vast quantities of buffalo wings. “Boofing”, so Kavanaugh claims, referred to flatulence, another of Cavanaugh’s pastimes. And Cavanaugh even has the knack of “posing a question when being posed with one yourself”, a strategy employed numerous times by Kavanaugh during his hearing, most notably responding to Senator Amy Klobuchar’s question regarding whether he’d ever blacked out after drinking, with a pointed “have you?”.
Blackouts were a point of contention during Kavanaugh’s Senate hearing, and whilst he repeatedly denied he’d ever blacked out after drinking, Cavanaugh is not so lucky. His frequent and increasingly lengthy periods of lost time are interspersed throughout the book, one of which ends up being recounted to him by a sympathetic police officer investigating a stalking report made by a waitress Cavanaugh follows into a women’s bathroom. Tellingly, the officer, who’s a “big fan” of Kavanaugh, reassures Cavanaugh that he “didn’t touch her” and suggests the waitress is “as much to blame” for the incident after serving Cavanaugh his four pitchers of Guinness. The officer assures Cavanaugh he’ll “take care” of the situation.
While these details paint Cavanaugh in a singularly unsympathetic light, Kornreich’s leading man does at least inspire a degree of empathy that it might not seem he deserves. From the moment the Kavanaugh bobblehead enters Cavanaugh’s life, he is a man truly without control. He is powerless to resist the voice in his head, and once he begins his alcohol-induced romp, his decisions follow the “cockeyed logic” of the alcoholic. Even in the incident with the waitress Cavanaugh, unlike the cop who visits him, is horrified to learn of his actions, aghast at the possibility that he traumatised the waitress:
“’Traumatized?’ The word shook Cavanaugh to his core. Traumatizing women was something other men did to women – men like O’Reilly, perhaps, or Brett Kavanaugh – but not he, not Cavanaugh.
It just wasn’t possible. Or was it?”
Of course, whether or not a stalker feels bad about their actions does not excuse them, nor earn them sympathy, but the focus on trauma and how it is created and lived with does create the moral ambiguity that permeates Cavanaugh. We discover early on that the voice living inside Cavanaugh’s head has been with him since he witnessed his mother being raped by a “shadow”. A shadow implied to be Cavanaugh’s father. A shadow who puts his hand over Mrs. Cavanaugh’s mouth to stop her from calling for help. The sounds and details of this event echo throughout Cavanaugh: “the jingle of a belt against buckle. The clank of boot against wood. The barking from a dog down the road.” Kornreich snares both his main character and the reader in a loop of traumatic memory, permeating each of Cavanaugh’s calamities with this mundanely horrific soundscape.
For all its dark absurdity, it is the recurring nature of trauma that lies at the heart of Cavanaugh. The book moves in circles, constantly recycling both Cavanaugh and the reader back to places already visited, events previously occurred, phrases already muttered, more often than not on the buses that Cavanaugh likes to ride in loops around his city. The voice inside Cavanaugh’s head assures him that “what goes around, comes around” and as Cavanaugh’s journey comes full circle it becomes clear that his actions have inflicted trauma on others as trauma was once inflicted upon him.
And yet if Cavanaugh is not Kavanaugh, and Kavanaugh is not Cavanaugh, who is Cavanaugh? And, perhaps importantly, what are we supposed to make of him? Kornreich deliberately gives no easy answers to such questions. In many ways, Cavanaugh is nobody and everybody. A “middling middle-aged middleman” with no first name, who is just as capable of inflicting trauma on those around him as he is a victim of it. A man who is capable of loving his wife and daughter, and yet unable to remember them as anything but “Cavanaugh’s wife” and “Cavanaugh’s daughter”. A man, like every human, who posses the potential to be simultaneously good and evil, and be on the receiving end of both good and evil.
The question that sticks in my mind after reading Cavanaugh is whether using a Brett Kavanaugh bobblehead as the trigger for a man’s fall from grace is the right device to deliver such a message about the morally ambiguous nature of humanity. I would ask of Cavanaugh why we are shown the consequences of rape for the son of a woman and not the woman herself. However, as Kornreich points out from the outset, one’s opinion on Brett Kavanaugh tends to be a good gauge for where one sits on the political spectrum, and I myself am no exception. Undoubtedly those at the other end of the spectrum to myself would have much greater grievances with Cavanaugh, and the aspersions it casts on the judge, than my own misgivings about how sexual assault is dealt with in a piece of fiction.
And perhaps this is Kornreich’s point. To one side, Brett Kavanaugh is a “sociopathic sexual predator”, whilst to the other he is “one of the great patriots of our time and one of the true protectors of our freedom.” Cavanaugh, meanwhile, is neither of these. He lies not at either end of the polarised, morally cocksure political debate of the day, instead occupying the in-between of day-to-day reality, sometimes murky, grimy and painful, sometimes loving, caring and understanding. And by emphasising this I do not believe Cavanaugh needs to be read as an attempt to sympathise with morally reprehensible actions, equivocate on matters such as sexual assault, nor as an attempt to expunge the misdeeds of those who’ve suffered through the reprehensible. Instead, Cavanaugh offers an opportunity to hold a mirror up to ourselves, albeit an absurd one, and attempt to gain a deeper understanding of what we owe our fellow humans, what we are owed, and the consequences of failing to live up to our shared moral bonds.
Cavanaugh
By Joshua Kornreich
Sagging Meniscus Press, 236 pages
At the airport they doused themselves in various perfumes, expensive and extremely flammable, but it was too early in the morning for that sort of thing. The departure hall was packed, and they both felt overdressed. Elise stood by a yawning pane of glass overlooking the runway, the closest she could get to being outdoors, and tried to guess whereabouts in the sky the sun might be. Jackson eventually decided to pay extra for the executive lounge since it was the only place they could sit down.
They tried to enjoy this brief luxury. Elise had a glass of bubbles but avoided the oyster bar. She didn’t want anything that raised her chances of throwing up, or diarrhoea. Jackson had a pint and a half of Czech lager and tried not to give too much attention to the large screen showing the US Open. Already he feared, at this relatively early stage of their relationship, that Elise might find his presence uninspiring when stretched across a long weekend. Their flight was delayed by 40 minutes, then another 15, and by the time they were eventually called, the lounge was starting to feel like an expensive no man’s land neither of them had foreseen or properly prepared for.
Despite having discussed the prospect a week earlier, despite now being covered in nominally sweet fragrance, they didn’t have sex on the flight. Elise couldn’t deal with the image of them both leaving the cubicle at the same time, dishevelled, maybe sweating, faced by a queue of fellow passengers fully cognisant and disapproving of their selfish, possibly unlawful act of near-public indecency. She wondered if intercourse would leave a telling scent upon them when they sat back down. Jackson was also content not to be joining the mile high club on this occasion because when he checked the toilets they were unnervingly dirty and the fluorescent bulbs in there left nothing to the imagination, nowhere to hide. Neither Jackson nor Elise raised the matter, each hoping the other had forgotten the whole thing. Elise glanced through the in-flight magazine without really concentrating on any of the words or pictures. Jackson ate his packet of complimentary peanuts and coughed explosively as one went down the wrong way.
It took Jackson longer than he’d hoped to adjust to the clutch on their rental car. He stalled twice in the first half hour and went to great lengths to appear unphased. The heat was good in the air but sticky under their clothes. They got lost and managed to blame it on the sat-nav rather than each other. Neither minded that much anyway, there was plenty of afternoon ahead of them. Elise liked the buildings, and Jackson liked the landscape. Each of them thought everything more romantic because of the old, tanned, wrinkled people who sat by the roadside like milestones, not romantic in the sense of amorous, but in the sense of something gorgeous and alien, sunkissed to the point of phantasm, and probably unattainable. Anyone walking was walking slow enough to make it look like a form of meditation. Jackson tried not to drive too fast, but it was impossible to truly believe they had nowhere to be. He took one bend too violently and nearly collided with an oncoming truck. Elise swore uncharacteristically, and neither of them were sure whether it had been directed at Jackson or at the sudden prospect of death. Jackson apologised and they lapsed into utter silence for fifteen minutes, adrenal glands throbbing.
A few miles from the village they stopped on a hill covered in bright blue flowers and took in the low valley view. Elise bought them ice cream from a silent man in a booth, and when she returned to Jackson she went to kiss him on the back of the neck, as if to say she had forgotten about almost dying, but Jackson stepped back without knowing she was there and she bumped her teeth against his skull. This time he was the one who swore. Elise told him he could choose whichever ice cream he wanted then regretted the offer because she didn’t like the taste of hers. The silent man in the booth showed no interest in them or the beautiful scenery. There were no other tourists, and it was unclear how he could make a living if it was always this quiet. Further down on the plain, something resembling a huge dog made its way through the blue wash of flowers. It was too small to identify properly but too big to ignore. Jackson tossed the last of his ice cream and said they should probably get a move on.
The villa turned out to be too big for them. They walked around the kitchen and dining area feeling as if the echoing space needed friends to fill it. The pool had what appeared to be small moths floating on its surface along with occasional strands of hair. It took them a while to find the net with which to remove these imperfections. Elise surveyed the boundaries of the property, marked by huge stone walls, hot as oven plates, presumably there to keep the rest of the village out but also preventing a decent view of the countryside. To enjoy that you had to stand out in the street with the local cats, or climb up onto the roof. Whilst Elise tried to gauge how dangerous this might be, Jackson took a shower and worried about whether he had shaved his testicles in a manner that would please her. The shower gel provided did not have a label on it and he presumed this meant it was cheap and refillable. Outside, Elise began to attract mosquitoes but she didn’t notice straight away, because the evening was still bright and livid, unlike evenings she was used to back home, and the bites she suffered in those first few hours would plague her for the rest of the trip.
They had dinner at a local restaurant which made an effort for foreigners but was practically empty. When they sat down, neither of them quite knew what to do with their hands, limbs, or heads, and conversation was strained, like the holiday hadn’t started properly. It took a while for them to decipher the menu. After dinner they returned to the villa and had the sort of sex which felt good at the time but afterwards had each of them doubting whether it would prove memorable. They went to sleep realising they’d forgotten to buy breakfast items, listening to a wave of dog howls moving back and forth over the hills.
When Jackson opened his eyes the next day, Elise pretended to be asleep for a little while longer because she didn’t want to have morning sex. Jackson was self-conscious about his breath anyway, so wouldn’t have tried it. He’d ordered a dish the previous evening containing onions only partially cooked, most of which he could still taste. He told himself he would take a bracing dip in the pool to demonstrate he was the sort of person who did that sort of thing, but he stepped out into the already baking patio heat to find more moths and hair had accumulated overnight on the water’s surface, and fetching the net felt like too much work.
In the bedroom Elise was focusing on a pulse in her right leg that only made itself known when she pressed it into the mattress. It was erratic and fluttering, but when she checked the pulse in her wrist, then the beating of her heart, they were both slow and confident, so she figured it must be a twitching muscle, a juddering nerve, one that only existed when she was lying down. She heard Jackson step back into the room then stop, which meant he was watching her, motionless on the bed, and she hoped the sheets had fallen in such a way that the most intimate parts of her nakedness were hidden, because she didn’t want to be looked at that way at this hour. Jackson moved through to the en suite, where he turned the shower on in order to mask any incidental noises. He cleaned his teeth so violently it made his eyes water. Elise stopped pretending to be asleep when he emerged, but by this point Jackson had decided he wanted to spend some time alone so volunteered to go foraging.
Outside, in the village, he spent far longer than he wanted getting stared at by local residents without knowing how to ask them for directions. When he found a shop, it offered only eggs, powdered salt, and a rack of dried herbs he couldn’t identify. He bought some of everything and hoped Elise would think this good enough. Meanwhile, Elise had also decided not to face whatever was in the swimming pool and was instead sitting on the bedroom floor, flicking through brochures of local landmarks. She would have been content to stay in the villa all day but feared this would leave them with nothing to talk about in the evening. When Jackson returned, red faced and trying to disguise the fact that he’d found his errand stressful, he asked her what she wanted to do that afternoon, and she held up whichever brochure she happened to be holding at the time.
In the car Elise asked Jackson what he thought a hernia felt like. He said he thought it had something to with your stomach poking through your ribs. Elise said he’d clearly been let down by the state school system and then called him “poor Jackie.” This was an affectionate name she’d recently conjured, but Jackson hadn’t yet worked out how to tell her he hated it. He hoped that if he didn’t respond for long enough she’d eventually get the message and try something else. He asked why she wanted to know about hernias and she said she was just curious, when in fact she’d detected a small, painless lump on her pubic bone and wondered if it might be her small intestine making itself known. She tried to remember the last time she’d physically exerted herself.
They drove to the remains of a tiny medieval fort, stranded on a hill of scrub and wind. It looked far less important than it had in the brochure and its historic relevance, dimly conceived of by either visitor, was further diminished by the graffiti and empty beer cans peppering the site. They could see why local kids would want to use it as a hang out, because the view across the surrounding slopes was decent and at night the soft, isolated glare from nearby towns would probably look dreamy in the haze.
Whilst they were considering all this, a man with a dog that looked far healthier than its owner approached and offered them a tour, which they declined, but he started telling them about the fort anyway, half in their language, half in his own. He used the word “invade” a lot, in contexts they couldn’t understand, and tried asking them questions which they didn’t answer because they wanted to be left alone. Elise noticed a small scar running from his nostril to his lip and tried to work out whether it was surgical or the result of violence. Jackson sensed a sourness on the man’s breath and couldn’t tell if his stiff, laboured walk was the product of arthritis or alcoholism. Eventually he stopped telling them about the fort and asked them for a donation, becoming agitated when Jackson shook his head. Jackson then gave in and handed him a pile of change left over from the morning’s shopping trip, fearing the dog more than he feared the man, and wanting to appear neither afraid nor miserly in front of Elise. As he walked away, the man caught his foot on a cluster of vines and nearly toppled over before finding his balance again. Jackson and Elise were thankful he hadn’t needed their help getting up, so uncomfortable had his presence made them.
They drove back down into a different village for lunch and were pleased with themselves for ordering more confidently today than they had the previous evening. Jackson had never wanted to be part of a couple that stared past each other throughout a meal, but conversation came to them quite easily, and they found themselves talking about their families back home, something they never really did when they were back home, and they ordered more wine than was sensible and stayed there in the shade of the village square long after the plates had been cleared away. The owner of the restaurant kept walking out the front to smile at them, which made them suspect they looked happy together.
Evening came in with no real dimming of the light, but it brought with it a distressed woman. Her cries preceded her entry into the square, and the cooks and waiters came out, lit cigarettes, and watched what was going on. She was howling about something although appeared generally sane, wandered up to the entrance of a small chapel then paused and sat down on the steps instead. Nobody from the restaurant went to speak to her although a small local crowd was starting to gather round as she continued to shout and bawl. The smiling owner stood by Elise and Jackson’s table, rested his hand casually on the back of Jackson’s chair, and tried to translate. It seemed the woman was talking about children, her own presumably, something about twins, but he wasn’t able to tell them more than that and even in his own language was struggling to make sense of the scene.
The affair punctured whatever ease Jackson and Elise had managed to nurture, and Jackson didn’t like how unthinkingly close the owner was standing to him. They paid their bill, didn’t complain about the prices not matching what was on the menu, and decided not to visit the chapel because it would involve squeezing past the crying woman and her now sizeable crowd of onlookers. On the way to the car they had a relatively harmless argument about who should drive. Elise won because Jackson didn’t want to get booked for drink driving by foreign police and was secretly much more comfortable with Elise taking the risk. She got the hang of the clutch far quicker than he had but decided not to boast because she suspected it might spoil Jackson’s mood, and they were enjoying each other’s company.
They skipped dinner that night because they’d eaten late, but they had more wine, tottering out into the village to buy it, already drunk but knowing if they held back now they’d start to feel hungover before bed. Jackson waved to people familiarly, as if he’d made friends earlier that day, and Elise tried to pat a small child affectionately on the head as it ran past and then away from them. They walked out to where the town met the fields, chose not to walk any further because they had no mosquito spray, and topped themselves up straight from the bottle.
A young herd of cattle approached as far as their enclosure would allow. Elise asked Jackson how many litres of wine he thought one of the cows could drink before it fell over and Jackson said they were bullocks, not cows, you could tell from the way they were built. There was a stillness between them, not the most uncomfortable of the trip, then Jackson said he thought they could manage eight litres, maybe nine. Elise pointed out a stone in the farmer’s wall that was laced with indigo spots and veins, trying to get Jackson to agree that the pattern looked like an infantile map of the stars, but Jackson was still focused on the herd, which he realised might actually be cows after all.
Back at the villa they dived into the pool without thinking. The moths and hair on its surface became things they could ignore. They swam under each other’s legs, and Elise showed Jackson how good she was at tumble turning. Jackson got out then back-flipped into the deep end. His head came perilously close to the concrete side as he spun, which Elise told him off for because it scared her. She suggested they could have sex in the pool but Jackson had heard somewhere that the water pressure could cause your foreskin to tear, so he dodged this by going to get more wine from the fridge, then pretended he wanted to dry off.
In the bedroom they experimented with a new position which worked better than the previous evening’s, and afterwards they lay down in the sort of panting silence that can lead people to say I love you without knowing if they mean it. Elise was glad neither of them said such things. She sensed they would probably never reach that stage so it was best not to invent it for the sake of a weekend abroad. Instead she broke the quiet by apologising for having chosen the medieval fort, which she hadn’t really chosen, and Jackson said he’d come to spend time with her, not look at old buildings, so she needn’t worry. It was uncharacteristically romantic of him, and Elise hoped he wasn’t going to get carried away, but he fell asleep soon after, leaving her to consider whether she should make herself throw up in order to blunt the hangover that would inevitably spoil her Sunday. In the end she was too tired to move.
Elise was woken far earlier than she wanted by something cold and alien alongside her. Jackson was stiff as granite, his eyes and mouth half open, his skin the colour of the moths in the pool. Elise had never been in the presence of a dead body before, though she had once seen a shape covered with plastic sheeting, surrounded by emergency workers on the hard shoulder of a motorway.
She did not scream, although her heart felt, for some minutes, as if it too had stopped. She checked where she thought the pulse should be, found nothing, then walked out into the village to get help. The locals knew something was wrong because Elise was still in her underwear and unable to speak properly. She merely pointed and shook her head, first towards the villa, then when they followed her to the villa towards the bedroom, which she realised she could not reenter. She sat by the pool whilst activity spun around her. At one point two women brought her a dressing gown with which to cloak herself. She noticed it smelled of vegetable fat and old tobacco.
Medics were the first to arrive though there was nothing left for them to do. The police came soon after and were gentle enough in taking Elise to the local station. She wasn’t sure if she was being arrested or not. When they tried asking her questions in broken English, she wasn’t sure if she needed a lawyer present and didn’t know how to ask for one anyway. Eventually she was handed a phone with a man from the embassy at the other end. She explained as best she could, and he said they would send someone over. Whilst waiting she surprised herself and the station staff by vomiting in one of the office bins. She couldn’t remember if she apologised for this. She did remember the bin being noiselessly replaced as someone patted her lightly on the arm and handed her a can of lukewarm lemonade.
The matter was dealt with surprisingly quickly. By the time the embassy arrived later that evening, a cause of death had been established and Elise was free to go. She was asked if she would like to be the one to inform his parents and she said she’d never met them, didn’t have a contact number or address. The embassy said they would deal with it. They offered to put her on a plane home, but she said she was due to leave early the next morning anyway, there was no need. They asked her if she would like to see the body before it was prepared for the family. She said no, she’d already seen it.
Back at the villa she called her step-dad and told him what had happened. He was confused by how calm she sounded and offered to get the next flight out, but she said there was no point, she’d be back tomorrow. He paused before asking her whether she thought it would be best to wait until Jackson’s family arrived, at least so she could speak to them in person. She said the embassy were sorting all that. She’d never planned to meet his family, they might not even know she existed, and she had work that week. Her step-dad suggested she take time off, but she said she had too many meetings scheduled, it would be more trouble than it was worth.
She had to go into the bedroom to collect her things as well as the car keys which Jackson had put back in his trouser pockets. His clothes were untouched although someone had stripped the bed and sprayed the room with a fragrance that reminded her of toffee pudding. Someone had also gone through her purse and taken money, she couldn’t be certain how much, but her passport and credit cards were still there. She then glanced in Jackson’s wallet and saw there was money in that, which she took for herself. Life goes on, she said out loud, not really knowing what that meant, realising she was dehydrated and extremely hungry. She didn’t know what to do with Jackson’s things or how they would be collected, so she decided to leave them there, just as they’d fallen. She felt like she might owe his family something, but she wasn’t sure what that might be, and until someone told her she wasn’t going to know.
She drank the leftover wine in the fridge, changed out of the stale dressing gown she’d been given that morning, showered, and went out for dinner at the restaurant they’d been to on their first night. It was the only place she knew, and there was no food in the villa. The waiting staff unknowingly placed her at the same table she’d sat at before, but this didn’t bother her; in fact, she was more relaxed sitting there on her own, even though everyone else in the restaurant and some people standing in the road outside were gazing at her solemnly, as if she were delivering a eulogy.
If Jackson had still been alive, she would probably at some point that day have tried to carve out a space to be alone. She enjoyed his company but it could also be taut, restrictive. She ordered two starters and a main, avoided the onion dish that she’d noticed had lingered unflatteringly on Jackson’s breath the morning after, and as the waiter poured her a drink she realised she would probably have broken things off with Jackson within a fortnight or so. Their trip together had, on balance, been a fun but failed test. She didn’t know if this was how he felt, or had felt. Now, none of that was necessary. Nothing needed resolving or explaining, nothing could be broken off. She paid her bill and returned to the villa, where she put duvets on the dining room floor because she couldn’t face sleeping in the bed. She was worried about nightmares, but they never came, and the next morning she arrived at the airport in plenty of time for her flight.
I’m sat in the window seat of an aeroplane looking out at the clouds and the sky; it feels meditative. Often I find myself here. Somewhere that’s nowhere. I’ve been on the go for a while now. Sometimes life tells us we need to grow up before we even know what that means. I worry whether my friends will still be my friends if I grow up too quickly? They don’t have to grow up as quick as me, but I watch them try. I listen to them chatter about boys and drinking, drugs they have tried recently, parties they’re going to on the weekend. They don’t invite me anymore because they know I’ll be away, again, far away most likely. It’s all a lot, but it’s only for now I tell myself. One day I’ll be normal just like them.
But for now, musty airports have become my first home and flights my weekly routine. I know the drill. I’m a perfect packer, almost; I say almost because my auntie says I should be rolling my clothes rather than folding, though I’m not convinced yet. I know which security queues will be the fastest. I know how often to check the information board, and where to stand to be first on the plane. I know what food to eat preflight so that I don’t get bloated. How much water to drink so that I don’t need to pee too often in the air. No one knows that I know these things. It’s all in my head.
Today my window seat is located in aisle 16, near the middle of the aeroplane. From London Heathrow to Sao Paulo Guarulhos International Airport. It’s going to be a long one. But the longer the better. The dim screen glued to the back of the chair in front of me runs the aircraft safety video, but I don’t watch it. Instead, I close my eyes and wait for the plane to lift me up. The guy next to me, who looks like he’s in his late 20s, twitches around his narrow upright seat – his skin matching its pale blue colour, the colour white people look before they are going to vomit. I can tell he’s a nervous flyer. Eventually we take off and the plane rattles. I wait for it to just fall to pieces, but it never does. I open my eyes, and through the fog I watch London shrink down from what usually feels like an intimidating city full of life and a little love, into a miniature grey Lego set, almost lost in the vast greenery of its birth mother – the English countryside. Not ready to let go just yet, my mind drifts to my own mother, whom I picture at the tennis club she works at tucked away in North London. She’s always there, working or not. She’s a tennis coach and a prolific tea drinker. “Earl Grey in a mug with milk and no sugar,” she’d call over to me while she was on the court wrapped up in her black puffer jacket and green woollen hat. Whenever I heard her I’d race into the club house to order her tea. But other times I’d be running through the surrounding forests, too far away to catch her voice, hoping to encounter some form of danger that would give me a gripping story to tell her on the way home. Something that would make her notice me more than she did on these cold evenings, after a long day of work.
The aeroplane, still at an incline, now gushes through the innocent clouds towards the mystery of the sky. My OCD begins to soften because in the air my life is in the hands of fate and there’s nothing I can do. This feeling – d i s c o n n e c t i n g – I like. I can smell the aeroplane food; it’s 11:22 a.m. They are bringing around bread rolls and yogurt, simple food, and I’m sure the bread will taste like the yogurt and the yogurt like the bread. But I don’t mind it. The man next to me wants to speak to me, I can tell, but I’m not acknowledging him yet. I’m still absorbing being off the ground.
“You ever been to Brazil before?” His nerves force him to speak; even if I’m not listening, he just needs to speak. He continues: “I’ve not been before, but my sister moved out there three years ago and I’m finally going to visit her.” I hold my silence a little longer.
“Oh, that’s nice, bet you’re excited to get some sun.”
“I sure am.” He smiles, happy that I’m engaging with him so he doesn’t need to think about the possibility of dying.
“I’ve not been to Brazil before, I’ve been to Paraguay though.”
“That’s cool, so what you going to be doing in Brazil then? You got family over there or something?”
“Nope, no family there. I play tennis so I’m heading there for a tournament.” Instantly I regret mentioning the tennis in case I have to elaborate, which I normally always do.
“Wow you like professional or something? Seems like a long way to go for a tournament.”
I smile and try to brush it off. “Hah no, well I’m alright I guess.”
“Are you traveling alone?”
“Yep, but my tennis coach will meet me out there, he’s in South Africa at the moment.”
“Jeez you must be pro then.”
I’m just lonely is all I can think. The familiarity of flying is the only thing I can latch onto as I move around the world. Sometimes with my coach and other times by myself. Though the unfamiliarity of the countries I go to does fill me with curiosity. As often as I can I escape from the hotel or the tennis facility and spy on the natives in their habitat. I love to watch the different ways of living, to spot the “normal kids” in their school uniform messing about on the cobbled streets. Each country I visit has its own tangible way of living. Within each society there is a way of the world. I see some happy people and I see some sad. I see poverty and I see wealth. I see groups and I see loners. I see the fruitfulness of culture and realise that there is no right or wrong way to live.
As I wander through the clean minimal streets of Japan, towards the corner shop that has a kettle in it so you can heat up your noodles, I play spot the dirt. In Morocco I hold my breath as a wriggle my way through the markets and the potent smell of leather goes beyond my nostrils and into my head. In Egypt I visit the pyramids and a native asks my coach whether he can trade his camel for me in return. I laugh but my coach, who is from Tunisia and who I have never seen smile, doesn’t find this funny. Apparently it wasn’t a joke. Portugal means parties; you can get into nightclubs when you’re underage over there and I love it. In Mexico my tennis matches last into the late evening, and each time I throw the ball up to serve I’m greeted with a swarm of mosquitos. The Czech Republic brings me no joy because it’s so cold. I cry at night in my hotel room and long for my mother. Sweden is cold, too, and I traipse through heaps of white snow with locked joints and blue lips to get to the tennis courts. But Thailand is hot – too hot! Though I fall in love with the pad thai and the markets. I can get cheap stuff that looks cool. These trips widen my once naive eyes and expose me to life outside of my home.
I take my iPod out of my bag. Listening to music on the plane while I look out the window is what I like to do. It’s where my imagination takes comfort. I visualise myself back in London, going to secondary school with my friends. I have long straight hair and two sisters. I have a father, too, and he goes to work each day so that my mother doesn’t have to worry about money. My sister and I share clothes and argue. We are a family. A Family. I can stay with them for hours on and off while I’m in the air, I have nowhere else to go, until a certain song draws me out and takes me elsewhere. Otis Redding, “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” This song always gets me, it makes me think of me and I feel nostalgic. The real me, with curly hair and brown skin, with no father or sister and a mother who constantly worries about money. It plays on my iPod and I look out the window at the dark emptiness of the afternoon sky.
Sittin’ here restin’ my bones
And this loneliness won’t leave me alone, listen
Two thousand miles, I roam
Just to make this dock my home
Now I’m just gon’ sit, at the dock of the bay
Watchin’ the tide roll away, ooh yeah
Sittin’ on the dock of the bay
Wastin’ time
A couple of hours go by, and I must have dozed off because the man next to me is tapping me on my shoulder and the aeroplane is shaking. Turbulence. I open my eyes and turn to look at him. He has jet black hair that flops across his face, which is still pale blue, but this time I notice his dimples and I find them cute.
“I hope everything is alright.” His voice is timid, and I can tell he’s worried about the turbulence.
“It will be,” I reassure him, “It’s just a bit of turbulence, I’m sure it will pass soon.”
“Yeah course, yeah.” He now tries to reassure himself, too.
I turn back to the window, back to the hush of the sky. I feel safe and cosy, despite the turbulence.
“What music do you listen to?” he carries on.
“All sorts really, jazz, blues, hip-hop, reggae, classical, grime. I love all music.”
“Any indie?”
“Yes, I like indie, too.”
“I’m in an indie band myself. I play the guitar.”
“Oh, that’s cool. Which band?”
“Roxy Blue. We’re not big or anything, just do a couple gigs here and there. But it’s a good time.”
“I can imagine.” Although I couldn’t imagine. I liked indie, but I always felt like I wasn’t supposed to because of my brown skin. Indie music is for white people, my Jamaican friend Melissa told me one day when she had asked to borrow my iPod. She said I was out of the loop because I was away so much.
My fingers hover over the TV screen. I want to watch the journey of the plane moving around the earth. I don’t understand the physics of how it stays up in the air without falling down, but I think if I did, I wouldn’t be as able to let go like I can now. The screen shows me we are flying over the Atlantic Ocean, in fact the entire journey is practically over the ocean, which means if the plane broke we’d most certainly all die, for the safety of the land is far gone and far to come. The screen also tells me that there are five hours left until landing. I push my pillow up against the window and rest my head on it. My eyes close and I let the motion of the plane rock me to sleep. It’s not quite the same as how my mother used to rock me when I was small, but it will do.
They found Elizabeth at the bottom of the driveway. Newspapers said her body was curled up around her son. Gabriel didn’t know the son’s name. It wasn’t mentioned in the stories, and he’d only corresponded with Elizabeth. Josh Moore, who was a volunteer firefighter, and whom Gabriel went on a few dates with pre-Patrick, told Gabriel that Elizabeth was found curled up near the gate. The son was some 40 feet back up the driveway. Elizabeth’s mother was midway between the two of them. Elizabeth’s husband Jim and her two daughters had taken the car to the general store and got trapped in town. They survived the night.
Gabriel didn’t tell Patrick what Josh told him. He knew Patrick would judge Elizabeth. He’d wonder why she didn’t protect her son. He’d verbalize it and upset Gabriel. Gabriel didn’t blame Elizabeth. Who the hell knows what actually happened — the Coopers were from New Jersey. They don’t have wildfires in New Jersey.
Elizabeth, her son, and her mother were three of the four casualties of this fire. They may have survived had they stayed in the house. The garage burned, and half the property’s trees were gone, the smoke damage was heavy, and the patio was scorched, but mainly the fire ravaged the area around Carson Lane and left the houses up on the ridge mostly intact. Patrick wryly noted how this new lack of trees gave the cabin a better view of the park. We might, he said, finally get some five-star reviews.
Elizabeth gave them four stars on her last stay. It pissed Patrick off, but Gabriel gave her a pass. She’d been perfectly reasonable and unflinchingly polite when she’d called to complain about the hot water not working. She even noted in her review that he and Patrick were easy to work with once she was able to reach them. The reviews don’t matter, Gabriel told his husband, if they keep coming back. Elizabeth did. Those customers are more valuable than five five-star reviewers.
Gabriel went to assess the property three weeks after the fire. Patrick was right about the new view. Gabriel texted him and asked if they should install a hot tub on the patio. Patrick answered immediately. He thought it a brilliant idea. “We could start charging $495.00 a night,” he wrote. Gabriel called Josh and asked when he thought they’d open up Carson Lane to non-residents. Josh told him probably within four weeks, so Gabriel started researching which local spa shops were up and running.
Dear Victoria,
How many times have we started writing a letter, at pains to choose our words carefully, only to commit it to the wastepaper basket? Or simply not send it? Emily Dickinson wrote letters. Some people write songs, to provide the soundtrack of their life. You love Emily Dickinson. You chose letters.
As individual characters, letters together make words to tell our stories. More immediate, a letter becomes a personal conversation. These have not been written chronologically or in order of importance or preference. Whilst affirming for you, the collection is a talk with yourself, told through the being of other people.
Usually private, you expose your heart and emotions, leaving your ancestors’ lives wide open alongside the anonymous D, L, T, G, B, Y, that include the one that got away, keeping us guessing. They know who they are; they have coloured your existence. There is a reason for choosing them specifically, for they are the best recipients for your thoughts.
The use of “dear” strikes me too, although we don’t necessarily address people any other way. Here your every recipient, however close, is dear. Dear is sweet. It is also an appeal, in this case to memory. Not only the art of remembering, but also understanding, and retelling gratefully and sensitively. Dear also relates to a price to pay, and you mention intelligence coming at a high cost. The brain computes, creates, files, analyses and deletes. We cannot remember everything, but we can likely input the who, what, when, where, why, and how.
We meet you already as an accomplished poet. You find an artful way of “working over, through and under the conflicts,” as one teacher advised a younger you. Their ultimate gift to you was influencing your writing, striving for your better versions and expressions. It shows.One deemed your articulation “far from shy” – and these letters do speak loudly. As you deem reading “very spiritual,” so you reference the likes of Rilke, Oliver, Winterson, Chekhov, Stein, Glück, and Sontag in your writing. I would add Kephart, Lamott, Gornick to the reading list.
You kick your letters off with “so many questions.” Yes, there are a lot of questions, there always will be, even combined with answers. If Chekhov is to be believed, you need to formulate them (an art) in order to shape any answers, while Rilke urges us to “live” these questions. I wonder if in your philosophising you are questioning questions themselves. Any tension and discomfort we might feel in the questioning comes through seeking peace and resolution.
From a poignant opening line, the death of your mother – the foremost figure in your life – sparks this ferocity of emotion and desire to express yourself intelligently and in a visually pleasing manner… “Mother feels like an enormity” also shows the multidimensionality of grief, like an endless mind map. You admit to obsession, under which come death, loss, demise, existence – and this intelligence. We can identify our own triggers from a similar shock or disbelief, anger or depression. You throw in a touch of dark humour, charmed as you are by haunted poetry.
In your obits, you beautifully explain that “grief is wearing a dead person’s dress forever”and that “imagination is having to live in a dead person’s future.” You cannot speak for your ancestors, but only about the impact their life has brought on your life. And so you absorb a cumulative effect – the impact of your grandmother both on your mother and you, your mother on you, your own motherhood on your daughters, preserving the mother-daughter relationship within Dear Memory. I wonder if it might be a manual. Family is, was, will be our world and we don’t see beyond that sometimes. Except we do.
Moreover, I believe Dear Memory to be a continuation of your mini obituaries (obits) from “Obit.” You frantically wrote those in two weeks, “so you wouldn’t have to talk about it.” Your epistolary grieving is peppered with ironies and contrasts, within which we are exposed to matters of culture and tradition as well as ethnicity and identity. Exploring deeper, we ask how this can still happen today, at the mercy of immigration, adjustment to foreign soil, hoping that “what you acquire is better than what you have left behind.” As “there is pain in the past and pain in the present,” we continually seek out who we are and who we are becoming, where this pain intersects.
Your stories trigger recollections of my own and those of my parents and the generation before them. I can see exactly where the term “transgenerational trauma” is born:
“children of immigrant parents simply don’t have the experience or context with which to understand their parents’ trauma, so the trauma continues onto the next generation in a different form.”
Marianne Hirsch writes expansively, of “postmemory,” through circumstance and political misfortune. Fascinatingly described as “the relationship that the ‘generation after’ bears to the personal, collective and cultural trauma of those who came before,” it links to “experiences they ‘remember’ only by means of the stories, images and behaviours among which they grew up.”
We become part of a generation of postmemory, you and I. Trauma becomes common soil. Thus your stories and images deliver. It becomes obvious, the appeal of your memory book; there are communities the world over who are immigrant children, whose parents were victims of displacement, hardship and identity crises that too, consciously or not, pass down. Archives, scrapbooks from the mind spilling out onto paper. One thing for sure is that the past cannot be reversed.
And so where, then, does our present intersect with our parents’ past and present? Always our heritage, we can celebrate that past by being unique, as we have that extra something. It is the blood that flows through us that we cannot change. Are we not the sum of the parts, those pasts? Pride, recognition, and acceptance takes time and comes gently, and at a price, but it does. Because, as you say, we are human, and because for us, our lives are natural.
You shared a love for preserved salty plums with your mother; we might sense that food is your common denominator or ritual and makes you happy as you take us on a journey to discover this also. Two of the most powerful sensual memories to have are taste and smell, familiar in their deliciousness. In this way you paint your grief and loss through them. You describe your native Chinese food and the busy-ness of the restaurant your family owned, The Dragon Inn, your favourite bao-buns. Alongside bao-buns, your favourite tofu milk and braised tofu and pork.
Food is not, however, at the epicentre of your thirty epistles, although you do state that “food stapled your family to this country”when settling in America.Maybe you created a Dragon Inn memory box, containing napkins, chopsticks, menus, and business cards. Memories of my own mother’s dressmaking – such as her pins and inch tapes, needles, spools of thread, and scissors, are all kept in her original large wooden sewing box. But what I miss most is reading my parents’ handwriting – scrap sheets of calculus from my father’s engineering days, dockets from my mother’s dressmaking days.
If I were to write letters to them, I wonder what they’d sound like. Letters used to be handwritten and nowadays seem to be a lost art form but you resurrect them, in your loud, clear, hurting voice. You punctuate with humility and powerful metaphors, with a poetic, intelligent assault on the senses, including observations of nature in the form of birds and flight, wind and earth. You fondly recall certain objects as significant, such as cuddly toys, and teapots you gifted your mother from your travels.
The old-fashioned photos contained within Dear Memory are rooted in identity. In parts substituted by cut-out captions, subtly or not-so-subtly altered with extracts, or Chinese script that ironically you cannot read or understand, it makes its mark. The pages are often separated by an all-telling red stamp – maybe for approval, something official, something branded Chinese. The colour red pops up between your book covers, also red, frequently; in recollected tales of blood, a Kit-Kat wrapper, pen marks in book margins when your father was learning English. The images become artworks themselves, providing important context for those past, present and future, echoing “how hard it is to speak up in the face of racism, to protect the self and the community.”
Equally, “The Marginalian” Maria Popova, herself an immigrant, observes: “We are born without choosing to, to parents we haven’t chosen, into bodies and borders we haven’t chosen…” and “we add experiences, impressions, memories, deepening knowledge ….” to which “it begins to feel not like a choice but like a constraint, an ill-fitting corset…”
In your own empowered tone, you speak your truth in universal themes and describe that you too aim to change history, encourage generational change – for it is up to us to keep it moving. As children we’re told how we came to exist against a historic or political backdrop. For your family it was the civil war in Taiwan; for mine it was WW2. At the time it passes over our heads as we are too young – our curiosity escalates only as we grow older – and “maybe our desire for the past grows after the decay of our present.” Then answers we need are harder to uncover, those that have them are no longer here and we are left piecing together what’s missing: certificates, souvenirs, mementos, all proof of an existence. Popova also refers to “people and ideas marginalised by culture, erased by the collective selective memory we call history…” where culture has “inherited parameters of permission and possibility…”
For all that, yours is a journey of recovery from trauma, steeped in authenticity and viewed from your present up and down the ancestral and generational line. Given you take on the trauma of a past, all would be proud of your collection. What would we say today if they stood before us?
These 160 pages read like a who’s who of faits accomplis. Seemingly written during the pandemic, you will have had time to dig, think, process, research, and soul-search. The letters are seen and heard in their outpouring of gratitude and loss, understanding and love… of things that were said and cannot be unsaid, or things that were not said at all and might be better left unsaid.
We learn such silence is common within your family. Silence from your mother’s glances, the silences when you asked her specific questions, through to her death, to the silence of your own “thinking stirring mind.” “You won’t know this but…” heartbreakingly introduces us to your father’s silence, unable to communicate, in a world of his own.
I wonder how many times the voice in your head stopped or propelled the letter-writing. Ironically, memoirist and writer Alison Wearing suggests that “limits can free us.” Your style of literary poetry and memoir have done that. What’s more, the knock-on effect of experience has provided continuity. As a result, there is “ample room to still love” after “all” is revealed.
I for one shall pay more attention to what lies beneath silences and look beyond what is in a photograph, image or letter. The silence – of what was not included in this collection, the silence of realisation and I believe resilience – how powerful it can be. When releasing the catch, you can let go, and make the past work for you in the present.
Aldous Huxley wrote: “after silence that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.”
There’s more to come.
Dear Memory
By Victoria Chang
Milkweed Editions, 160 pages
When she first heard the cries, she thought it was dogs.
Suddenly it was silent, just the hiss of light rain, like any other night on her quiet street. It was late. Simon wasn’t yet home from his double-shift at the hospital. The dogfight unsettled her. That strangled sound had pitched itself into the house. Julia went upstairs to check on the baby. She smoothed the blanket, fragrant, warm, patting it down to calm herself. Snug in his onesie, James slept on; an undisturbed purr hummed under her hand. The spindly hairs on his tender head caught the light from the streetlamp as it cast raindrop-shaped blisters on the wall behind his crib.
Whose dogs, she wondered. On her block there were only the Henderson girl’s Sniglet, a Yorkshire terrier, and Mr. Snee, an ancient Scottie owned by Aubrey, a retired Naval officer. They were all gone to the country, waiting out the lockdown. The houses on her block were empty.
Returning to the kitchen, Julia distractedly wiped the clean stovetop. She heard the dogs again: Sharp yelps knifed the grind of their growls. The rain spitting against the windows picked up. Julia went to the front of the house to look out and, as she did, heard the crush and hump of body on body. Another scream rang up the street with a punctuating “Fuck!”
Men.
Julia retreated into the hallway, wishing the lantern over her front door was not lit.
The fight went on with howls, then a thud, like dumped earth, and someone running away, shoes slapping the pavement.
Silence again.
The rasp of her breathing filled the dim hall. Julia watched the front door, studying it like a screen, as if waiting for breaking news.
Three slammed doorknocker raps shivered her shoulders.
She waited. The refrigerator behind her ticked.
The doorbell rang.
“Hello? Is there anyone, please, anyone? Help! Please.” The voice, timid, a woman’s voice, was frightened. The doorbell rang again.
In the belligerent banging, Julia had sensed a large man. She leaned back toward the kitchen to grab her phone off the counter, but the woman’s voice trembled on, leaking over the transom, unpicking Julia’s hold on herself. She felt her feet take her to the door and her hand on the lock opening it onto the night.
In the light from the lantern, she looked down into the wet face and pale grey eyes of a small woman. She seemed close to Julia’s age. Julia checked past her into the street and saw no one.
“Please, I’m so…Can you help?”
“What happened? What is it?” Julia asked.
The woman didn’t move. She stared up at Julia with a look Julia could not read until she realised it was apologetic.
“I’m so, so very sorry,” the woman said in a conspiratorial whisper, as the Ficus tree on the stoop crashed down and a man swelled up over the threshold. He hustled his arms round both women, surged into the house, and slammed the door shut with a kick of his boot.
Roaring with pain, he let them go. Moving as if he had been there before, as if he owned the place, he strode into the kitchen, turned the sink taps full blast, and cupped the rushing water in his hands to flush his face. Julia watched a blood-pinked swirl spin on the porcelain and circle the drain.
“Fuck!” he yelled. It was the voice from the street. “Syl!” he commanded. “Get me a towel, ice, something for fuck’s sake!”
“So sorry,“ the woman said to Julia. “Would you mind? Sorry.” She grabbed the dishtowel from the rod on the stove and held it out to Julia. “Might we have some ice?”
Julia stood in the centre of her kitchen and didn’t move.
The man turned his face toward Julia and with a greasy smile said, “Madam, if you would. Some ice.”
That was when she recognised him. Many months ago, he’d appeared midday, at her door. He had smiled and called her Madam in just that way. She was pregnant then. As she remembered this, she felt a twinge in her back where she used to press her palm those last weeks carrying James. The man had been holding a dingey plastic tub filled with milk-eyed fish frozen into a twisted block of heads, tails, and fins. He had prattled on, “…fresh off the dock they was.” He’d run out of petrol money, truck around the corner, and this was her lucky day, a whole catch of prime sea bass, hers for a pitiful £40: “Two twenties will do the trick,” he had said. She’d be a winner, a great lady, and as the world could see, about to be a mum. “Nothing more lovely than a woman with child,” he said, adding that he “had a little sprog,” so he should know. And what a thing to show them, the sprogs that is. You can get something in return for doing someone a solid, like getting him home to his family.
Julia had said no, thank you, then no again. With each no, he had wheezed and prattled on, ratcheting his pitch like wind in a pinwheel, until spun dizzy, she had fetched her purse, slipped him £40 to go away. Closing the door, she had been surprised to see that he had actually left the tub of fish dripping on the doorstep.
Julia couldn’t tell if he remembered. Now, dingey like that tub, he was in her house, dripping onto the polished floor of her gleaming kitchen, sputtering pathogens into her purified air. Since lockdown she’d kept the kitchen as clean as an operating theatre. Simon checked when he got home. He liked it that way. He wouldn’t be back for hours, having volunteered for double shifts at the Cromwell Hospital Covid ICU, doing a “solid” for others, leaving her alone again with the baby.
Julia looked over to a box of masks, thought to put one on, then heard something faint, a static chirp. The couple hadn’t heard it. She glanced past the man to the baby monitor, sitting like a playschool walkie-talkie on the windowsill, and prayed it stayed silent.
Julia took the towel from the woman, filled it with ice from the freezer, and handed it back to her.
The woman went to the man. He lifted himself away from the sink and let her gingerly pat the towel against his cheek. Under the cloth Julia could see a long, curved cut, from his ear down the jawline into his neck, open and slowly bleeding. It looked like a sliced flap of skin, a gill revealing a crimson, pulsing underside.
“Not like that,” Julia said.
“What?” the woman asked.
“Wet the cloth so the cold comes through. And don’t pat it. Press it. Keep pressure on it.“
“Do what she says, Syl.”
“Do what she says? That’s nice. Of course, Declan. Do what the lady says.”
“Don’t start now. It’s been a day, it has,” Declan said.
“And whose fault would that be now?” Syl asked as she soaked the cloth in the sink, reached up, and held it to his cheek.
“Ian. He’s the one. Eddie sent him. Put him up to it.“
“Eddie?” Syl laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself. Eddie doesn’t even know you exist. You were lucky it was Ian onto your bloody freelancing and your collection money three weeks late. Then you fucked yourself by getting into it with Ian, my bloody cousin, instead of letting me handle him. Nearly killed him. Now he’s off to Eddie for sure and you’re fucked.”
Julia wanted them out, fast, before the monitor betrayed James sleeping upstairs, before they permanently fouled her house. But the man’s wound was weeping blood and not being addressed properly.
“Here, let me,” Julia said. “Sit down.” She pulled a chair from the table for him, took the wet cloth, expertly pressing it to his face, as Syl looked on. “You need to get to a doctor, right away, this needs attention, disinfecting, and stitches. You need to get to the hospital.”
“That’s not happening,” Syl piped in with a snort as she paced around the kitchen.
Declan looked up at Julia as she tended to him. For a slovenly brute, a lug, her mother would have said, Julia couldn’t miss his disconcertedly pretty eyes. It wasn’t their blue; it was the lashes, long and full, feminine. The rest of him bulked in her chair. In his look she saw he remembered her. He shook his head once to say keep mum about it.
“Got your National Health Service card on you, do you, Declan?“ Syl chimed in, again with a laugh. “We’ll be just fine here for a bit.”
“I’m telling you,“ Julia repeated, holding the cloth tight to his face. “This is a serious laceration. You need 10 maybe 12 sutures, minimum. How did this happen? A knife? You need an antibiotic. And it needs to be properly cleaned. You should go now.”
While Julia was speaking, Declan kept his eyes on her.
“You a nurse, Madam?” he asked.
Julia felt a fool for going on, showing off. Simon pointed out, not always kindly, that she did just that, when no one had asked, telling them what they ought to do for their own good health. He said she was prone to it more now that she was home all day with the baby. Easy for him to say, he wasn’t the one home, was he?
“Yes,” Julia said. “I am a nurse. But I can’t help you here. You need to go to the surgery.”
“And where would your husband be at this hour, Madam?”
“He’s at work. Will be home any minute,” Julia lied.
“Well, which is it? He wouldn’t by any chance be a doctor, would he?” Syl asked.
“No,” Julia lied again.
“Well that’s not very nice. Not very nice at all,” Syl barked. She had her back turned to them, running her fingers across the shelf by the fridge, through the debris of daily life: keys, shopping lists, coins in a cereal bowl, the box of COVID masks, a bent tube of L’Occitane hand cream, and the mail.
Without turning, scratching a leg with her opposite foot’s shoe, she lifted an envelope up over her head and through her teeth said, “Dr. Simon Russel-Cobb, 7 Ansdell Terrace. That would be here, wouldn’t it?” Then she looked at Julia with such abject dismay that Julia saw the apology at the door and this display were all a feint.
“Don’t, Syl,” Declan said.
“Don’t what, Declan? Don’t what? Don’t let the lady know we’re onto her? That’s rich coming from you, that is. You got us here in the first place. For once, for maybe the first time in your sorry life, maybe you did get lucky. Lucked us into a nurse’s house and doctor hubby home any minute to see you right.”
“I lied,” Julia said.
“We know you lied. Don’t think…”
“No. I mean, he’s not coming home. Not for hours. He’s in the ICU and can’t leave for hours. Please, you need to leave and get real help now.”
“Now that’s either very, very considerate of you or just really, really stupid,” Syl muttered.
Julia closed her eyes for a moment, then looked from one to the other. Where were their masks? Dumb question. Where were her mask and gloves? Their wet breath and sweaty, bloody selves had broken the hermetic seal on her home; the only people who had been inside since the lockdown. Lockdown? Or was it everyone locked out? For months the greengrocer and Ocado left food on the stoop. Julia dutifully wiped down all the bags with sanitizer, wore the blue gloves Simon poached from the ICU. Often she felt more locked-in, like the young woman in the fairy tales. She kept an extra box of masks by the pram for her once-a-day walk in Hyde Park. In the park, everyone stayed well away from each other, tilted an acknowledging nod with a side glance that silently asked, “Are you safe? Infected?” Julia remembered that look from an old flick, Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Are you one of them? She sometimes found the walk more lonely than staying home. But the air was good, and there was the diversion of watching the odd clutch of teens, maskless, kicking a ball on the grass. Lunatics on the grass, like Simon’s all-weekend repeat-play Pink Floyd. Now the lunatics were in the hall, in her home, bleeding into the sink, exhaling whatever they brought in with them, James upstairs breathing the same polluted air, and Simon, somewhere he wanted to be, free to nobly join the battle.
“You need to leave. And now,” Julia declared.
Syl turned the ends of her lips all the way up in a beatific smile. “No. We are going to stay. And you or your hubby are going to see him right, Sister Nurse. Get him fit for travel. Look!” Syl yanked the cloth in Julia’s hand away from the gash in Declan’s face and as she did it seeped blood, bleeding along its length down his neck into his collar.
“Syl! We have to go. Eddie or Ian are looking for sure, going to be back. Here. I…”
“You let me worry about them,” Syl said. ”She’s right. You’re in no condition. She will fix you up and we’ll go.”
“I cannot help you,” Julia protested.
“Oh, yes you will,” Syl said not smiling this time.
“I’ll give you some money. You can get a taxi or an Uber…” As soon as she had said this, Julia felt the foolishness of the Uber idea, but before she knew what to do next Syl asked, “Where is the loo?”
“What?”
“The loo. Where is it?”
“It’s up half a flight, on the landing.”
“Ok then,” Syl said. “I’m going to the loo. You think about it. Maybe change your mind. Get whatever you have here at home, you being a medical couple and all, and you think about how you’re going to fix him. May I borrow your phone?” She didn’t wait for a reply as she took Julia’s phone off the counter. “You won’t need this till you’re done with Declan. Wouldn’t want you to lose focus. “She lifted the sash of the back window, threw the phone into the night, and banged the window down.
Syl went up the few steps and disappeared at the turn of the stairs. Julia heard the bathroom door open and close.
All she wanted, needed, was for them to leave. She didn’t want to help, knew that wouldn’t get them out, yet when she looked at him and saw the gash glisten red each time she lifted the cloth, the blood insistently flowing down his throbbing neck, she couldn’t be sure there wasn’t an artery cut. Declan’s face twisted up as if asking a question, and the intimacy of his need drew her to him. She remembered that pull from when she was on duty, before James: A patient, lifted from stretcher to gurney, bleeding from the belly, would cry out at her touch, pulling her in like undertow, flooding everything except the hurried rush of soothing his pain.
Julia pressed the cloth tenderly but with pressure against his face.
“Madam, I’d be very grateful if you would patch me up.”
“If I do, will you leave?”
“Out like a flash. You do me this solid, and I know a fine woman like you will, I’ll talk with Syl. Get us out of here in a flash.” He smiled at her. She recognised the same cadence in his patter he’d used at her door and knew it was a con. Syl called the shots.
“How did this happen? Who cut you?”
The heavy hulk of this man sank further down in the chair. He put his hand up covering hers, holding it as she pressed his cheek.
“Was Syl’s cousin I was tussling with.”
“He cut you?”
Declan closed his eyes.
“So Syl cut you to stop it?”
His opening eyes said yes.
Julia shuddered, let him hold her hand, then brushed his wet, lank hair off his brow and away from the cut. She had him keep the cloth in place as she opened a cabinet above the sink, took down a leather bag, removed four vials of saline, alcohol, scissors, Lidocaine cream, tape, and three dressing pads. She rummaged in the bag for arterial dressing and, finding none, thought to ask Simon to bring some home.
Simon. Home. What are we doing here? This house. Julia never wanted to live in Kensington. Lovely but no village, and she was so alone these days, Simon away being the hero at all hours. He chose it. He called the shots, told her it was respectable and safe. Safe. Every night at 8 p.m. Julia stood on the steps of the house, the only person on her dead-end, abandoned street, applauding solo, in ghostly community with rest of the country honouring the heroes of the NHS. On these evenings, in the heart of a great city, as she waited for the clock to strike, in that pause, she heard the terrifying silence. No traffic. The only sound in the vacant air was a discordant songbird. Finally, when she banged on her pot, it was to fill the void, to send a drum beat across the rooftops to Simon, signalling, “I am here…please…come… home.” But he didn’t. They could hardly communicate all day; he was so busy, and each morning when he left, as the lockdown dragged on and she had less and less planned for her day, he filled their conversations with more and more unsolicited advice, directives really, for how she should live her life. But now, in the kitchen, in this moment, she didn’t need Simon to tell her anything. She was glad to be doing something she knew how to do, first do some good, like her friends in the nursing staff at the hospital. They were on the frontline, at risk, while she was home, ashamed of her bubble of happiness with James, of the envy she felt in the dead afternoons while he slept. So do it. Help this man, get him fit for travel, maybe do him a “solid” after all, and get them both the hell out.
Julia washed her hands, pulled on two of the blue gloves, gently held the cloth under his jaw as she irrigated the cut with saline solution. He winced but held. She said, “That’s all right. Just a bit more.”
Up on the landing a phone winkled a trill. Julia and Declan looked over to the empty stairs and heard Syl say, “Yes. Yes, Eddie. No. I can’t. We left. Yes. I know, but let me handle… Sorry, I can’t, but…Yes I understand…Hello? Hello?”
Syl took the steps down one by one, lips clenched, eyes fired, one hand holding her phone, the other cradling Winne-the-Pooh-onsied James, swivelling his sleep-damp head searching his mother. A dummy pulsed over his trembling chin.
“What are you doing? How dare you!” Julia screamed. James burst into a wail. Syl jiggled him, smiling as she swung around. Julia ripped off the gloves and lunged at Syl. Saline and alcohol vials rolled off the counter, smashing with a pop on the floor as she tried to pry James away.
“Back off, Sister Nurse!” Syl retreated behind the counter grasping James. “This sweet little lad is our insurance you’ll do as we say. None of us wants to see him hurt, do we?”
Julia imagined the knife Syl used on Declan sleeping in Syl’s jacket pocket, didn’t want to wake it, and quietly hissed, “What is it you want?”
“I want you to stop the bleeding on his fucking face. Haven’t you been…paying attention?”
Julia blanked. Dizzy, she focused on James. The alcohol stink on the floor hit her nose and crashed the high of caring for Declan. She waited.
Her precipitous pause sank the air in the room like a sudden drop in altitude. In the downdraft, James stopped crying and joined the two watching his mother. The women faced each other, the counter between them, Julia’s hands splayed flat on the marble.
“I cannot help you,“ Julia steadily said.
“Madam, please,“ Declan slurred. “Syl can get very angry and…”
“Give me my child. Now.”
“Insurance, Sister Nurse.”
“You have a child. You must know what I mean.”
“I have a child?” Syl laughed. “What gave you that idea?”
“Your, what did he say, your sprog?”
“What? When? A sprog. Our sprog?” Syl turned on Declan. “You stupid, silly man. Your sprog. And where would he be now, Declan, your blue bottle-eyed son? Off at Harrow? Can’t recall. Been here before, have you? You brought your bloody freelancing here when you’re supposed to be doing drop-offs and collections for Eddie. Put us all at risk for a side tip? That’s why you chose this house. And kept it from me. Me! I should cut the other side of your fucking neck and finish the job proper…I should. And you, Sister Nurse, you knew it. The two of you…I should off the both of you, throw you to the dogs, I should, to Eddie, walking these streets now looking for us – for you. Let him have you and you’ll never be seen again. I should give you to him, you stupid…”
“Let me call my husband,” Julia said coldly.
“What?” Syl laughed.
“Let me get him home. I can’t fix Declan. He can. I’ll get him here. Give me my son and hand me your phone.”
“Give it to her Syl, please,“ Declan said, the blood drenching now through the soaked towel, darkening his shirt, blanching his face.
“Fuck off, Declan.” Syl looked at Julia sideways: “Here.” She handed Julia the phone, but spun James to her other hip holding him away. “Be quick and have him get here. Quick.”
Julia took the phone, studied it, gave it a few searching taps with her thumb, and lifted it to her ear.
“Hello. You have to come here. Now. I need you here. They are here. Yes. 7 Ansdell Terrace. Please come quickly. Hurry. That’s right. Yes. Yes. Yes.” She put the phone on the counter and looked up.
Syl’s eyes went dead. Julia remembered seeing eyes just like that.
“What did you do?” Syl growled.
Julia didn’t answer and calmly held her arms out for James.
Backing away Syl seized her phone and scrolled the screen. “What did you do!”
When the doorknocker slammed this time, James burst a crying fit, but Julia ran to the door and flung it wide.
Wet, cold air sluiced in around their feet.
Two men.
One was a “brick shithouse,” as Julia’s father would have said. He filled the doorframe when he came in. His head and hands seemed outsized for even his big body. He sniffed the room, wiping his nose with his sleeve. Peering left and right, he nodded to the man behind, indicating all clear.
The second man was tall, slender. An elegant rust-coloured raincoat draped to his shoes. It swung like a skirt as he entered the room. His thick black hair was buzzed short and softly held his skull like a pelt. His eyes, scanning over his black professional-grade COVID mask, clocked each person, one by one by one, and came to rest on Julia. He studied her.
“My apologies for the intrusion,” he said. Then turning to Syl. “What goes on here?” James screamed and wrestled in Syl’s arms. “Give this woman her child.”
“Eddie, you see…”
“Now.” Eddie interrupted.
Syl handed James to Julia. She hugged him close, breathed in a cloud of talc as he snugged his head in the crook of her neck. She shushed and soothed him. He closed his eyes, shutting down in a sputter of tiny hiccups.
“You have broken rule number three, Syl. It pains me to have to repeat it to you: Avoid.Involving.Civilians. Do you remember now? Do you remember rules one and two? I think I’ll have Colin here remind you.”
“Eddie,” Syl pleaded. “We were stuck, I had to do something.” She pointed to Declan, slumped like a boxing bag with the sand run out. “I had to put a stop to…Where is Ian? He’ll explain.”
“Your cousin Ian explained. Thank you very much. Been reeducated by Colin here on responsibilities in the chain of command. He’s indisposed at the moment. But he explained where my money and my time have been spent. Fifty-thousand missing quid. I like to know where my time and money are being spent. So let’s leave this lady alone with her little one, shall we? Declan, get up and get out. We’ll sort you out later. Colin, would you please escort Syl to the car?”
“Me? Eddie! It was Declan fucked up. I didn’t know it was so much! He was the one making collections, and freelancing on his…”
Eddie held up his hand. “I know, Syl. He done it. He’s dead to me. Out with the trash. Colin will sweep it up later. ‘Didn’t know’ makes it worse not better. Either way you’re going with Colin now, just the same.”
“But why, Eddie?”
“Why? Sometimes I just work that way. Never regretted it, I must say.”
Colin took a step forward sniffing at the two of them, turned, and headed out the door. Declan looked to Julia, started to speak, read nothing in her eyes, and stopped. Then he and Syl shuffled, almost trotted, heads down, following Colin into the street.
“Now, what do we do with you, my dear?”
Julia hugged James tight to her chest and sized Eddie up again. He was the same height as Simon and his coat, if white, could have been a surgeon’s coat.
“You’re wearing a mask,” she heard herself say.
“Of course. Daft not to. This virus is very good at killing people. If I’d known the benefits, I would have started wearing one years ago. You can imagine the sorry state of hygiene among the lot I commune with. And it suits me. Don’t you think?”
Julia did not reply.
“About you,” Eddie went on. “My instincts tell me you will be smart, do the right thing, and leave it as it is. Say no more. Would you like to know why I think that? I’ll tell you. I find it interesting that you called me. Me – not the police. Not your husband. Me. You had a good idea what would happen if you called me. You chose that option.”
For the second time that night, Julia woke to what had been set in motion.
“I will let this go. We were never here. And you will not want to do anything to bring us back. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” Julia said.
“Right. Do not fuck this up. Rule number two: Stick to plan A. Plan B is the road to regret.“
“Ok,” Julia said. Having gone so high and so low tonight, she was now dead calm, and asked, “What is rule number one?”
Eddie paused, cocked his head to the side, reading her again. “I thought so,” he said. “I thought this when I heard you on the phone. I said to myself, now here’s a civilian in a very stressful encounter, and she has the moxie to call me. Then I said, no that’s not it; she knows what happens now and she wants it.”
Eddie’s eyes smiled. They studied each other. In the quiet Julia realised the rain had stopped. For a moment she thought he would take off his coat. But he went to the door. Before he left, he turned and said, “Rule number one: Follow the plan, and get it done yourself. Trust no one else. They will only break your heart.” He stood there in the doorway watching her. “You found something new tonight. I’d be careful if I were you. You might find that you enjoyed it.”
“Well, you are not me. So get the fuck out of this house,” Julia said.
Eddie cocked his head, twitched his fists in his pockets, and swept out the door.
When he was gone, Julia put James to bed, cleaned the kitchen until it gleamed again. The windows, opened high, exchanged the piney disinfectant scent with the charged air of the night. She left the phone outside.
In the years to come, in another house, in a wholly different time, the cold clarity in the aftershock of seeing Syl clutch her child could wash over her, unbidden, and with it a rush thrilled up her skin as it had when Eddie came in the door, she saw what she had set in motion and was grateful for it.
Julia sat at the table, listening to the rain, and waited. She was determined to be there, right there in that chair, when Simon arrived, so the first thing he saw was her sitting contentedly in the unblemished kitchen, resolved, alone, and utterly awake.
Hello, my name’s Colin, and I’m a birdwatcher. Can I have the next slide, please? This is the bird that I watch. He’s a European Robin – as you can tell from the distinctive red breast. In this photograph, he’s perched on Mr. Jones of number 37, who has fallen asleep while sunbathing – as you can tell from the distinctive red breast. Next slide, please.
This photo depicts Mr. Jones on my doorstep. I don’t know if you can tell, but there are some subtle clues that he is angry. The furrowed brow is one. The downturned mouth is another. The fact that his hands are wrapped around my neck, and he has me pinned to the doorframe by my throat is, perhaps, the definitive one – explaining the downward angle of the photograph, and the blurring. My photographs aren’t normally blurred. Next slide, please.
This is the robin on Mr. Jones’ car. This is the robin on Mr. Jones’ lawn. This is the robin on Mr. Jones’ kitchen window. Interestingly, the woman that you can see is not Mrs. Jones. Next slide, please.
Mr. Jones once asked me, “Could you watch some other birds for a while? I don’t know, go to the park and bother some ducks?” But I can’t. I’m a birdwatcher, not a birds-watcher. Next slide.
This is the robin on Mr. Jones’ patio. This is the robin in Mr. Jones’ apple tree. This is the robin on the pile of freshly dug earth that appeared just after Mrs. Jones sent that message to the street Whatsapp group saying she was going on an indefinite business trip.
Mr. Jones also asked me, “Can’t you watch the bird without taking photos?” And the answer is, of course, no. The whole point of nature is the gear. The waterproof trousers. The Goretex shoes. The telescoping, collapsible, telephoto lens. Next slide, please.
This is the robin at Mr. Jones’ window. Again, that is not Mrs. Jones.
Next slide.
This is Mr. Jones on my doorstep, again. “You can’t call the police,’ I said. “Birdwatching isn’t a crime.” And he took a really long look at me, and relaxed.
“You ain’t too bright, are you?” he said.
“I’m a birdwatcher,” I replied.
Next slide, please.
Clichés don’t always work. Take, for example, a woman leaving the comfort zone of her home to go to a battle-torn country to escape her personal fears and ultimately find a love interest amidst the chaos. Love triangles always add another flavour to cliché. In many love stories, a diary is a must because it contains the memories and secrets of the forlorn lover; in our story, the diary takes the form of cassette tapes. Some clichés work excellently, though, because they are the elements of a historical novel and they manage to weave together fact and fiction.
I Will Die in a Foreign Land is the debut novel of Kalani Pickhart. Reading it was like listening to Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring; Pickhart necessarily “sacrifices” characters to redeem others, hoping that they can save their country, Ukraine, in turn.
The backdrop to the novel starts in November 2013 when Ukrainian President Victor Yanukovych rejected a deal to integrate with the European Union, instead choosing to build a strong alliance with Russia. Many Ukrainians, who had found freedom since their separation from Russia in 1991, protested against Yanukovych’s decision. Protests erupted in the cities. Despite a violent crackdown, with disappearances and the torture of protesters and even journalists, more people joined in. Ultimately, in February 2014, Yanukovych fled and sought refuge in the Kremlin. A presidential election was held, but it did not stop the conflict. It was just the beginning of a war that is still ongoing.
A historical novel, I Will Die in a Foreign Land follows a number of stories. Katya is an American doctor with roots in Ukraine. She volunteers at a makeshift clinic in Saint Michael’s Monastery in Kyiv after her failed marriage and the death of her son. Misha, whose outlook on life was changed by his wife’s death, is an engineer and survivor of Chernobyl. Slava is a bisexual activist and a sex-trafficking survivor whose relationship with two journalists (Dascha, and the American, Adam) provides her with the opportunity to traverse a dangerous path to sexual identity but who ultimately finds her redemption in the United States. Aleksandr Ivanovich is the mysterious piano player who was a tortured former KGB agent who loved an enemy more than Mother Russia. He joins the protests wearing a balaclava to conceal his identity, as he was previously convicted of espionage for the Czech Republic after running away from Russia to be with Vera, a double agent for Russia and the Czech Republic. It is Aleksandr who owns the cassette tapes, addressed to his long-lost daughter, Ana.
Except for Katya’s, the lives of the other three main characters intertwine starting in Russia during Stalin’s reign of terror and weaving through the USSR’s invasion of Czechoslovakia in August 1968, the chaos in the streets of Kyiv, memories of Chernobyl, and the babushkas who returned to their land despite the government’s warning of exposure to radiation.
Pickhart’s characters are alive. You can almost touch them and hear their unique voices. She perfectly fleshes out the individuality of the major characters and those around them with such precision that no one speaks or thinks the same. The movements and decisions of the characters follow real events of the times, making the novel appear like a documentary. By doing this she captures the reader’s interest, and a chronology of important events is listed in the book to help us better understand the flow of the narrative. For example, a page of the novel shows the names of all the passengers who perished when Malaysian Airlines Flight 17 was shot down by pro-Russian separatists in Ukraine on July 17, 2014.
Historical novels with war or conflict backdrops are nothing new. Leon Uris made a career out of writing historical fiction using the Palestinian and Israeli conflict in his novel Exodus (published in 1958) and went on to write about it further in some of his later works.
I Will Die in a Foreign Land follows a similar formula; in fact, the first few pages reminded me of Leon Uris’ writing but from a female perspective and in a more recent time.
The novel may appear to be a pseudo-documentary, which serves as a strategy to alert the attention of the readers to what is happening in Ukraine, both historically and in the present. (Despite the July 2020 ceasefire, there are still sporadic skirmishes between pro-Kremlin and Ukrainian forces.) Pickhart’s debut novel could be considered formulaic, but that does not diminish its importance in focusing our attention on Eastern Europe and the long struggle for Ukraine to achieve the freedom it rightfully deserves. I’m looking forward to her next novel; this one deserves a sequel.
I Will Die in a Foreign Land
By Kalani Pickhart
Two Dollar Radio, 326 pages
Siri Ranva Hjelm Jacobsen was born in 1980 into a Faroese-Danish family. She lives in Copenhagen and works as an author and critic. Island is her critically acclaimed and internationally award-winning debut novel, which has been translated into five languages.
Split across three generations of one family, ittells the story an unnamed Danish narrator’s return to the Faroe Islands, where she has never lived but always considered home. During her stay, she finds her stories entwining with those of her parents and grandparents as she searches for a way to reconnect with her roots.
KW: Thank you so much for speaking to us. I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed the book. I read it in one sitting, which is rare for me.
SRHJ: I’m glad to hear that.
KW: Let’s get started with a perhaps deceptively simple question. What inspired you to write Island?
SRHJ: I wrote the book during a time at which a certain ethnically focused populist nationalism was very much on the rise in Denmark, which made the question of what it means to be Danish very present in society. As a person who has family scattered all over the world and as a person who doesn’t look very Danish, it is a question that has always been posed of me – “Oh, you’re not all Danish, are you?”
It’s a question of what it means to belong and have a home and how these basic human needs are connected to nationality. Although it’s an interesting thing to talk about, you start to experience a certain distance between yourself and what you’re supposed to be when you’re asked this question your entire life.
Having roots in other places in the world, I have experienced a very strange longing for home. It was this core feeling that I wanted to explore.
KW: When you’re writing a book with obvious parallels to your own life, there’ll inevitably be a suggestion that it’s autobiographical. How much of Island, if any, is autobiographical?
SRHJ: Not very much. My grandmother never had an abortion on a ferry, and my mother’s great aunt never turned into a seagull. Although I wouldn’t call it autobiographical, I do I share a lot of feelings with the narrator, and it’s been very interesting for me to explore them outside of myself.
KW: How similar are you to the book’s narrator who is only referred to as the granddaughter?
SRHJ: Not at all. I’m a very inquisitive person; if I don’t understand something, I confront it, but I needed a narrator with a different mindset. The granddaughter is very nonconfrontational; a little withdrawn and has a very soft imagination. Instead of going to her relatives and asking about her family’s history, she tiptoes through their stories and then fills in the gaps with her own poetic imaginings.
KW: There is a s sense in the book that, as we mature, we develop a more rounded understanding of our older relatives. Did writing the book help you see your own parents and grandparents differently?
SRHJ: It’s a funny story. When the book came out, I took part in a literary festival for debuting novelists and scholars from across Europe, featuring one novelist from each European country.
During the festival, the scholars discovered two common themes: One was migration and its consequences in relation related to identity. The other was grandparents, which really surprised the scholars; they’d never previously seen grandparents as a hot topic for young people.
The world is moving so fast that my generation – and those younger than me – don’t have an immediate connection to the generations before us. Our lives are radically different from those of our grandparents and our histories are, sort of, severed. This leaves a real gap as knowing your history, knowing your roots, and having a connection backward in time are necessary for a stable and strong identity.
When I was in my early 20s, I interviewed my grandfather. It was hard for him to tell his story. It wasn’t a particularly dramatic or strange story, but he was a proud man and relaying your life is always difficult. I’m very glad I did it.
KW: I think that’s true for everyone. We expect our grandparents to be quite conventional and just envision them as older people. Until we’re older ourselves, we don’t realise that they were young too and they had messy lives as well.
SRHJ: Exactly. It was very important for me that the grandparents of Island didn’t have a particularly spectacular story. I wanted their story to be relatable to most people who have moved from one place in the world to another – although that choice, in itself, can be very dramatic.
KW: In the book you juxtapose some really bleak images with almost fairy-tale-like descriptions of the landscape. One that really stood out for me was the description of the protagonist’s grandmother having an abortion and it being like a crow pecking at her urethra. You can almost feel that. How do you come up with these images?
SRHJ: I’m glad that was so memorable, but also, I’m sorry! There is a children’s song called “Krákan” which has always fascinated me and involves a crow. It has little cute melody, but the words are quite terrifying. If you’ve ever seen a crow pecking, you’ll know that they make these extremely precise little motions, but that their movements are also quite fast and erratic.
My first great literary love as an adult was the Swedish author Selma Lagerlöf, who was the first female Nobel Prize winner for literature. She wrote realistic stories but also had a very gothic streak. What she did that I found so fascinating was that she used nature to describe the characters’ inner lives. For me, that was a very helpful strategy for this narrator who’s kind of shy.
When it comes to the abortion, the first contractions are very bad, but the narrator is also trying to protect the modesty of this person who, at the same time, is completely laid bare, so she goes to nature and natural imagery. I think, as humans, we can accept a lot of violence in nature.
KW: The next thing I wanted to ask you about was translation. As a native English speaker, I absolutely loved the translation, but how do you feel about having your work translated?
SRHJ: I’m very happy that you like the translation. I’ve been working as a literary translator for the past six years myself. I’m very grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to do that because it has taught me a lot about being translated.
Being translated is amazing but also very difficult, especially if it’s into a language you’re familiar with yourself. For example, being translated into English, for me, was very different from being translated into Italian as I don’t understand a word of Italian.
There’s also a real learning experience, and you learn so much about yourself as an author that only a translator can teach you.
KW: Island is obviously focused very much on a specific part of the world. But the themes of identity and place really resonated with me in the UK. Did you expect the book to be so relevant for people wherever they are in the world?
SRHJ: I hoped. I didn’t really know what to expect from my first novel, but I’ve had some amazing reactions on a very broad spectrum. For example, I’ve had the daughter of Iranian refugees tell me she really related to the book. Then, at the other end of the spectrum, there was the loveliest old man who had his son teach him how to use Facebook Messenger so he could write to me and tell me that every summer when the forests in Sweden turned green, he longed for his grandmother’s old cottage.
It has been such a privilege. When I close my eyes, I can see a map of the world; the reactions are like lights connecting in a web. I do think that the themes of the book, especially migration and belonging, are basic human themes, which will become increasingly important as we begin to move around more and more.
KW: I’ve read that you have an interest in ecofeminism. I think the cause is very misunderstood, or it certainly is in the UK. A lot of people see it as being anti-men or being for hippies. Do you have any thoughts on that?
SRHJ: It’s so funny because I recently attended a literature festival in Italy and took part in a panel discussion on climate fiction. I think that’s an iffy term, but it’s fiction dealing with the changes in nature that are occurring globally. A young Italian woman raised her hand and said that every time she took part in any form of activism, politicians would dismiss her as a hippie feminist.
It’s been the same all over the world, but it is changing in Scandinavia now. It’s becoming too difficult to write these movements off as having nothing to do with mainstream culture.We all have to figure out how to live in the world, in the best possible way, as it changes. These changes are going to happen and it’s going to affect us globally, although the effect will be worse for some than others.
If we want to keep our humanity and, if we want to sustain our democracies, these are questions we must concern ourselves with. It starts with the economy, with redistributing resources and wealth in a way that is sustainable. I’m not an economist, and that’s not my area of expertise. The small contribution I can make is tell stories and ask questions, through literature, that invite people to imagine new ways of being.
KW: For me, the book very much fell into the genres of life writing and nature writing. These are two of my favourite genres. What do you enjoy reading yourself?
SRHJ: My personal tastes in literature are a little different. I’m a great lover of science fiction, but I think that, even in the in the strangest stories, what catches you is the basic humanity.
After my literature degree, I still have a list of required reading on the backburner, which is growing all the time. I think it’s a magical state of being; to be constantly aware that the world is full of art, experiences, and stories; that there are so many that you will never get through them.
KW: That seems like a perfect way to end. Thank you again for speaking to us.
SRHJ: My pleasure.
Sailing past the Faroese village Hattarvík on Fugloy Island, it’s hard to believe that this tiny human foothold has lasted since the 10th century and strange to think that sometime in our future, it might become a beacon for climate refugees. As the world warms, the North Atlantic region will likely experience the slowest rate of temperature increase in the northern hemisphere; and with current summer means of 11°C, this small village might be a balmy spot to settle once places like Sicily or Greece become too hot for human habitation. That is, of course, if it’s still above sea level.
Encircled by mountains on three sides, high on the edge of a bluff, Hattarvík clings to the coast. Today, it’s a dice-toss of scattered homes, a red-roofed stone church with mostly empty pews. Accessible only by boat and helicopter, Fugloy has been rendered remote by modernity’s need for speed. The island population has been in steady decline since the ’60s and, by last headcount, the permanent residents of Hattarvík numbered 11.
All of the Faroese folktales I’m currently reworking for a book of short stories deal with nature, somehow. In one of them, a troll comes to Hattarvík. Like most stories transcribed from an oral tradition, it reads raw and sparse. I must make a new kind of sense of it, break it down and reconstruct it into a story that’s mine. This is my starting point:
One evening, not many lifetimes ago, the children of Hattarvík went outside to play, running here and there between the houses as usual. Around the time for lighting candles, a boy came rushing into the house known as “uppi í Húsi” and screamed: “A troll is after me!” He sat down by the door, but an arm reached in and dragged him outside.
In uppi í Húsi lived an old man, both wise and well read, and his name was Hanus. Before him, four sons of the household had carried that name, so the villagers called him “Fifth.” Now, as the boy was torn away, Fifth jumped to his feet. He ran out after the troll and catching up to it by the bluff, he wrestled the boy from its arms. But the troll – being a beach troll (fjørutrøll) – leapt from the rocks and escaped into the sea.
A few years passed, then a troll came once more to Hattarvík. The first time, it came in the deep dark of night, but with each passing day it appeared earlier, and on the eighth evening it came at dusk. The troll was a hideous sight: overgrown with seaweed, dragging along stones and bits of ocean floor. It was crusty with crustaceans, crawling with shrimp and barbed with the spines of dead seals. And it stood so tall that it towered even over the roof of the house known as ““niðri í Húsi.”
The villagers lived in terror of these nightly visits. Whatever needed doing, they did it by day, as no one dared go out after dark. When the troll walked, it made a racket like millstones dragging across the ground, and each morning the people of Hattarvík found the turf between their houses torn and milled to a pulp by heavy, conch-riddled feet.
It was the man Sakaris from niðri í Húsi who finally drove it away. One evening, when the rustling of seaweed and crashing of stones was heard, he instructed his kinfolk to stay indoors no matter how long it might take, and then he went outside to meet it. Hours went by. The villagers put out their candles for the night, assuming the worst, but no one dared go and search for him. Then, at last, he came; wet as though he’d been hauled from the sea, dripping from every thread. Most say that Sakaris conjured the fiend into a nearby gorge called Títlingagjógv – and it’s well known that no beach troll has visited Hattarvík since.
Though old man Fifth and Sakaris both held sway over trolls, the older of the two was the more gifted, for he possessed the Sight. In his final years, while he lay bedridden, he often spoke out loud to himself and frightened the people of his house. One night, they heard him say: “Listen here, my sweet, what pains me the most is the thought of all those poor women soon to be widowed over in Kirkja.” Everyone hoped it was nonsense, but before the year had passed, a boat with seven men from Kirkja sunk and only one was saved.
Fifth’s kinfolk now came to his bedside and asked how the family would fare in the future. Would there be many boys born and called Hanus yet? Fifth answered solemnly. A sixth and a seventh Hanus would be born, he said. No more.
And so, it came to be. Two boys were born into the family and both were named Hanus, but when the eighth child came, she was a girl.
At the heart of this story there’s a troll and its post-disenchantment substitute, a girl. Both spell doom for Hattarvík. Girls grow up to be married away. The ending hints at the creeping horror of depopulation. But what about the beginning? The question I must answer in order to unlock my story within the story is –
What is the troll?
There’s the obvious answer, of course: The troll is a troll. Tangled in seaweed, dragging its element along, it seems distantly related to the ever-morphing “Dead Papa Toothwort” from the brilliant novel Lanny by Max Porter. He, too, comes for the boy of the story and his body is sometimes “a suit of bark-armour with the initials of long-dead teenage lovers carved in the surface.” Dead Papa Toothwort is a kind of Green Man, a nature-embodying spirit or deity, only something’s gone wonky. His face isn’t overgrown with leaves but “made of long-buried tannic acid bottles.” If he is the spirit of nature, then nature appears changed; altered by industrialisation, human production and waste, riddled with “Victorian rubbish.”
In Lanny, the nature of nature is to morph, be limitless, grow through and merge with what’s human. This is nature viewed through a lens of contemporary science, nature in the time of the holobiont. But in “Fifth, Sakaris and the beach trolls from Hattarvík,” a folktale passed down from a century before the Anthropocene, the nature of nature is external, to be Other. It comes to the village from a deep place beyond human impact, crashing violently into the human sphere. The troll is a storm surge; the wave that snatches a boy away. It’s a boundary breached, balance disrupted, and to restore it requires an act of magic. Fifth and Sakaris each play a shamanic role; they battle the troll in a mystical border zone between us and nature.
A border is a space for violence, for keeping out and fencing in. A violent fiction. In nature, there is no such place. In nature, by which I mean in reality, there are zones of transfer and transition. It’s like the Danish poet Amalie Smith writes in her literary hybrid Thread Ripper:
Everything alive morphs.
No species are complete.
All species are snapshots.
I was taught: Humans live in history. Nonhuman species live in nature. I lived in a city. On the weekends, I sometimes went with my family out into nature. Though my city had plenty of green spaces, they’d been planted by human hands, and I didn’t consider them fully natural. Like a wheat field or lawn, the trees in my local park seemed only demi-alive. Like the carrots in my lunch box or the oranges wrapped individually in blue paper at the green grocer, they were manmade products of history. It made them less-than: not for reverence, but for consumption.
In the violent border-fiction, the nature of nature when it seems untouched by us is to be a destination, holy and remote like the shrine at the end of a pilgrimage.
The nature of nature when it is closest to us and most intimately in our care is to be less-than-nature.
Before history, there was nature. After history, there will be nature still. In literature, this has often been a source of dread. In the earliest work of cli-fi that I know of, H. G. Wells’ The Time Machine from 1895, it certainly is. Here, a traveller arrives on a beach in the distant future and finds that the earth has been horrifically changed by the cooling of the sun.
Wells hits uncannily close to home, conjuring up the horror of a world without biodiversity. Every spot of fertile earth the traveller sees is covered by monovegetation, the same rich green that one sees on forest moss or on the lichen in caves: plants which like these grow in a perpetual twilight. It’s a world painted in stark and terrifyingly simple contrasting colours. The green of the lichen grates against harsh reddish rocks under a huge, hull-like sun. And along the margin where the water sometimes broke was a thick incrustation of salt – pink under the lurid sky.
Here, too, we encounter a border-monster, a creature of disordered nature:
Looking round me again, I saw that, quite near, what I had taken to be a reddish mass of rock was moving slowly towards me. Then I saw the thing was really a monstrous crab-like creature. Can you imagine a crab as large as yonder table, with its many legs moving slowly and uncertainly, its big claws swaying, its long antennae, like carters’ whips, waving and feeling, and its stalked eyes gleaming at you on either side of its metallic front? Its back was corrugated and ornamented with ungainly bosses, and a greenish incrustation blotched it here and there. I could see the many palps of its complicated mouth flickering and feeling as it moved.
This is monstrosity devoid of magic, “unheimlich” nature; a beach troll for a disenchanted age. But what makes it truly scary is the way that it moves. The crab comes for the traveller, not stomping and crashing with purpose, but wobbling unsteadily, inquisitively along. It moves like a toddler – and that’s the horror: It is.
In Thread Ripper, Amalie Smith writes:
The world is formed again and again.
Beginners everywhere.
The monstrous crab is just that: a new beginner on an end-stage Earth. Something about this rings awfully true and familiar. Reading the story, I find it hard not to think about human children born today into the inescapable global grind of killer-growth and consumption-based self-destruction.
I return to my starting point and ask again: What is the troll? As a nature spirit, it seems too romantic, uselessly pure, lacking exactly what makes Dead Papa Toothwort such a brilliant character. He is nature-in-reality, constantly morphing, inscribed with human desire, production, and waste. But, perhaps, the troll might be the girl? After all, both troll and girl are signified by the number eight. It’s a funny little number, nondescript and notoriously late to the party. But seven, there’s a different story: There’s a power player, a number by which we order the world. There are seven classical planets, seven seas, and seven deadly sins. There are seven days of Creation, seven years of plenty for the Pharaoh, seven demons driven out of Mary Magdalene, and, in folklore, seven sons. There are seven nights of not seeing the troll and on the eight night it makes itself known. The number eight means the end of tradition, it breaks continuity and disrupts sameness. But what if continuity needs breaking?
I think I’ve got it now. At the heart of my story is the violent border-fiction and those who defend it. Sakaris is the troll. Fifth is the troll. Every Hanus is the troll.
*
Siri Ranva Hjelm Jacobsen was born in 1980 into a Faroese-Danish family. She lives in Copenhagen and works as an author and critic. Island is her critically acclaimed and internationally award-winning debut novel, and has been translated into five languages. It is published in English by Pushkin Press.
*
Note: The quotes from Amalie Smith’s Thread Ripper are translated from Danish by me for this essay. An official translation is forthcoming.
For 500 years, we placed human bodies on a raised platform in the middle of the caldera. The findings were exceptionally robust: Each body, without exception, transitioned from life to death. Every time was the same. The skin cracks: Superheated fat beneath the skin surfaces now, a white cotton that soon burns itself away. Eventually, the soft tissues are consumed and a charred skeleton emerges, curling inward and held together by the wire bindings we use upon the living. At the end of the tests, we concluded that fire kills.
The Master proposed we investigate the opposite effect. For 500 more years, we brought corpses to the mountain, placed them carefully on the platform in the caldera, and watched for signs of life. For 500 years, this experiment confirmed the null hypothesis. No corpse showed signs of animation. At the end of these tests, the Master registered disappointment and hesitated to state the obvious conclusion (that fire, added to death, does not bring life).
For reasons unknown to me, the Master decided to test five more bodies. Of all the things that were later to transpire, this remains the most perplexing. The team felt that the addition of five more items next to the completed list compiled over 500 painstaking years would reflect poorly on the Master, so we devised an alternative approach to simply jettison five additional bodies from the rim directly into the mouth of the caldera. The first four bodies were consumed in the usual fashion. To further protect our Master, the team met together at the platform to observe more closely what we could of the cremains but made no additional records of these findings. The fifth corpse was duly brought forth and tossed into the caldera. (This particular subject had been killed when sentient observers had thrown him upon a platform in the middle of a caldera.)
I anointed this corpse personally. I was among the most experienced members of the team. I had observed all 500 years of the first round of tests, and all 500 years of the second round of tests. During this time, I had anointed approximately every seventh subject placed upon the platform and thus had repeated the behaviour something like 5,200,000 times. I have no reason to believe my actions differed substantially on this occasion from any of the previous occasions.
However, my inner thoughts were unique. On one hand, I recognized that I was anointing the final subject in our sequence of two grand experiments and was imbued with the momentous character of our achievement. On the other hand, I was unsettled by the Master’s strange decision to extend the second experiment to include these final five bodies. At any rate, I cradled the charred skull in my hand, gently anointed it, placed it at the tipping point on the edge of the rim, nudged it on its path, and then returned to my customary place.
The heat of the lava below seems to melt air. Things you look at like to move, even when they are standing still. We thought this when the fifth corpse first began to shudder to life. As the cotton fat wrapped about the bone, we thought we had caught the Master’s madness. When the corpse began to struggle to its feet, we knew that we had found countervailing evidence against all expectation.
I rushed down to the platform and extended the skimmer far out to the place where the fifth corpse was congealing. The corpse rolled itself onto the skimmer. I pulled it slowly to the platform, and lifted it up, and then gently sliced through the wire still binding the man in place. He was much reconstituted by this point. I walked with him back to the rim, where I encouraged him to sit.
“What is your name?” I asked him.
“Daniel. My name is Daniel Mark Welles,” he said after a time, his voice straining with the effort. I thought then that his vocal cords had only just reformed.
“Daniel. That was your name in death – ”
“Life. That was my name in life.”
“In this life, you are Fifth of the Caldera.”
*
Humans do not experience time as we experience it. Sequentiality predominates, but persistence reigns. The ending of life is the most devastating act. In truth, our treatment of humans is the cruellest thing we could do to them. That is perhaps why we do it: Certainly, to kill them is to send a signal of perfect fidelity. So I thought, until I met Daniel.
*
Daniel began to cramp up almost immediately upon reaching my place at the rim. I suggested he walk in place to exercise his muscles. He suggested, instead, that we walk around the rim. Amused, I agreed. We walked for a long time on a rough path that must have been made by the goats who often watched our efforts, all the time in silence – until finally he stopped and gestured across the caldera, struggling to peer through the sparks and the distorted air obscuring our view. “There!” he said suddenly, as he pointed to the spot where we had started our walk. I had not been so far in a thousand years, had never visited this side of the mountain. He held my hand as we walked. In many ways, he was no different than the children I would long ago guide to the platform. He looked at me with fear and confusion, it is true, but also with the inextinguishable hope that is human.
Once we returned to my customary spot, I found a message written in the Master’s hand recalling me to his castle, that great stone fortress that clings to the foot of the mountain. I dimly recalled the path from a thousand years before and chose to bring Daniel with me. When we reached the high gates, I found the drawbridge had been lowered, and a series of torches guided us within. We reached the keep and saw within thick candles placed intermittently on the paving tiles, lighting a way up the spiralling stair. Daniel, who had long along dropped my hand, held it again as we passed the threshold to the keep. We climbed the stairs in silence, and though my breath grew laboured, his never did.
I entered and prostrated myself fully upon the thick rugs of the Master’s personal rooms. Daniel stood still behind me, uncertain how to behave. He spotted a tortoise-shell cat in the corner and tried to coax it over, while I slowly inched toward the Master’s cobwebbed throne. The electric buzz of his control panels filled the silence; their glare lit his mighty face. At his boot, I dared to lift my head and gaze upon him directly, and found then that he gazed upon me as well. I hid my eyes until sometime later, when finally he said to me, “Rise, child.” I rose, though I kept my head respectfully bowed.
The cat broke the silence. Daniel was holding it by its tail, and it was struggling mightily to escape. Eventually it managed to sink its claws into Daniel’s arm, and he released it. He looked for a time at the blood trickling down his arm. Daniel suddenly spoke: “This one – the one who brought me – this one brought me back to life, or so I think.”
The Master said only, “Then you walked these halls before. Have you come to this room before?”
Daniel sounded surprised, but then answered, “Yes. I suppose I have been here before. I know…”
“You know what is behind the tapestry, don’t you?”
Daniel nodded, then said, “Yes. I know that there’s another castle, a path to another castle at least. A tiled hallway…It exits onto a geometric garden, and on the far side there is a grand entrance…Somehow I know that I once looked off the edge of the garden, from a sort of balcony fashioned there – and saw a curtain wall – a curtain wall running across the hills.”
The Master put his hands upon my shoulders and spoke to me in a voice that sounded as uncertain as Daniel’s. “Child, what are our findings?”
“We found that fire takes life away.”
“Yes – .”
“We found, at first, fire cannot return life to that which has died. But – the Fifth of the Caldera, he is alive – he was dead. And the fire – you were right to continue the tests, Master.”
“You say that because you doubted me. That’s correct, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Master.” Here I wept for a time, until I was reminded of Daniel’s presence. In fact, Daniel cleared his throat, eager, I suppose, to move the talk beyond my private discussion with the Master.
The Master said, “What then of your Fifth, who stands before me as though he were an equal?”
I could think of no reply.
The Master said, in a disappointed sounding voice, “Can you think of nothing?”
I stood breathing.
“We continue the tests. Child, return this one to the platform, so that we can begin again.”
*
Though in my terror I took Daniel by the hand and we fled together and though we lived for many months hand-to-mouth, following the cool streams that flowed from the mountain, we were eventually caught, as we knew we would be. (Once, early on, I bit off Daniel’s fingernails for him.) Daniel was bound in wire and led up the goat path to the caldera. I was brought to the great stone walls of the castle, where I came upon the Master pleaching a little shrub. He sprang forth and wrapped his arms around me. I asked him why he embraced me.
“A thousand times I have conducted this experiment, and only now the miracle appears.”
A good observer, I tried to correct him: “Master, a thousand years – many millions of tests – and then your five final attempts, right at the end. But now you consign our miracle to his death again. Why?”
The Master replied, “No, a thousand times I have run this single experiment. A thousand times we have met our Daniel. You are the subject, child. A thousand times a thousand years – such a long time to wait. But at last you made your little miracle: you brought him to me, and then you ran away.”
*
As I write this, I am reminded of those early days. I have changed, child, I have changed. I have parted the tapestry and walked its fiery path to the platform. I have learned to stand, kind of like a human. I have wrapped myself in the gowns of that curtain wall. I have said my goodbyes to a hundred thousand more just like Daniel.
Koreans do not say “Speak of the devil” when the subject of a conversation suddenly appears. Instead they say, “Speak of the tiger.” It was the tiger, you see, that people long ago feared to mistakenly summon.
I met a boy who told me there were tigers in the hills. He was surprised that I was planning to go hiking alone. I guess he believed the children’s books he read. I knew these books. They were based on folktales and spoke of times when tigers truly did roam the Korean hills.
The truth is, one’s relationship with the Korean tiger is a good indicator of a person’s age. The oldest generation of Koreans may have actual first- or second-hand stories of an encounter with a wild tiger. But with succeeding generations, the experiences only grow vaguer, more remote and more imagined down to the present.
There are still wild boar here and, in the forest depths, a few reintroduced black bears. But it’s easy to envision the day when these creatures are gone, too, and when today’s youngest generation will invoke their lore in the same way that today’s elderly can conjure up a tale of a tiger.
At any rate, the tiger refuses to go away. I was once on a crowded elevator with a crying child. A tactful stranger said to the child in a gentle voice: “Shh, or a tiger will come.” Immediately the child stopped crying. The man feigned relief, saying, “Thank you, oh thank you! We’re safe now!”
Slow, slow, only the movement of their bodies sings the sea shanty of the lost.
Collars stiff about their sunburnt necks, watery eyelids clenched against the wind, beneath their wrinkled brows. Open mouthed, yet silent, their hands are wringing wet, etched raw with sand and stinging salt. Their chests rise and fall with each breath as they pull on the ropes which guide the thing out of the water and onto the land. Once, they were conscious of the sound of water, but now they are only conscious of its weight inside this fluid silhouette. At this hour, only the tides go out and the men come in, arrow-shaped clusters, nets and all.
Three from the moor and five from near the old clay mines, brothers out to help with the wreck. Damp planks of wood in the boat knock against rubber boots. Cupped together, all the shells roll around, the mussels, limpets, cockle shells and Venus shells, remnants from the waves. Half a rusty crab shell, or was it a lobster claw, pokes gingerly out from a bucket forever caught in the shape of a strange farewell, or perhaps it was a salute.
The men haul the shape of a giant rock, rigid and lashed. A damp asteroid, it casts its shadow on the beach. Between water and coastline, the shadow hugs the tide. It lies there for days. They have tried to cast great big sail cloths over its asphalt skin, but these only serve to deepen the loss, to mark out its end.
Water finds an uneven path from its back to its underside. A strange ribbon of heat.
A woman in a wet suit with her fist around a pebble walks towards the body of the whale and crouches at its side. She had walked into this story with an urge only to see the thing for herself. As the pebble presses into her palm, she remembers her mother’s hand holding hers as they walked through the galleries of the Natural History Museum in London. Suddenly she remembers this was not the first time she had seen a whale. And this was not the first time she had seen the dead brought to shore.
*
Every day was the same. She watched the sharp strips of light enter through the narrow pieces of reinforced glass, sideways, as the vessel tilted and she moved one arm out of the shadows. She watched her arms, the same length of bone and colour as her mother’s, and her grandmother’s thin gold bracelet looping over her skin as she moves into the vertical drift, the daylight zone. When her fingertips are near the edge of the cool wall, she rises and simultaneously grasps her hair tie and phone with her other hand. All the time, the movement of the water is replaced with the rhythms of her heartbeat, or at least that’s how it feels. No, she always was aquatic. As a child, she had dreamed she was a seahorse. Now she dreams she is a piece of flickering algology, seaweed, stretching far between things, touching everything.
Shower. Cereal in a bowl decorated with blue anemones, painted by her friend in Europe. The weight of the pottery and its glaze reflecting the steel carcass of the ship. Water in a plastic cup. Take the bowl and the cup to the sink. Suit up.
By the time she has entered the water, the others are reading the data feed, performing the daily checks, and messaging home. She is already in the water. They say, don’t they, that it is like the surface of the moon down there. Without gravity or daylight, she is on some strange kind of moon safari. Even the stars have their place here, a submerged constellation made of tiny shoals of fish whose bodies are like little comets above her head. Notes falling off the page, inked words and inked waters, the shoals scatter like musical staves in the wash.
She had started learning to dive in Cornwall, not in the shallows near the rock pools in Port Quin or St. Agnes, but in the local swimming pool back in town. At eight years old, she practiced drifting towards the bottom of the pool and held her breath, a waterproof timer clasped to her wrist. Her nervous mother in the seated area with its red and blue zig zags, chewing on Indian snacks from a Tupperware container while her daughter jumped from the diving board and blinked through purple goggles with a glittery border. Then, the usual routes into her profession, school, and university, but it was the sea otters which first called her into the depths and further out, as far as she could hear the current of water inside her own body. Slate-coloured boulders with large black eyes, they drew her closer, further out to sea. Eventually, she left the chlorinated water for the saline ponds far from home and then, of course, and then, the ocean, the Indian Ocean and the Black Sea.
Now, she is measuring the autotrophic algae which the German botanist Albert Bernard Frank had first written about in the late 19th century. Each day she says this word to herself like a hymn, autotroph. Converting one energy to another, these living organisms make their own nourishment. Is she an intruder here or simply their water-bound biographer, she wonders, as the brackish liquid becomes her home. Language is, in many ways, also autotrophic. Words like sea otter, zebra, stingray, mussel, goby jelly and actinia give out their own energy in life, linguistically, verbally, but also in the data feed, the marine life reports, the logbooks, and transform the shape of her body, as she finds herself breathing in their new formations of life, once again, as she did in college.
The science of marine biology finds its safety in words, in empirical data and the storing of measurements. The great expeditions of discovery carried men into the ice and through bodies of water for the purpose of exploration, scientific knowledge which led to the acquisition of new geographies, for themselves and their countries, but her body contains another knowledge. It is the intelligence of the body she struggles with here and the invisible language of her great grandparents, exiled from Asia. The shape of the Hooghly River. The enveloping sounds of the monsoon season from her grandparents’ home in Shalimar. That slip stream hydrology, the undercurrent of their legacy spills over into other bodies of water, as well as her own. It had been a long time since she had visited Shalimar.
Increasingly, she follows the rhythms of different currents, knowledge which comes from the body and not from the textbooks of Albert Bernard Frank. Perhaps ageing reveals some truths, the things we truly long for only made visible to us as we leave leap from the cliff-edge of childhood, which at least for her, meant most of her twenties and early thirties sheltered within academia and the cross streams of its institutional and cultural politics, long forged by imperialism and the British Empire. In her mid-thirties, it finally dawned on her, she just liked to swim in dangerous waters. Submerged moon landings were always worth the wait. Why couldn’t she move within everything, stray from the singular current she had always been taught to swim within. All your life you are taught to dart the waves, but what if you could be the tide, too, the shoreline, the ammonite, the algology.
Yes, she admits to herself, there are dangers and these increase steadily as our ecological conditions grow more and more unstable. Another team were out at the Gulf of Odessa. Expanses of ice form on its surface and crack open in uneven places like wood splintering, except unlike that natural substance, ice is granular, it wears its age differently. Here, ice crystals are markers of time. (How long since she has seen a tree?) She imagines the team in Odessa passing through thick curtains of mist. A sky the colour of milk. No horizon, only jagged ice which must be navigated as the crew begin to tunnel beneath it. She knows that at some point their vessel will be swallowed by vapour, while it burns hot at its centre, powered by several engines which turn the propellers all day long.
Back at the coastline, visitors gather as they usually do in Odessa (Odi-sha) and receive deep tissue massages on Arcadia beach. Some linger near the famous painting by Caravaggio in the Museum of Western and Eastern Art. Unlike a Caravaggio, there is only darkness near the seabed, black and blue, but never lit unless someone is carrying light or projecting it downwards. There is rarely any light transmission below around 600 feet into the sea. Definition and volume is marked out by movement, not sunlight or candlelight. Ships, or ocean liners, even in their immensity, cast their own glimmer, merely a refraction. Hers is the study of such things, of reflection and refraction because it is after all the visible wavelengths of light which feeds the chlorophyll-bearing marine plants she researches. How, she thinks, would Caravaggio paint this transference of energy and whose eyes would it be seen through? Whose body would balance the light?
Occasionally, they would receive messages from them, in the other parts of the Black Sea, data feeds containing lists of phytoplankton and algae. She had started to discover anomalies, phrases or nouns which did not fit the language of the lists. She discovered, in between these read outs, little messages in the margins. Once, she had read the words heart-shaped and Jamaica on one of the feeds and instead of crossing them out on the system, which was also her job, replaced them with more specific details. Next to the word Jamaica, she wrote the word Cornwall. She thought of the place where her mother still lived and Daphne du Maurier’s novel Jamaica Inn. While it had not been her home for several decades, she still felt the undertow of her childhood home as she sailed across the Black Sea. A couple of words, still, an incantation, a weight across your left shoulder, an eyelash in the shutter gate. Heart-shaped. Isn’t that another word for home? Every word has its own etymology, but then there was their private history, the way it sung out to you and only you.
Put your ears to a coral shell and you think you can hear the ocean. Isn’t that how the story goes? What if you dive deep enough into the coral reef and hear not the ocean but, as clear as day, the oak floor boards in your childhood home, a grandfather clock from Germany, the wind inside a chimney and, most of all, some kind of singing, which sounded like a woman’s voice: a siren. But it wasn’t a siren. No, because it sounded too much like her own mother’s voice in between the water and the things which are not solid, or melting into air. The ocean makes everything dance, and the dead sing out to muted skies in an upside down mirror.
*
Every day is the same. The light, strips of luminosity now at the edges of her bed, her hands out of the sheets and the golden bracelet on her arm. Her phone in her hand. Her hair tied twice, wrapped and knotted by the hair tie.
Shower. The taste of copper pipes which cannot be true of this ship, this oceanic vessel. Cereal in the bowl from Europe. A glass of water. Suit up.
Newsfeed. Pips, beeps, and blips wriggle into existence on the monitors. The machines do their work. Someone walks across the decks, and another crew member heats up old coffee in a microwave. She has stopped noticing their voices. Then, a few lines from an old song. As she climbs into the ocean, and before she puts the diving gear on, she shouts out, “No, that’s not how it goes…” She sings a few lines back, and someone laughs. The laughter ripples outwards and then cuts out abruptly.
Every day is not the same.
Still, she is under the water. She is under the water. She is under the water.
The last thing she sees is a pink-veined starfish within a cloud of smoke, or was it ash? Behind it, she was sure she could see the sunset, or some other brightly burning thing exploding in the sky, or was it the sea which was on fire?
*
A small child’s foot on the edge of a piece of slate. Wet, oddly shaped textures of moss, slippery on the surface. Small, pink flip flops grazing the pebbles. A persistent seagull shakes an empty paper cup once filled with noodles.
“Step into the water,” her father says. “Go on,” her father says, a hand tapping the rocks. Below his rolled up sleeves, half the shape of a small tattoo, a gorse hedge inked into his skin in a knot.
“I’ll stay here. You go,” she says, an absent hand twisting the rubberised backs of her flip flops.
“No,” he insists again, his hand still on the rocks. “Don’t think of yourself as a swimmer. Think of yourself as the water,” he says.
She looks back at him. She doesn’t know how to be the water. Not yet, anyway. But she could try. Maybe that’s a good idea.
The girl slips into water the colour of sapphires, and it reaches her waist. Her father holds her legs, and she stretches out, kicking hard and moving her arms. He lets go of her shoulders. She looks back at the cove and sees her mother on the beach reading her book. The sea is the colour of a blue bubble gum ice cream, a spearmint lolly, a felt tip pen. It is the smell which surprises her. She imagined it would be like the fish counter in the supermarket, or the rubbery tang of old swimsuits, but it was silvery, like pine needles and minerals. She had spent all week wondering about the sea. Next, she would try floating on a bodyboard. Back on the rocks, her mother pours Cornish tea from a flask and arranges sea glass on a blanket into the shape of a bird. Shivering from the sea, the girl spills warm splashes of tea onto her flip flops and her mother wraps a towel around her shoulders. “You’ll like it better next time,” she tells her daughter. The girl has already started thinking about the bottom of the sea and the places where the rock pools stretch out into the ocean.
Fuchsia flip flops and a paper cup on the beach.
*
There is a glass of water on the sideboard. Well, it looks like water. The glass is a tall one, the kind you see in restaurants with white tablecloths. It is the last thing she sees before she notices that she is not moving, she is not inside the vessel in the ocean. She is entirely static.
“Good morning, Jemma.”
She knew immediately who it was. They were friends even before there was water between them and thin papered walls, even, at college, which they would knock on late at night to see if the other had not fallen asleep yet. She wants to get up but then her body is not having any of it. She slumps backwards and then on to a clammy pillow. There is a gentle hand on her arm and then a quieter voice.
“They brought you here. You were swimming to the shore.”
This white room, she thinks, is nothing like the ocean. How could you say words like shore and swimming in a room which felt like it was emptied of any natural thing. Only the glass of water signified the element she was most accustomed to. Yet somehow it reassured her no longer. Quietly, it was pulling an invisible thread through her insides.
“The others have gone. Do you remember the fire?”
“Jemma?”
She is still listening to the sound of her name. Jemma. It marked out a space of tenderness between them in a way that reminded her of some else’s voice. But she won’t think about that now.
Her eyes were on the glass of water again. She was so thirsty. She swallows until it is all gone and then looks at her beloved friend. A face framed with red curls and a denim jacket which she thinks she has seen before, many years ago. She could not understand why she was so hot and then there was the snow outside, which couldn’t be right.
Snow starts to drift into the room and across her friend’s hair. She is still gazing at the white flurry of movement when she hears someone close a window.
She looks again and then sees that it is not snow but tiny petals which have blown inside the room.
Apple blossom
Her friend shakes them out of her fringe and brushes them off her bed. Her mind returned to the ice at the Gulf of Odessa and the snow on the Caucasus mountain, but when her hand reaches for the blossom, something new occurs to her: her mother’s garden in Cornwall. But also: the blue anemones on the ceramic cup her friend in Europe had made for her.
“Do you remember?” the voice says once more.
She remembered the sound of the grandfather clock in her mother’s house and the wind down the chimney in the winter. She saw, still, the shoals of fish like staves of music somersaulting into her vision. The Black Sea and the words on the data sheet. While she never planned on saying it, the first words to come out of her mouth: “I want to go home.”
Nr. Port Quin, Cornwall
Gravity changes us. It pulls us in a certain direction, on a cellular level, sure, but it also anchors us in time and space. Those are the laws of nature. The ocean changes us, too. The more time spent below, especially at its deeper levels, the more our connections to things become loosened, unstuck. We might see a hand right in front of us, but as quickly as we try to reach for it, it disappears, floating away. Things don’t do that when you are out of the water. Objects orient us, but what if those objects are never still. What then? Then, we are never oriented. Never bound to anything. Perhaps that is why she loved the sea. It never tried to hold her in one place.
Now, she is not looking at a Caravaggio painting, she has become one. She has struck a match and lit the old oil lamp she had found at the entrance to the cottage. She enters the hallway and carries the light against its walls. Her steps are slow along the oak floorboards, as they were when she was a child in her flip flops, returning from the cove. “Take off your wet things by the porch,” her mother would shout from the kitchen.
Her face is aglow with her black hair lost in the darkness. The line of her eye sockets, her nose and the left part of her face caught in a chiaroscuro light which can only be rendered as matter above the sea and never beneath it. She wonders how her face looks now, aged since she last saw this place and she asks it, in her heart, if it recognises her, too. Surely, it will open up its secrets for her, as it did so many years ago.
Long before he had left for Europe, her father had painted the walls of the cottage bright yellow and built a new door with a piece of glass which resembled a star. Her mother shook out the rugs and made tea on an old Rayburn. The door to the main bedroom was closed, so she didn’t go in there. Rather, she decided not to go in there. There was only one other room which was smaller than the main bedroom and used to belong to her but now contained a child’s cot and a box with board games and old blankets, practical things for families holidaying there in the summer. So she unfolded herself on a small sofa and settled below the sash windows, which shook and rattled. For a long time, she watched the Cornish palm tree in her neighbour’s garden sway and shudder in the wind. She had forgotten what the winds were like here in the North Coast of Cornwall. At around midnight she took off her socks and walked barefoot out onto the patch of lawn at the front of the house. It had not been mown, and the grass reached her knees. The moon was high.
By the time she got back into the house, she realised she was afraid of water. It had occurred to her now, quite plainly, that it had started with the glass of water at the hospital. It seemed to hold something other than water inside of it. It was a dark spell. Now, she was so near the water, but she could not imagine herself inside of it. Then, she turned and she felt her left temple, the skin just above the line of her cheekbones, pound against something; she had been grazed by the side of her neighbours’ palm tree just as if she had walked straight into the path of a drunken stranger at some midnight party which was coming to an end. She was bruised, but it wasn’t as bruising as the thought of the ocean, now, which revealed itself slowly and painfully. The palm tree seemed a better bet. It was rooted, unlike her. There on the grass she thought she had come to the wrong place. The wrong home. Unless there was something else which could make sense here. The Cornish palm seemed to bend towards her. It was, at least, in agreement with her on this point.
She would have to learn to live only on the land and inside a house instead of a ship. She didn’t know if she could do that, but surely her childhood home was the best place to begin.
*
Two tall buildings standing close to each other. A swept courtyard leading to another, inner quad filled with plants and outdoor seating. Two young women with plastic white aprons tied around their waists take away food trays from a couple of elderly men. They faced the North Atlantic sea, but they could have been anywhere. Their mouths whispered songs only they knew, and the aproned women never sung along.
She rarely takes her eyes off the view of the sea framed by the shape of the courtyard. They have wheeled her out onto the veranda and put a blanket over her legs. Earlier, she had moved pieces of sea glass around on a plastic board, assembling them into the shape of a bird or some other winged creature. Jemma moves a finger across the sea glass and then her hand moves upwards to her mother’s face. She notices her mother’s white hair is thinning and needs a trim.
Jemma holds her hand out and moves some hair across her mother’s face. Her mother nods, briefly closing her eyes.
“Ah. My Jemma,” she says.
“It’s warmer today. Less windy,” Jemma says.
The light alters a little as clouds pass over their heads. Jemma’s mother touches the rug over her legs and pulls it closer.
“You went and got involved with those people on the boats. Too risky, all that way for a few shells.”
“It was an accident. I’m not going back anyway. You could come home and I could look after you.”
Her mother says nothing. It is worse that the moment you realise you are running out of air when you are underwater.
“Jemma, this is my home. They’re good to me. I’m so old. I can’t go back to living in that creepy old cottage. Besides, the lamb is so juicy on a Sunday.”
“I think you could come back to the cottage.”
“People change, Jemma. Sell it or do whatever you like. Those people from London only rent in in the summer months and it needs a lot of work. The windows will go soon and then we’ll have the trouble again. Your father would have done it himself if he was here now.”
“Alright. We’ll sell it. But I need some time.”
“Look after yourself. You look old. When you were a little girl you were always saying to me you were a mermaid. You would take your grandmother’s turquoise silk sari and wrap it around your legs, twirling, twirling the loose ends. My mermaid. Did you remember the story of Suvannamaccha in the Ramayana? The mermaid who helped Hanuman.”
“I remember, mama, but I never wanted to be a mermaid. I was the wave in the ocean.”
“No, child. You were always the creature caught between two worlds.”
Apple blossom, that was her. Coming in through the shutters and transforming into snow. She could live with that, thought Jemma. Mermaids would never be frightened of the ocean like she was now, that was for sure.
At first it sounded like a childish made-up name, like Balamory or Paw Patrol. Then I thought of pirates and treasure chests and adventure on the high seas, but I couldn’t remember why, so all I said was, “Are you sure? You don’t want to stick closer to home?” Then Beth mentioned that it was near Margate and perhaps we could go there instead. But Jaspal was the birthday girl, and she had her heart set on a day at the beach.
We went up the night before. I got on the train at St. Pancras, Jas and Beth jumped on at Stratford, and the rest of the ride was a laugh. Except when Jas told me off for not looking at the list she’d WhatsApp’d us. I said they were better at deciding that stuff and I was fine with whatever. They rolled their eyes, but I was forgiven and that was that.
A couple of hours later, we shivered outside a dark and drizzly Broadstairs Station, while I was having second thoughts. I should have just said I was ill, used the weekend to clear out Amit’s stuff. The only other people who’d got off our train had already dispersed, and the oil slick streets looked dead. But Jas was jabbing at her phone, and soon we were scrambling into an Uber.
After a quick ride to the clifftop at Kingsgate, we warmed up at the Botany Bay Hotel. This was better; our room was awash with turquoise and pine, full of white-framed local art. Apart from a few Instagramy pics the girls had shared, I didn’t know much about the place and hadn’t bothered to find out. I stopped at a black and white shot of the famous broken cliff. It looked like giants’ teeth.
Jas came and stood by my elbow. “What d’you think, Renu? You’ve seen that pic before by the way, I shared it in our group chat.”
“You did?”
She gave me a look.
“Sorry,” I said, sheepish.
“Never mind. We’ll check it out first thing.”
“After breakfast,” said Beth, already in bed and yawning away.
The room was a good size for a triple. Three proper beds, rather than two and a sofa-bed. Not that I ever offered to sleep on the sofa, I was too used to double beds. I thought of the one that would be unmade and gaping when I got home. I checked my phone. No new messages.
“How’s Amit?” said Jas, as she plumped her pillows.
“Fine,” I said. “He just texted me good night.”
“Aww. Well, tell him it was nice of him to share you this weekend.”
I laughed and nearly told her there and then. After all, Amit was her brother’s friend and she was the one who’d introduced us, she’d find out soon enough. But right now, it was our weekend and I didn’t want to break the spell just yet. I busied myself with my blanket.
Beth, at one end, started snoring, so Jas and I turned off our lamps. Our eyes adjusted to the spongy darkness, and Jas talked about beaches and broken cliffs and picturesque coves, until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer and her current carried me away.
*
The next day at breakfast we sat by the window, which overlooked the bay. It wasn’t sunny, but the sky and sea pearled together, silvery and infinite. We ordered full Englishes, and I stared at my perfectly poached eggs before I slit the silky flesh and gold oozed out. We ate quickly, then headed off.
There was no route straight down to the beach, so we wound around, along overgrown paths, dodging the dog-walkers. We shivered in the January air, and the pale grey above held its breath.
“I thought it would be busier,” I said.
“Maybe everyone’s in Margate, or Ramsgate. More to do there,” said Beth.
“How come we picked this place, anyway?”
“Renu!” Jas frowned. “I told you last night, weren’t you listening?”
“Er – ”
Beth laughed. “She thought it would be fun to pick a chalk beach this time. Speaking of Margate, I heard there’s a festival there about – ”
“ – Ooh,” said Jas, “look!”
Between beach and sea, we’d crept up on a crowd of massive mushroomy things covered in moss. I’d thought it was seaweed, but they were chalk deposits, villages of them, amid the lapping water. The sky broke and a fine spray fell, so we pulled up our hoods.
“Don’t they look amazing?” Jas took out her phone and snapped away. From the back, in her knee-length blue parka with its large hood and fur trim, she looked like a kid.
Beth moaned about having just straightened her hair, but got her phone out, too, so I didn’t bother. I’d lost count of how many beaches Jas had dragged us to over the last twenty years, and I could always get the pics off them later.
We resumed our path, with only the staring seagulls for company. As we approached our goal, we passed shallow caves carved into the chalk, like secrets. The cliffs were about fifty feet high, with mossy feet and birds’ nests for hair. The water foamed and puddled where we trod. I hadn’t thought to bring proper walking shoes, I’d been in such a rush to get out of the house after Amit left. Soon, my black leather boots were criss-crossed with white.
I noticed the seagulls more here. They circled hugely, all wingspan and beak, as dusty as the cliffs. There were messages in the chalk walls. Carved, drawn, sprayed. So and so loves such and such. The occasional expletive.
“Classy,” said Beth.
I gazed at the markings. Perhaps they were made by other versions of us, old sixth form friends, come up for the day from elsewhere. Or local kids, bored and unimpressed by a bit of broken chalk. Or maybe they were couples, wanting to leave their mark, hoping it would last. I shuddered and turned away.
Once Jas was done exploring and taking pics, Beth suggested getting on a bus, but Jas wanted to stick close by. We decided on Broadstairs for lunch, and then we’d think about making our way home.
Still fairly full from breakfast, we settled on tea and cake. Using one of Jas’ Trip Advisor recommendations, we went off to find Bleak House, and even Beth perked up at the thought of taking tea in one of Dickens’ old haunts. However, when we got there and stood at the reception desk, the manager said that they were fully booked. Unless we didn’t mind them making up a table in the kitchen? He pointed to our right, but Jas looked left, narrowing her eyes at the offending guests that were visible in the tearoom. Most of them were women with pink sashes, one of whom had the biggest sash and the biggest belly. Then I noticed her high heels and swollen ankles, and then the walls started swelling, too. I swallowed hard and looked back at the entrance. Thankfully, Beth was already shooing us out.
It was busy back in town, but we soon got lucky on Harbour Street. It looked like a pub from the outside, with its black beams and stuccoed walls, but it was a café called the Old Curiosity Shop, which made Jas giggle and even Beth grinned. “Guess you’re getting a bit of Dickens after all, Jas!” My toes were numb by now and the place looked quiet, so I was just happy to be inside.
We ordered cream teas and chose a spot by the windows. Jas took off her coat and sat opposite me. She was wearing a flannel plaid shirt, navy with gold threads. After the waitress brought over our sponge cakes and tea, Jas lifted the lid of her pot and inhaled, closing her eyes with a smile. She looked so snug with her flannel shirt and steaming pot, it seemed like the warmest sight in the world.
“I’m glad we came up the night before.” Jas leaned back in her seat. “It’s been lovely having the whole day here.”
“There’s still time to squeeze in something else,” said Beth. She pointed at her phone. “The next bus to – ”
Jas waved a hand. “Nah, this is great. We’ve had our walk, seen the cliffs, had some yummy food. Now, we can take our time heading back.”
Beth sighed and put her phone away.
I looked again at Jas, so content with just a Victoria sponge and Earl Grey. Beth had helped, but it was Jas who’d sorted it all out, even though we’d paid for her this time, as her birthday present. It was always Jas who brought us together, ever since school. Whenever uni, then jobs, then partners and families and everything else got in the way and it became too long since we’d last seen each other. When, sometimes, all you wanted was just your mates and a bit of cake. Suddenly, I didn’t want to go back.
Back to the dishes and the boxes and the empty bed. Back to the aftermath of the cyclone that’d been brewing and finally made landfall on Friday. Back to Amit’s look-do-you-want-kids-or-not-otherwise-what’s-the-point-any-more? that would still be hanging in the air. Back to the wreck that my answer should have fixed. But I didn’t even call him to come back. I jumped on a train instead. I could have fobbed off the girls, stayed at home, and processed things, or just binged everything on Netflix.
Beth and Jas got up to go to the loo, and I gazed out of the window into Harbour Street. I looked at the clean pavement and road. At the passing Macs and umbrellas. At the barely-there rain that fell like a sigh and coated everything in a lemon drizzle sheen. I recalled the images that Jas had sent. This view wasn’t so different. The cliffs were certainly striking in real life, haloed by the quiet sun. It would be good to return, on a clearer day.
“Ready, Renu?” The girls were back, picking up their coats and bags.
I looked up at their bright faces, as if through a clearing fog. I’d have to tell them soon, but for now that could wait. “Yes,” I said and got up.
As we headed towards the door, I noticed some knickknacks for sale by the counter. I stopped and picked up a fridge magnet, thumbing the photographic scene. The fridge back at the flat would be missing a few of these (yes, he was that petty), so I knew exactly what to do with this one.
A minute later, I rejoined the girls, who were waiting outside.
“What did you get?” said Jas, looking at the paper bag in my hand.
“A memory,” I said. “Thanks for organising today, girls.”
They look confused, then I emptied the bag into my hand and they beamed. It was a miniature world. A landscape shot of a chalk cliff, broken, but fused together by a liquid gold sun that spilled into the corners of the frame, a treasure chest in my palm.
When Matthew woke, he was curled on his side in the back seat of his car, his face pressing into a vinyl corner, burrowing away from the morning sun. The engine was running, and the air conditioner was on, but the air coming from the vent was warm. He sat halfway up and looked at the instrument panel. The temperature gauge was touching the edge of the red zone, and the gas had dropped to the quarter-tank mark. He scrambled quickly onto his knees, stretched forward between the two front bucket seats, and twisted the key, turning the car off. He sat frozen for a moment, listening to the hot engine tick, and then he let himself fall back, pulling the keys as he went, clutching them finally to his chest.
He had started the car, but he had not driven it – that was something, at any rate. Why had he started it in the first place? For the air conditioner, he supposed. He lifted the bottom of his shirt and looked down at the pale streaks in it, fine salt left by his sweat. That must have been it. He didn’t remember walking to his car, though. In fact, he didn’t remember paying and leaving the bar. Swiftly he felt for his wallet, lifting his hip slightly so he could reach his back pocket, and let out a long breath when his fingers met the grimy leather.
He could smell himself, a batter of cigarettes and sweat, trapped in the warming car. He felt around in the collection of plastic bottles on the floorboards and found one that was still half-full of warm Coke. He unscrewed the cap and drank the tepid, flat, sugary liquid in one held breath.
He considered getting out of the car, climbing back into the driver’s seat, and driving home so he could shower and perform the calculus of whether he would be able to make it through a day at work or would have to call in with some excuse – not sick, because he actually had been sick just two weeks before, but maybe some sort of household emergency. His pipes leaking, maybe, into the apartment below. And then he could set the ceiling fan to its highest speed, draw the curtains, gulp down two Foster’s oilcans, and try to sleep through the headache. He thought about it, his hand loosely threaded through the door handle, but then he heard children’s voices nearing the car, and he willed himself to sink into perfect stillness.
The voices drew alongside the car, growing into distinct words – no man the second one’s way better than the first but three is just crap – and then faded. Then a set of lonely footsteps tapped distantly, grew loud and near, and ebbed away again.
He let his hand fall from the door handle. The school – he had parked across from it. He couldn’t come staggering out of his car in front of it, but he couldn’t just sit here all day either, especially since this would soon be – probably already was – a No Parking zone. When did that start, eight or seven? Were there cameras outside the school?
So, he had to get moving. Right?
He sat up and slithered between the backs of the two front seats, turning and curling into the passenger seat, and then he dragged himself upright, pulling on the steering wheel and the headrest, twisting his legs into the space between the driver’s seat and the dashboard and letting the rest of his body follow painfully, until he was slouched behind the wheel. He fumbled the key into the ignition, turned it, and let the car coast slowly forward, past the school and down the street.
He glanced down at the instrument panel; the needle on the temperature gauge was drifting slowly to the left, away from the curved red band. He looked back at the road. Luckily, it was still fairly empty, which meant it could still be early. He wasn’t wearing a watch, and he still hadn’t reset the clock in the car after changing the dead battery last month, so he couldn’t be sure. He tried to do some quick math – he had connected the new battery at ten in the morning and the clock now read five-thirty, so, ten to ten at night plus to five-thirty, did that make it three-thirty in the morning? That didn’t make sense, but the kids on their way to school meant it was before eight, so he had at least an hour to make it home, shower, and get to work, if he decided to go.
Wait. What if it was three-thirty in the afternoon?
No. That was morning sunlight out there, and there was a guy selling papers right on the corner there. That happened in the morning, not the afternoon.
He stopped at a red light and turned on the radio. He spun the dial, moving from station to station until he heard a DJ’s voice: “– commute is about to get going strong down there it’s seven-oh-nine in the ay-emm and we have the best of the wake-up hits lined up for you in this block.” He stabbed at the dial, turning the radio off.
Okay. Even earlier than he thought. Time to make a quick stop.
He turned off Toledano onto Broad and coasted past the security door installation shops, the courthouse, the defunct brewery, and the essential oils, candles, and apothecary shop. He curved into the parking lot of a corner store. He jumped out of the car, trotted inside, and wove through the aisles to the cooler against the back wall.
He didn’t see Foster’s, so he grabbed two bottles of Guinness Stout and a gallon jug of water. Then he went to the coffee counter and poured a large cup. He dumped sugar and French vanilla creamer into it. He carried everything to the register and began fumbling in his back pocket for his wallet.
“Big day, huh?” the clerk commented as he pressed the beeping flat buttons.
“I just got off,” Matthew said. He yanked his wallet from his pocket, opened it, and pulled out a ten. “My big day is I’m on my way home to bed.”
“Nine-sixty-four. That’s a lot of coffee before bedtime. I can’t even have any after lunch or I’m up all night.”
“It’s for my girlfriend. She’s getting ready for work.”
He dropped the ten on the counter and grabbed the cup, the bottles, and the jug.
“Here’s your change, boss.”
“Keep it.”
Matthew pushed through the ringing door and got in his car. He dumped the beers and the water in the passenger seat, carefully stood the coffee cup in the holder by the gearshift, and pulled his door shut. Then he tore at the handle and opened the door. He bent out and coughed a small disk of orange bile onto the concrete next to his car. He sat back upright and closed the door again. The store clerk was staring at him through the wide window. He started his car and twisted in his seat to peer over his shoulder as he backed away.
He edged onto the street and drove the rest of the way home, coughing now and then against the rough, fluid residue in his throat.
In his apartment, right after he closed his front door, he grabbed the bottle opener from the coffee table. He pried the cap from one of the Guinnesses and downed it. Then he unscrewed the cap from the gallon of water and drank three long swallows. He went to the sofa and sat, trying to tally reasons for skipping or going to work, but stumbling again and again after the first two: because he might not be able to mask the smell of liquor in his sweat for the entire day and because he didn’t actually have any vacation hours left.
He uncapped the other Guinness and drank it in five large swigs.
He had just a few minutes to think. He could just lean back on the sofa here, close his eyes for a minute or two, and let the answer come.
He was aware that he was dozing off. He let it happen.
The first dreams were snatches of childhood and combinations of moments from high school and college: running around the corner of the house from a Labrador that was nipping at his arm, running around the same corner from his father, standing in a dust storm next to the cafeteria, crossing a bridge over a stream that went under one side and didn’t come out the other.
Then he dreamed he was driving at night, finding his way home from the club. For some needless reason he was on the freeway, and as he tried to coast around the long circle of the exit ramp, he felt the car slide and buck, all doughy and serpentine as it rammed and bounced over the guardrail and he plunged into unnamed streets below.
He woke, snarling, clutching at the air. Then he found his phone, lifted the receiver, and dialed the restaurant.
“Jen? Yeah, Matthew. No, look, my pipes are leaking and the landlord said I’ve got to wait for the plumber – he doesn’t even know how to turn the water off, so I’m here mopping it up so it doesn’t destroy everything. Seriously. No, I know I suck. Just call that other waiter, that Cliff or whatever his name is. He’s been asking for the work, right? Well, I hope you’re not pissed forever. Okay. Okay. Bye.”
He dropped the phone into the charger, stood, and walked through his house to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and stripped, draping his clothes over the top of the door. He got in the shower and began soaping his face, his arms, his chest. Midway through, he sank to the shower floor and started crying. When he stopped, he stayed there, kneeling, as the hot water grew slowly warm, tepid, and then cold.
Tourists are lured through the doors of makeshift armoured buses by the promise of seeing big cats up close. Holding cameras, they hunch into each row, like oversized schoolchildren, limbs spilling everywhere. Everyone peers through windows reinforced with metal caging. Outside, the animals are pacing. Animals that once camouflaged into the temperate forest lands beyond the gates now collect around the vehicle. They know what’s coming.
Live chickens, ducks, pheasants, goats, and cattle can all be purchased at the park’s entrance. Visitors, as if ordering at a restaurant, buy entire animals. Except instead of herbed, halved, fried, baked, or BBQed, this chicken isn’t dead. After all, it wouldn’t be a live show if the bait weren’t still breathing. This process of feeding is the reason most people come to the park.
What is it about the act that is so worth standing in line for? We are, after all, a planet of impatient people. We fast forward through commercials, switch to shorter lines in grocery stores, and yet, here, we are willing for once to wait. To take a taxi, from a ferry, from a train, from a plane, from an entirely different city, from an entirely different country, just to feed a tiger. Just to see them with their three-inch-long teeth crack skulls like eggs shells.
Looking on from behind the safety of fortified glass, we have all been drawn from our homes by some urge. Is it merely the carnage? A deep blood lust, usually stemmed with boxing and full-contact sports? What has us lining up to buy the cats their lunch?
Perhaps something speaks, in a universal tongue from deep in our base brains. Bubbles up from that clutch of parts – the stem, cerebellum, and basal ganglia – and reminds us how old we are as a species. How long it’s been since we’ve had to try and stay alive. Since we first stood upright. Perhaps it is that initial caveman now cometh with wants not sated by a mixed martial arts match or rubbernecking a car crash. A dormant man that now looks for something more blood than sport.
We’ve built a world in which we are rarely threatened, unless the threat is actively sought. Perhaps we’ve come looking for something worth watching. Usually, the instincts of the carnivore when captive are shielded from the public. When fed, the lumbering leopard tares hunks of manicured, red flesh from a dish marked Humphrey. The lion is tossed what is called “a big, juicy steak” for the benefit of the second grade class on a field trip. Of course, they’re natural hunters, but only far away on the vast grassy plains of another continent. The only sign of their bone-crunching power or their claws that shred skin like curtains is in the placard beside their cage that promises that this is “the king of the jungle.” Even for royalty, there is no hunting, only prepackaged meals.
Except at petting zoos, where gumball machines are retrofitted to spew farm animal-feed instead of sweets. Visitors for the low price of a quarter can receive a small handful of musty pellets to thrown to the local goat population. The goats butt heads and scream as shrilly as their human counterparts. They bound atop their huts, shoving each other out of the way, exploring the same pen with the identical enthusiasm every day. They wear collars, like dogs, adorned with a bell. One is always called Billy.
At the park, Billy the kid is slid off of the back of a truck onto the bare dirt of the enclosure. The goat lands contorted in the path of the encroaching felines. They’ve been stalking the buses, following them at a distance since long before their power lunch hit the earth. They can smell the tourists and the half-bound calf due for expulsion next.
Their length is incredible in those first few moments. How they stretch across the ground towards the helpless animals. At eleven feet in length when fully extended, the tiger makes even a full-grown man seem small. Ten or more, each weighing anywhere from 400 to 600 pounds, are suddenly making short work of Billy, stripping him into unrecognisable pieces.
The contents of the bus are busy filming the encounter. They chuckle and coo in amazement, gasping as if this ending was any kind of surprise. One visitor has paid handsomely to have beef on the menu and points excitedly. A truck hoists its rear end while a second car circles it, honking to scramble the cats. The crowd emits an almost satisfied “Ahh!” when the second course, a cow, is pushed into the way of the oncoming predators.
There is little need to sneak up on their food in this instance, but the tiger’s instinct is to do so anyway. They crouch and slink then burst with energy. The first bite is dealt to the throat. The cats kill by clamping down on the windpipe, choking their prey, suffocating it, severing the spine, slicing an artery. This show of force isn’t necessary when a chicken is tossed from the driver’s side window onto the roof of one of the circling SUVs. From the bus, it looks like the bird is almost gingerly picked up by one of the larger beasts. The hen is enveloped and disappears.
It is an image that makes one want to test the strength of the window bars. And hope that the lunch from the back of the truck was enough for the tigers. Which lick their lips and watch the vehicles reverse back through the fencing.
The tigers are well fed, and if that is a measure of health, then they are healthy. The shows are daily. The tourists are constant. The supply must meet the demand. There are hundreds at the park. The cats are carefully bred, or is it farmed, for at best conservation and at worst entertainment.
And it is entertaining. In the way that race cars and slasher films are jaw-dropping, attention-holding spectacles. Sure, the park visitor could have opted to give a cow, through Oxfam or Heifer International, to some starving family in a similarly distant village, but how often does one get the chance to feed a tiger? Given there are only so many left in the wild, in the world.
You are walking into the woods. Past the quiet, curtained houses, to the end of the
road. It’s early. Double check your bag for the parts. And quick, drink in the Sun on your skin
as it breaches the rooftops. Once you are in, you might not come out. You know this.
Eighteen months have passed. Eighteen overripe, oozing months. Grief has been
plum, piercing scarlet, and deep black. The colours of the berries you pick from the thicket at
the mouth of the forest. They bloody your fingers, stain your teeth, burst on your tongue.
You’ll need energy to complete your work.
Yew and hawthorn beckon you over the threshold, the wind streams round your
ankles. She knows you are here. Birdsong and distant car engines fade. The smell of damp
earth prickles your brain. Sweat, green, honey, rain. And you hear the soft voice hum beneath
your feet.
A few minutes off the bridleway you are no longer visible. You have been swallowed,
but don’t get scared now. You won’t be alone much longer. The trees here are bruising,
chlorophyll-starved. Feel her? She reaches out to you with branches and thorns which tear
little holes in your smock. She guides you to the ancient tree. You search for the wound,
deepened by your knife weeks ago. Sure enough, it has bled. You scoop sap into a plastic
container, and smear syrup-gold across your knees.
You walk a long way. Time has wandered off and become lost. But you’re close,
because the ground dips under her gravity. Ahead the trees writhe into each other, until they
become the tangle. Remember how she brought you here when you were small? Told you it
was the darkest part? You had a tea party together. Last year, you came back to scatter her.
The police said you were lucky to escape. It’s too knitted to walk. Now you must climb.
Over a lip of bark, you arrive at the bathtub. It stands in the shadowed womb of the
tangle. The porcelain is ochre, hairline cracks forming veins. You don’t know how long it has
been here. Since before you. Maybe she placed it here, knowing what you would do someday.
You peer in, ever cautious that she might have lost patience. But she’s there. Her
body, curved with ashwood bones and ivy circulation, sap glue and moss skin. Your hands
muddy the bath as you reach inside and sit her up.
“I’ve brought your face,” you whisper. You pull the parts from your bag.
It is difficult. The arrangement of vines to give movement and expression is enough to
worry your hands into aches. You press chestnuts into her sockets, and weave wildflowers
over her skull. They won’t last forever, but she’ll wake in bloom. Finally, time for the relics.
A well-stained teacup, used at the party, now a spaulder. A scarf from her days in the city,
tied in a bow around her neck. Your locket, which you ease into the damp root bundle of her
heart.
For a while, you watch her sleep. Her leaves stir, though the air is stagnant. You
wonder if she is dreaming.
Then, you roll her over your shoulder, and stagger to the edge of the tangle. One
sunbeam punctures the canopy, all the way to the soil.
You sit with her, under the motes, hands folded together. You’re waiting. Soon you
won’t be talking to yourself. You murmur, mama, you became the woods. Now I have made
the woods into you.
In the UK for the promotion of her latest book, author Ruth Ozeki took time out to discuss Darleks, Zen Buddhism, and the healing power of pottery with Litro Book Review Editor Jane Downs. Shortlisted for the Booker prize for her novel A Tale for the Time Being, Ruth’s latest work The Book of Form and Emptiness was published by Canongate in the UK on September 23.
Jane Downs: Hi, Ruth, and welcome to London, my hometown. How does it feel? Is it strange to be travelling again?
Ruth Ozeki: This is the first time I’ve been out of my house for about a year and a half. It’s my first trip anywhere! On the one hand, it’s strange and on the other hand, it feels completely normal. I’m having a bit of that cognitive dissonance that has characterised the last year and a half/six years. Everything changed in November of 2016, and life was no longer what it used to be. I think that’s probably true in the UK as well because that’s right around when the Brexit vote happened, right?
JD: It’s funny that you should take it back to that point, as I hadn’t really thought of that. I was thinking about the pandemic and February 2020, but you’re right. The actual shift in perspective – when it felt like we’re looking at everything slightly askew – does go back to that point.
RO: Yes. I’m sure you were inundated with the news from the States, but I mean that was… that was really tough. And it still is. It’s when we all suddenly realised something about the country, about the divisiveness in the country and everything that we thought “you know” just wasn’t any more.
JD: It’s when things that we took for granted, things that we thought just could not move, did. Everything got turned on its axle. And this comes out in your book, of course – the race riots, the election. It clearly relates to the Trump era and the seismic shift in American society that was going on at that time.
RO: That’s exactly right. I started writing this book long before any of that happened. I started writing the very early parts with Benny probably in 2012 right after I finished A Tale for the Time Being, and some of the things, a lot of the library scenes and characters like the Aleph and the Bottleman were refugees from an early draft of A Tale for the Time Being.
JD: They’re beautiful characters, so colourful and big. They work very well together. There’s a balance between the young girl and the older man who is an invalid and a great tenderness between them. The choreography is lovely.
RO: They’ve been hanging around in my mind since 2007 or 2008, looking for a home, and they found one in this book. At one point, I was trying to figure out when this book should be set, and at first I thought during the Seattle WTO protests in 1999, but then suddenly here we were, at the end of the Obama era and the elections were starting and the forest fires were starting, and I realised that the whole thing had to be extremely contemporary, and so I moved it all up.
JD: I read that the previous novel was quite long in the making and involved quite a lot of cutting and changing when the tsunami hit in Japan. Was the birth of this new novel similarly drawn out? Did you constantly have to rewrite to integrate these new events?
RO: Yes, I had to keep giving it temporal face-lifts which, of course, are never just face-lifts. Every time you change something on the surface you have to change the deep structure, too. That was a constant practise. I think that has been true in all four novels. In my first novel A Year of Meats, I was happily writing on about the meat industry and suddenly Mad Cow broke out, so I had to kind of recast the entire story differently. And the same thing was true with the second book All Over Creation, which was about genetically modified potatoes at a time when the controversy about Monsanto and terminator seeds was blowing up. So there has always been this struggle, because I really like to let the outside world into the novels, but then there’s a danger in that, too, because I can barely control my fictional world, never mind the real world!
JD: I suppose that comes with writing very contemporary novels that are set in the present day. Once you bring that in, you’re constantly having to make changes. Did the pandemic come into this new book, too, or was it pretty much finished by the time the pandemic hit?
RO: The book was pretty much finished by the time the pandemic hit, but I felt very much that, for example, Annabelle’s situation where her office is closed and she is sent home to work, that that was something that we were all experiencing: the influx of all your office paraphernalia that now is suddenly in your bedroom. Although it was a different context, it was not dissimilar. And to go back to your earlier point about bringing the world in, I’ve always felt that the novel is a kind of permeable container. Why not let the world in, why not have the novel be in dialogue with the world? I think I started thinking overtly like that when I read Kurt Vonnegut’s “canary in coal mine theory of the arts.” It says basically that when artists and writers start squawking and flapping and keeling over dead, you know that something’s wrong in the coal mine. So, it’s our responsibility, as artists and writers, to squawk and flap and keel over. It’s the most useful thing we can do for society.
JD: Well, I think that’s probably true and indeed one of the things that comes up in your book is the issue of mental health, which is also a very now topic: It was talked about during the Olympics with Simone Biles for the first time discussing the issues she was facing and Naomi Osaka during the Paris Open when she decided she couldn’t speak to the press and she ended up having to withdraw. When you came up with the character of Benny, you said that he had been in your head for a long time, but did the idea of placing mental health at the centre of your novel grow out of Benny, or did you particularly want to write about that as a topic?
RO: You know, the last book was also about mental health issues really. A Tale for the Time Being was about a young girl who was really grappling with bullying and her suicidal inclinations. More than that, she was planning on killing herself and she just had one thing that she wanted to do before she did and that was to write her great-grandmother’s life story. I always thought of it as a kind of Scheherazade tale: You’re forestalling your own death by telling stories, and, of course, Nao was sixteen and she was so obsessed with her own life that she never got around to telling her great-grandmother’s story. But the point was that she was writing against her own death, and I think that for Benny, too, it’s the same kind of thing: Nao had her diary, and with Benny it’s his book, and so once again there’s this relationship between a troubled child and the act of reading and writing and conversing with literature that ultimately saves him.
JD: I like what you said about Scheherazade, about the connection with other forms of storytelling, and I can easily imagine the novel in animation. Benny describing the table leg talking reminds me of the Sorcerer’s Apprentice and the brooms sweeping up. You worked before in visual media, as a visual artist, and I know you have said that this book began with the voices you hear in your head, but do your characters also begin as images?
RO: The images I started with were the images in Benny’s dream, when the Aleph reaches down and touches his forehead. The second image I had, though, was the image of Benny standing on the mound of garbage, which was inspired by the Walter Benjamin quote from “Theses on the Philosophy of History,” this image of being blown back into the future and seeing the accumulation of the past piling up in front of you. I had this image of Benny and the Aleph standing on this great garbage heap looking into the past and being blown backwards.
JD: It’s a very powerful image, and I’d like to come back to this word powerful as I was wondering about the power of words, because in the novel you play a little cameo role in the library, where there is an author who is typing and writing while Benny reads or sleeps. Toward the end of the novel, they have a conversation in which the author talks about books and seems to express regret about the future of libraries where stacks are emptying to be replaced by computer terminals. I wondered if you could say something about your own feelings about the future of books and the written word and perhaps the future of libraries, which I think that anybody who like books is a little bit sad about.
RO: I’m doing my best to keep the written word vital and relevant, as are all writers, but proportionally speaking, there just aren’t that many of us. And as for book-as-object, I’m not entirely pessimistic. I think that as human animals, we do have a hankering for objects, we like to hold things in our hands, and I don’t know this for sure, but I’ve been hearing that during the pandemic books sales were just fabulous and people were not just buying e-books, they were buying physical books, too, and that seemed encouraging to me. I think that as things do become more and more virtual and more and more remote, we want a book that we can hug to our chests. I think it’s very human, at least at this point. Who knows what we’ll become? Maybe we’ll be like the Daleks soon. We’ll just be these soft, meaty brains encased in garbage cans with toilet plungers sticking out of our shoulders…
JD: That’s a nice image! It’s an image for another book maybe?
RO: No, that’s Doctor Who! Those are the Daleks! They’ve already done it! But I think that while we still have hands, we want things that we can hold in them.
JD: You have described this novel as a cousin to A Tale for the Time Being and there are connections that anyone who’s read the previous novel will recognise. Could you say a little more about these?
RO: The initial connection was the setting of the library and the denizens of the library who were characters that existed in an early draft of A Tale for the Time Being. Then there is the Zen connection. When I was writing A Tale for the Time Being, I was very much inspired by the Dogen Zen master who is the founder of the Zen school that I follow, and I was thinking about his essay called “Being Time,” which was the philosophical koan, or question, at the heart of that novel. This novel, too, has a koan at the centre of it, which is “Do insentient beings speak the Dharma?” Do sentient beings have agency, vitality, and the ability to become enlightened, and do they have the ability to enlighten us? And then another similarity is that both books have overtly Zen characters in them. Both have Zen nuns who are there to do what Zen nuns do: to offer a kind of ballast and a different way of reflecting on the events that are happening in the book.
JD: The Zen philosophy certainly comes through, and I think that people who read your novels come away with certain elements of Zen teaching that they then carry with them. Is this something you do intentionally or is it instinctive – part of your own experience as a Buddhist priest?
RO: Ha! I think that there are some literary critics who are very suspicious of what I’m doing, who think that I have a secret, nefarious Zen agenda and that I’m using and abusing the form of the novel as a vector for infecting the world with my Zen ideas. But no. Honestly, I don’t think about readers at all when I’m writing. That’s the point of a novel. I spend eight, ten years working on this thing. It has to be for me.
JD: It is, though, one of the nice takeaways from your novel and it’s unusual to have that incorporated into fiction.
RO: There’s a long tradition within Zen Buddhism of storytelling. I mean, yes, this happens to be Western storytelling because I’m a Western person, but it fits within the Eastern tradition of commentary literature. I went to an International Dogen conference in Kyoto and somebody said this to me, and I just laughed, I thought it was funny. He’s a professor of Zen Buddhism at Kyoto university and he told me that A Tale for the Time Being is commentary literature. It’s a comment on an original teaching, and I don’t think he’s wrong. It’s different, but it does fall within that category. At the time, I thought it was hilarious as it was the last thing I intended, but then I realised: Well, sure! It’s true. Why not?
JD: One of the big pieces of the new novel is the relationship between fantasy and reality. I was thinking about the central philosophical question that Benny is asked: “What is real?” He has to decide whether the voices he is hearing are real or fantasy. Does this question perhaps reflect the experience of the novelist, existing in a space that’s in between these two places?
RO: What a great question. This goes back to one of the first things that we were talking about, to the rupture that happened in 2016. Suddenly reality and fantasy seemed to conflate. There was the breakdown between these states. We used to think of reality and fantasy as being two separate things, but then in 2016, reality and fantasy collided, and there was a commingling of the two, and what came out of that was fake news, which is dangerous and terrifying. As a novelist, too, I’m always seeing fiction colliding with reality, and I think it’s more interesting to allow the fictional container, the walls, to be porous, to be permeable and to allow reality into the fictional world. It makes me think back to when I was a young person reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez for the first time, and I was thinking about magical realism and how within a fiction there can be realist fiction and then fantastical fiction and there is also a kind of wall between them. So, what I’m trying to do in my fictional world is to allow those to kind of commingle as well, so that in what appears to be a realist novel there are moments where it breaks through into something more fantastical.
JD: There is also the suggestion in the characters of the Aleph and the Bottleman that great art and great ideas are often a bit on the edge, that they’re a little bit subversive. To what extent do you think that it’s a necessary part of creation to venture into places that are beyond the norm? To what extent is that true for you?
RO: I think that’s absolutely right. That’s our responsibility. I think the Bottleman actually says this, that it’s the responsibility of the artist to disrupt the status quo. If he doesn’t say it, then he should! I feel very strongly that it’s the artist’s job to break the rules, to question, to disrupt the status quo and to make things strange.
JD: Do you have any other characters in your head or that you maybe didn’t use? Do you think that you might have a cousin or sibling that might grow out of this book?
RO: I don’t think anybody got left out of this novel. Everybody who wanted to be in it was in it. I’m not sure exactly what I’m doing next. One thing that I do want to do is take some time to read. When I’m working on a novel like this, an eight-year process, I tend to read a lot of books that have to do with the fictional world that I’m trying to create. So, I read an enormous number of psychology books, books about lived experience of people who hear voices…a lot of Walter Benjamin…a lot about hoarding and clutter-clearing, I was reading Marie Kondo and about Japanese animism. In Japanese culture, the indigenous religion of Shinto is an animistic religion, so a lot of what Marie Kondo is proposing are historical Japanese ideas, that when you have something that’s precious and you have something that’s served you well over the years and then it breaks, maybe you take a moment to feel gratitude before you throw it out. You don’t just chuck it. So, I was reading a lot about animate objects, and there’s a whole genre of stories about mischievous animate objects in the Japanese tales. I completely dropped out of contemporary fiction, so I have about eight years of novels to catch up on!
JD: Before we finish, I do have one last question: In both in A Tale for the Time Being and this new book, your central character is an adolescent. Is there anything in that for you specifically? Was it a time of your own life that you particularly wanted to explore?
RO: Yes, very much so. It was a very intense time of my life. I was a very troubled adolescent. Nao is a suicidal teenage girl and I was a suicidal teenage girl. Benny finds himself committed to a locked psychiatric ward and that was an experience that I also shared. I have survived for 65 years, and after all that time, one becomes reflective. You think back on the moments in your life where you really changed in some kind of way, and for me that was certainly adolescence. I think that’s why I was drawn to write about those periods. I wonder what I’ll write about next. I’m not sure. There’s something about the relationship between old people and young people that I think is compelling. Young people can be so radical, but I think old people can also be radical. It’s the intermediate generation who become kind of conservative and fearful. In your middle-age, there’s a lot at stake. Maybe you’re raising children, and you’ve got elderly parents and you’ve got mortgages and you’ve got jobs and you’re still on the ambition ladder and so you become necessarily conservative during that period. But when you’re old it’s like “Whatever!” You don’t have much left to lose. And when you’re young you think you’re invincible, you think that bad things will never happen to you, so there’s a kind of convergence that happens. You see this in families, sometimes, where the grandparents and grandchild have a kind of bonding that excludes the parent. I love that. It’s that’s a fascinating dynamic. I can imagine writing about that.
JD: Do you think that this goes back to the relationship that you had with your own grandfather? That there was some sort of bond? Does it maybe stem from that?
RO: Yes. He had died by the time I went to Japan, at the age of seven, but I grew up with his things. His collections of things, his paintings, his Zen prayer beads, rocks that he had polished when he was interred during World War II in Santa Fe in the desert. All of these things that belonged to him, they were very precious to me. They were magical.
JD: I love the idea of objects as the conveyers of memory.
RO: Yes. These were powerful, powerful totemic objects. So even though I had only met him once, when I was three, the transmission was pretty intense.
JD: Initially, I thought that your novel talks about the power of words, but I discovered that it also talks about the power of objects. I’m a potter, and I like to think about the afterlife of objects, about them going out into the world, with their own life and their own history, their own history of handling with every little chip and bump.
RO: Exactly! I also make pots.
JD: You do? You’re a potter!? It’s such a wonderful thing. It’s very calming. It’s about centring the self and getting balance. Do you use a wheel?
RO: Yes, I do. I don’t have my own wheel. I used to go to a studio in the town where I live, but then when the pandemic broke out, I had to stop, so I haven’t thrown for about a year.
JD: Maybe you’ll have time now to read and make pots?
RO: That’s exactly what I want to do!
JD: Perhaps one day you’ll write something that connects ceramic objects with your writing?
RO: I was thinking about that. It’s such a powerful practise, I really would like to write something about it. I started doing pottery in England. There was on Baker Street – or just off Baker street – there was a pottery studio called Briglin Pottery. Brigitte Appleby was the founder – I think she was influenced by Bernard Leach. When I was a high school student, I took a year after high school and came to England and lived in Richmond and worked at Brigitte’s studio as a decorator. The potters there who were doing production taught me how to throw. I was 17 or 18, I guess, and it was wonderful. There was a huge gap, a gap of decades between when I first started and when I was able to pick it up again, but it’s like riding a bicycle, you don’t forget. I would love to do it again. I would love to take a little break from the world of words and return to the world of objects!
“And the waves surging in to unite with the fresh water, their advance a mathematical artillery, as was everything in nature, patterns repeating.”
There is a rolling, surging motion to all aspects of Tom Vowler’s third novel Every Seventh Wave such that the reader is carried along – cradled and jolted – by a sea that observes and alters the lives of each character. It is a rough sea, a taker of lives, a luring, viscous force that conceals an ancient submerged oak forest, that day by day consumes the precarious childhood home fraught with cruel memory inhabited by Hallam, a sea-bitten, life-scarred man. The novel hinges upon Hallam’s action as a saviour: He rescues a trafficked Romanian woman who wishes to drown – an irony given that Hallam has skimmed as flotsam over his own adulthood and more than most needs to be saved. Few books open so powerfully, wrenching the reader into a tossing dark sea hungry for death, with ex-prisoner and social misfit Hallam losing his beloved boots to the struggle but gaining a blessed interlude in this life through the luminous form of Anca, who tugs at his carved-out core.
Vowler’s language is intricately compelling, as detailed and fluxing as the sea itself. Both playful and instructive (I had to look up flensing!), we read of a dead seal that has its “flank corkscrewed open,” a house that is “quarried” under by the shifting coastline; a sleeping dog whose “whining thinned to nothing and was replaced by a cadent snore”; land that is “exposed flesh, the sea a scalpel,” as we feel the pounding of every seventh laden wave. On the afternoon that the boy Hallam’s life will be punctured forever, “time slid by, as if at their behest, fitting around their movements, dictating nothing,” and Hallam watches as “blue leavened through the latticed cluster of the tree’s limbs, bobbing and weaving like a boxer.” By contrast, when used by Anca’s traffickers, this same language pulls back to a chilling, elemental English: “Even if the lure of a better life had convinced them to lie down in a dark hole in the floor with strangers at the start of the journey, one often panicked, setting them all off.”
Vowler’s Anca is a lucid, tangible creation, not without risk, given that there is no shortage of both cinematic and written works that speak of the sexual slavery of women: horrifying compartments within trucks; the drugged raping and cigarette burns on forearms; the disorientation of these women stolen from their own lives. Even Anca’s degradation is conveyed warily, without lingering or voyeurism – no easy task given the ugly appropriation in the rapports involved. We feel her imploring her God. We sense her divorce from her body and her jarring realisation of its worth, how her wading into the sea is an act of discord that an unwilling Hallam is stationed to witness.
Described as a literary thriller, I think the novel is more of a contemporary story with a wounded heart. Vowler’s previous novels – That Dark Remembered Day, What Lies Within – could more easily be termed literary thrillers, with their dark uncoiling plots, but in Every Seventh Wave he employs his extensive and renowned skills as a short story writer. Two prize-winning collections – The Method and Dazzling the Gods – are perhaps closer to the fretwork of Every Seventh Wave, which shares their ferocious attention to detail through visceral and sometimes baroque language that frankly investigates the terrain between women and men, and the deep history of families. Vowler is a great reader of the subterfuge of bodily sensations – trauma, fear, desire – and how these may be betrayed by ill-framed communication or the wretched events that occur in people’s lives. Many writers find it difficult to transpose the exactitude required by the short story form to the volume of the novel, but in Every Seventh Wave, Vowler does this ably – utilising the shape and motion of waves as the structure by which interwoven story elements build up as an advancing and irreversible tide.
The book’s plot is tight and merciless, as though Hallam’s path can only involve further violence and mourning, yet we see him as he amplifies as a man, conceding small and unknown joys within his being, inching towards revelation and happiness. The battered childhood house however, poised above the sea, soon to splinter into its maw, is too powerful a symbol: We will follow Hallam, we will observe him, we will hope for him.
Every Seventh Wave
By Tom Vowler
320 pages, Salt Publishing
This is not the same world Daddy grew up in. In his world there were all kinds of colourful birds singing purple hymns on the line outside the window of the room he shared with his brother every morning. “They used to wake us with their music,” he told me. There are very few birds now and they rarely come around our area; I haven’t seen any in weeks. The Government has been collecting every one that breaks the sky or perches on a tree and keeping them in Tarfiki Zoo because they fear that leaving them out in the world is not safe. There are people even now who still eat birds; Tobi from my school told me that pigeons are so delicious just watching them fly or sit on a line makes his mouth water. I want to go to the Tarfiki Zoo but Daddy cannot yet afford to take me there – the Zoo is situated in Kano, 935.5 km from here in Abeokuta, and now that petrol is beginning to wither in the Niger Delta after years of plunder, as Mr. Kuforiji told us in History of Nature class, transportation has become very expensive. Now I trek to school because father can only afford to give me fifty naira for a stick sweet. He works at a bakery. We have a small farm near our house and that is where we feed from. Most times he brings bread, the Bishop gives us eggs, and so we have bread and eggs for breakfast on weekends. We fetch water from the stream that runs at the back of our house and purify it using a biosand filter – layering fine sand, charcoal, and some pieces of gravels in a bucket – designed from a manual drawn by his grandfather whom I never knew, of whom there are no photographs.
The only way I get to see birds is to go to the library in school, where Mr. Kuforiji sits and manages, in the absence of the librarian Mr. Oguns, who was recently transferred to another school. I search the shelves for books on birds and deer and dogs and cats, sometimes even snakes. There are not a lot of books, a lot of them were written after the fauna world began to disappear, the animal kingdom dying. Most of the images in the books were picked from the internet, from the posts of people who were curious about the world and fascinated by the moments they were in enough to take a picture or two and kind enough to share.
“Nigeria, its government back then, the people, no one minded the world around them,” Mr. Kuforiji told me. “The scholars were writing about politicians, and there were very few environmental scientists – there was no funding anywhere for anyone who wanted to document how sparrows migrated or even what they ate or where in the country they abounded.”
I have seen sparrows in some of the books, they are the most commonly documented. There are the ones with brown feathers, grey around their breasts and necks; and there are the yellow ones with black stripes. They are small and have short beaks and they are said to eat grains, seeds, insects, warms, ticks on trees, ants. Mr. Kuforiji told me that there might be some at the Tarfiki Zoo, those ones eat just grains and seeds because that’s what’s available.
“When we were kids, my brother and I, on weekends, we would go into the bush and shoot catapults at sparrows,” Daddy told me. “We would bring them home, a bruise on their wing or belly, blood tinting the spot. By the fire behind the house we would prepare them and eat them. Sometimes we didn’t eat them: We put them out on our balcony and watched them try to fly with a broken wing.”
When Daddy tells this story, there is always a film of tears in his eyes. I wonder why, though I know he feels bad about what he and his brother did as kids, but he grew up in a poor family and they hardly had food to eat three times a day. He has told me of going to school in torn uniforms, worn sandals, without stockings. But when I tell him this his reply is always the same: “We could have found some other way to get by without bruising this world,” and he really feels sorry that he bruised the world. Every time we prepare food, before we eat, he takes the food outside and spills some on the ground. Mommy complains that this is wastage of food, food that is not surplus, but he won’t change his mind. And he tells me to do the same all the time. “Before you drink anything, spill some of it on the ground. Before you eat anything, drop some of it on the ground,” he instructs.
I asked him why once.
He replied, “It is so that you can be conscious of the Earth, Dupe. We did what we did to the Earth because it was just there, we weren’t conscious of it in anyway. The Earth is a breathing thing, its chest, like yours and mine, heaves. You have to know that it is there, alive. This will always remind you. It is like the Sacrament, partake of this as often as you can so that you can remember me.”
But it isn’t always easy to do this, especially when I am in school. Other students laugh at me and call me mumu when I spill a spoon of my beans on the ground.
“What is this mumu doing?” Tobi said one day when he saw me, pointing at me and shaking his head at the boys and girls who always follow him about, dancing around him like robots. I said nothing. “You are giving your food to the Earth, yes? Does it have a mouth? Did anybody tell you that the Earth eats cooked beans? You are a big mumu sha.” He burst out laughing; his compatriots joined him.
Tobi has asked me to date him many times, but I have little interest in boys like that, especially this one whose mouth waters at the sight of disappearing birds, this one who calls me a mumu – so every chance he finds he scorns me, makes people laugh at me. But I ignore him, that is what you do to an idiot.
Mr. Kuforiji has also questioned my spilling of food many times. “What is this thing you are always doing?” he asked once when I had just returned to what I was reading, Before the Blackout: A Brief History of Animal Life in Nigeria, from spilling some water on the earth.
I told him it was an act of consciousness.
“How?” he asked, obviously bewildered.
“It just helps me to always be conscious of the Earth, sir,” I said. There is no way I will explain it to people to make them understand, and even I don’t understand everything, but I trust that Daddy is right, and I have begun noticing how carefully I walk now, how I hardly nip flowers from their stems anymore, how when I do I stare at the white blood and ask the Lord for forgiveness. Once I bent, touched the Earth, and tasted it. I don’t know what that taste was. Maybe I am taking it too far, I think, Daddy did not say to not nip flowers, or to walk with care, but it seems that truth stretches and the more you stay to witness that stretching, the more you stretch, too, and you continue to enter this long many-sided relationship.
Mr. Kuforiji shook his head. “I get it,” he said, but I knew he didn’t.
Daddy tells me about butterflies, too; he calls them small living paintings. “They were so finely patterned, it could only have been God’s hand. Their wings were always clapping but without any sound. They perched on trees, and drank at the small pools of flowers. We used to trap them, too, my brother and I. We would keep them in a bottle where they would fly and when tired just lay there at the bottom until they died.” Butterflies are now totally extinct, gone forever, never to be seen again. “You won’t find them in the Tarfiki Zoo or anywhere in this world,” Daddy said. “You will only probably find the dead ones drowning in a jar of chemicals in an aurelian’s lab.”
“Daddy, aurelian is the old word,” I said.
“Is that so. When last did I read these things?” You cannot open a book when you have to knead dough, fill pans, and place them in the kiln, he tells me; the kiln always makes me think of hell; to be trapped in that kind of room is the scariest thing in the world. But the Bishop tells us that no one is going to hell, all of God’s children will reign with him in the end, in glory, though there are levels of glory. “What is the new word?”
“It’s a lepidopterist,” I said.
“May the Lord continue to help me to help you learn these things,” he said, picking up his radio. There was the line from the National Environmental Concerns Commission (NECC) about calling a certain number or sending an email to a certain address to report the notice of birds or other animals that need to be kept safe, an act for which you will be compensated. “You will see one, call them to tell them. They will come, take the bird or deer – Banji, my friend, he saw a deer and called them. They took the deer and did not give him shingbain. The funds set up for compensation is in Uchendu’s many bank accounts in Nigeria and South Africa and Europe. And you know what’s funny? Nobody is keeping these animals safe anywhere. Word came out a while back from a journalist that they are selling these animals to America for good money. They killed that news. America that has more than us is buying from us the little that we have, and is doing so illegally. If I see a deer I will bring it home to you my dear.” He smiled.
I smiled back. This man who loves me so much, who will bring me a deer, what will I bring him, what can I ever bring him that would be enough. I wanted to say I love you, Daddy, but he does not know how to say it back, and it feels a little awkward to say those words and not hear them said back to you. I will bring you a deer my dear, that is his own way of saying it. And I love him. I will always love him.
But it is the fireflies that Daddy longs for the most. He says they were tiny delights, blinking small colourful lights in the night, flying. “At night we would go out to collect them in a jar. We would place the jar outside and watch them play in the jar. It was magic. We were so fascinated by them. At night I used to dream of them: I would be in a field of flowers, plenty of them dancing around me. In some dreams I ate them and I would stand before a mirror and imagine that blue, green, yellow lights were splattered on a wall in my throat, a fine abstract painting made there. The day I saw your mother for the first time, that night I saw her in my dream, in the dream she had fireflies in her hair, and I knew she was the one.”
Mommy always laughs, says, “You did not know anything. If you knew that night, why did it take you two months to finally call me, though I gave you my number and you promised to call that same day we met in the bus?”
Daddy laughs, too. “I was shy, and I thought you wouldn’t like me. You know.” He pouts, then pushes out his lips and they kiss.
“Close your eyes,” Mommy says.
“Mommy, I’m sixteen,” I say.
“Which means?” She gives me the look a Yorùbá mother gives her child who is beginning to grow wings, a look that means: I am your mother, even if you grow grey hair under your armpits, that doesn’t change. “Go and wash the plates,” she instructs.
I rise like there is a broken bone in my back because I don’t want to wash the plates now, but Mommy will kill me if I don’t do as she says. Although Daddy has thrown out every cane in the house, I get a double slap on my back every now and then, and Mommy’s hands pepper; I do not want one today.
Done doing the dishes, I return to Daddy who is in the farm, weeding.
“The tomatoes are ripening,” I say, joining him in this conversation with the earth.
“Yes. They should be fully ripe by the weekend. You will take some to the Bishop’s house on Saturday,” he says.
Yes! I smile like a mumu. I’ll see Eliza, the Bishop’s daughter. She has the sweetest eyes in the world. I like her so much. I don’t know if she knows this, or how to tell her. We are supposed to pick a date whose name we’ll take to the bishop, but I don’t want any of the boys for my date. I want Eliza. But how to tell her or tell the Bishop. I don’t know how to tell this to Daddy either; Mommy will slap me if she hears.
“What happened to the fireflies?” I ask. “Since nobody was eating them, they were too tiny, had no desirable taste, and few people cared about them. How did they so easily disappear, and in their totality?”
“Our curiosity, our hunger, our nonchalance ended them,” Daddy says. “There were people like me and my brother who plucked them from the air and kept them in jars and watched them perform lights until they dropped cold. There were others who clapped their palms on them for no reason and ended them. There were others who did neither but who did not care – not caring is quite dangerous.”
I remember a conversation I had with Mr. Kuforiji who believes it is a good thing that fireflies are extinct. “Mr. Kuforiji told me that fireflies weren’t doing much good in the world, that they were evil – ”
“How come?” Daddy stands, dusts his hand with his hand.
“He said they were tools of devils. Old men would give jarred fireflies to little girls and take their innocence. Butterflies, too: A woman would give a man a butterfly and take his heart, which she would shatter.”
“Dupe, everything is transactable. The problem was never the fireflies or the butterflies but the men and women who used them in that way,” Daddy says. He returns to the Earth and continues weeding.
“He told me that it was because they were evil that the Sky sucked all the fireflies and butterflies in the world into its mouth, never to be seen again.”
“The Sky is innocent.”
I bring Daddy some water to wash his hands and some more for him to drink. He sprinkles some water from the bowl on the ground. He spills some of his drinking water on the ground.
He gives me the cup. Before I drink, I do the same. We smile at each other.
It is Sunday night. I’m in bed. I took the tomatoes to Bishop’s house today. He was not around; he had gone for church business. I met Eliza. Her mom too had gone for a Relief meeting, so I gave her the tomatoes. She gave me a chilled bottle of Coke, opened it, placed a cup before me, and told me about a book of poems she was reading. It’s by a queer poet who had a deep fascination for flowers. “There are flowers everywhere in the book,” she told me, smiling. I drink the Coke. “I think you’ll like it. I’ll be through with it today. I’ll bring it to church for you tomorrow. Please don’t let your parents see it, it’s about boys blooming flowers in the body of other boys. You get, right?” I shook my head, said, “Thank you.” She smiled at me again, her eyes sparkling, and I looked down at my fingers. I am always shy around her.
I close my eyes and in my sleep a door opens. Eliza, fireflies garlanding her hair. I am sitting next to her on a tree stump. Birds colouring the night with their fragile hymns. I reach out my hand to touch her face. “Can I kiss you?” I ask. She shakes her head. I kiss her, gently. Her mouth tastes like the Earth.
I spit watermelon seed and the boy-not-me catches one in his hand, drills a hole with his index finger in the dirt by my bare feet, saying it will grow into a city like me-not-him, from roots, foundations that will ground me and I say I’m a girl-not-him so I have no bricks in me, and he says bricks are made of straw, I should not be so unyielding, so I take shelter with him from the rain under a hawthorn tree to watch my city grow from the watermelon seed in the earth, first the shoot sprouts a sapling to vines that grow like ivy on the library walls, like the boy’s body and mine, grow out and round, and hard and soft, and stretching and reaching, entwining and growing toward light, and hungry I light a fire to boil a pot of reclaimed rain and night dew straight from the vine, and cut watermelon rinds with the knife he gave me, leave some out for the rabbits and wild deer and cut slivers to be candied, blanching to coat in sugar syrup from the vine and feed these candied crescents to him until he sleeps, and I slip into the living city, climb stalks, and find a bough to rest in with creatures-not-us living there, and we listen to the once-boy-now-man snore, as leaves encroach on my window of him, laid out under the hawthorn tree, until he’s gone, his seed buried in that underworld as my city climbs into the sky, so close to the next world I could grab the moon and bend down to bore a hole through rain clouds into the earth with my index finger, to grow another earth-not-this-earth for our descendants-not-our-children and their watermelon metropolis.
There are things that people promise and things that they do. And they’re almost never the same thing. At least they never do things the way they promised to do them and so they are different and separate things. After countless arguments around the table over “who has more baggage” and “who did whom more wrong,” we were starting to get into a pattern. There’s always a twist that brings it back. It being whatever revives us. When my share of words had been wasted and I couldn’t afford to do anything else but to cry, I took the last piece of turnip on the plate and put it right into my mouth. Turnips are such lovely little vegetables, yet they are often overlooked. I love their colour, and something about them distracts me to the point of not hearing him. Its crunch in my teeth and the fresh taste of something undead that came out of the soil deafen every other sound.
He leaned back on his chair, apparently unmoved by the things that’ve been said. We are very different, and we knew that from the beginning. When we are left helpless, we act differently. I tend to move and he sticks to whatever he was sticking to before becoming a helpless parasite of people’s anger and when he’s fed, he’s gentle. But the truth is he really does feed off others’ emotions. He eats me up and everything around him as well. When he’s happy, he’s the only one who’s happy and to this day, every time I look back, I think “When were we happy and alone?” I believe we have never been happy and alone, never happily alone. I am a parasite, too, I guess, I use other people’s emotions to keep us happy, momentarily. I keep my circle open. He doesn’t have a circle to begin with; he’s sitting on a dot.
I didn’t care to put on my socks, I jumped in my shoes with bare feet. I only grabbed my blue sweatshirt and did what I do when the skeletons in our closets would come out. The beach is only a five-minute walk away, and the route is lovely. From where I was, all I had to do was to get out of the door, turn to my right, and walk along a thin and narrow sidewalk. I had to pass the little bicycle shop and after that, it’s a few houses and then suddenly, there on my left opens up this empty field just stranded right there and across it you can see the beach and the sound of the waves embrace you at once. If you stood right in the middle of the field there, you would feel so alone but everything would feel so serene and when the time is right, there are red poppies growing all across it, giving the boring green of the grass a lively colour. There I get to be happily alone. There’s also a stray cat that hangs around the bicycle shop that particularly loves bicycles. I know that he loves me so dearly as well, and I know that by the way he meows. It’s not quite a meow; it’s more like a little roar.
When I got out of the door, the cat was across the street. He walked with me past the little pavement and past the bicycle shop, but that’s as far as he goes, at least in this direction. I’ve heard cats have territories, and I like to believe he’s a gentleman who doesn’t get into someone else’s business. He was distracted by a brand-new lightning blue bike just outside the shop. Probably left there to be delivered soon.
I went across the field and watched my feet carefully so I wouldn’t step on the poppies. The problem with this beach is that it’s not all made out of sand. It’s rocky for the most part, but from where the water hits the shore to where the rocks are is perhaps around five metres wide worth of a sandy beach line. I walk there; I can walk on the rocks, too, but I like it when my foot is on a loose base. When I raise one foot and move the pressure from this foot to the other, I like it when my heels helplessly fall into the consuming trap of sand and when its grains make their way into my shoes, I don’t mind. “When the flowers bloom and spread the fun, I will put on my best dress to go out in the sun and when it rains, it rains and washes my face and suddenly everything smells so nice,” I sang to myself a little song my mom used to sing to me in the spring. When I used to sleep in and when it was too hard for me to get out of my bed, my mom would sing me a song to wake up. They were mostly inspired by the things we would watch on TV, but this one was all her. My mom was good with silly words, not serious ones. You couldn’t hold an honest serious talk with her. That’s behind us now. Then she would make a little song almost every day, but my favourite and the only one I ended up remembering was this one.
I walked along the beach without even looking at the sea. Instead, I watched my feet closely as they dipped in the sand and out in the air. I’ve walked here so many times that I can picture whatever is around me even with my eyes closed. I can imagine the sky, the same baby blue colour with shapeless patches of white. I can imagine the rocks in all shades of grey and the ones that look dull and dead while dry. I can feel the curves of little seashells under my feet sometimes; their fragility and their size, too. The little waves of the sea that throw up what’s lost, dead, or killed. I imagine the colour of the sea exactly as it is. I have never seen water as boring as it is on our beach. I imagine the water opaque, quiet, and quite disgusted with what it carries in it. I kept on looking at my feet until I couldn’t take more steps.
I gasped. I couldn’t tell what had happened to it. Its stomach looked torn, maybe shot but I couldn’t dare look too closely to understand what exactly had happened to it. It had died a while ago, you could tell by the way its feathers looked. A part of its face, on its cheeks, besides its beak, the feather had fallen out. Almost as if someone had waxed it off almost completely. I couldn’t see any maggots or any flies around it. It was just there right at my feet, rotting away. All my anger had melted away, and instead an agonising sadness froze my face. I couldn’t let anything out; not a word, not a sigh, not anything at all and the suffocating feeling of melancholy being radiated from the dead body of a pigeon almost left me paralysed. I wanted to move it but to where and how I couldn’t figure out. I had never touched anything that was this obviously dead. I had moved around withered plants and I had made love to a man whom I didn’t love anymore, but I had never touched anything as dead as this.
I spent some time taking a step in and out, turning my head in all sorts of angles to get a better look at what had happened to it. I’ve seen a few hunters here and there, in their boats with their guns to shoot loons. It’s not a great sight, but it never bothered me much. However, this feels different. People who killed it didn’t even want it, that’s of course if it had actually been killed, which I think it is the case. They didn’t want a dead pigeon, they wanted a dead loon. “Don’t get too close.” I didn’t notice him coming. “A pigeon,” he said as he looked at me. “Yeah.” I didn’t look back. He let out a big sigh and he put his hands into his jacket’s pockets and then he let out an even bigger sigh. We stood there together for a little with our masochist gazes centred on the pigeon. It felt like we were mourning for something far greater than an old pigeon, and I know he felt the same way, too. I know him through our patterns. We don’t have much; not much in common and not much in anything else, but we both have sympathy for dead things.
I didn’t feel like walking on the beach anymore, and so we went back home and we sat back on our chairs around the table. On the table, no turnips left. Just like always, something had taken a twist and turned, and abruptly it had revived us. For days I didn’t go back to see if someone had moved it or if someone had dared to put it away. A few days later, he called me names so I took a turnip and ran. I ran past the cat, past the little narrow sidewalk, past the bicycle shop, past the houses, I ran across the field and I finally ran through the sand. I took the dead pigeon by the hand and threw it as far as I could into the sea. The next day the waves had thrown it back on the shore.
Two decades ago I met a futurist. Maggie wore a peasant blouse over her ruffled skirt, but she didn’t pull out a tarot deck as I’d imagined. Instead, she spread out a map. She drew an index finger up the coastline of Western Australia and marked our location, just east of Geraldton. Spreading across 2.5 million square miles, WA was roughly the size of India but with less than .5 percent of the population. The state covered roughly a third of the continent.
“Everyone claims the Outback as the epitome of this country, but most people cloister in cities along the coast,” she said, pointing to Perth, where two-thirds of WA’s inhabitants resided.
The first Europeans to arrive in 1616 were the Dutch, who deemed the region uninhabitable. It took until the 1820s for British soldiers and convicts to colonise these Aboriginal lands, soon occupied by settlers whose population grew with the advent of the Gold Rush. Most of the state’s land mass lay in the interior – the Great Gibson Desert, the Great Sandy Desert, the Victoria Desert, and the Nullarbor Plain. Only a handful of four-wheel-drive routes ran between them.
We were heading inland via the Great Northern Highway to an international music festival. Wogarno Station, located near Mount Magnet, was a seven-hour trip northeast. Maggie’s friend, Peter, sat at the wheel of the spacious green vehicle, which he had converted from a Christian camp bus. He wore a feather in his Akubra hat and drove shirtless with the windows rolled down. His ten-year-old daughter, Lucy, had travelled with her dad in this mobile turtle shell since she was a toddler. She swept her arm across the map and told me she’d been all over: “I mean, not to every house or anything!” When Lucy was three, she hiked a three-thousand-foot mountain and almost stepped on a python. She’d visited emerald-green swimming holes where blue butterflies were as big as plates. Once, driving across the Nullarbor Plain, they watched it transform into a moving sea of mice. Lucy said she could tell me where all the best sunsets were. When I was her age in California, my only reference to Australia was Olivia Newton John, whose songs I listened to while roller skating around suburban streets in my disco jacket.
“The only thing bad about going away on a trip is that you have to come back again,” Lucy said.
I had spent the last two years, in my early thirties, working as a nanny to save money for a seven-month trip to Australasia. Midway into my travels, I hooked up with this trio through a mutual friend whom I met upon arrival by rail from Adelaide. Susan, who had mustered livestock at sheep stations up north, was now at middle age facing the uncertainty of not having a retirement plan. While we swam in the aquamarine waters of the Indian Ocean, she spoke of the social pressures to settle down and prepare for the future as if it were a knowable thing to be tamed. She worried about someday becoming infirm or homeless. Rather than resist the image or make decisions driven by her fear of it, she meditated on its possibility. I could relate. Without a permanent job or home, I had no plan of my own.
While my bus mate Maggie wasn’t exactly a fortune teller, she did make predictions about the future of the earth and our human place in it. She worked as an advisor on shaping policy, from individual businesses to governments, by examining environmental, social, and cultural trends of sustainability on the planet. During the drive, she described some of the current ecological problems facing Australia.
The land was so old in places that it had eroded away into flat, dusty plains. There were no ungulates, or hoofed animals, native to it. Overgrazing by sheep and cattle eradicated much of the fragile flora that once grew wild. Many introduced grazers went feral, including camels, horses, and hardy goats that ran in herds and compacted the soil, as well as cats and rabbits that further endangered native plants and animals. Overfarming with pesticides contributed to the water shortages, infertile soil, and increasing salinity the ranchers faced. Deforestation and chemical fertilisers caused the salt content of the undersoil to quickly rise to the surface, destroying crops and grazing land. Peering out the windows, Maggie pointed out vast circles of white spreading into the red earth like chalk drawings on a sidewalk. The levelled terrain stretched for miles on either side, punctuated by the peeling trunks and branches of the bloodwood trees.
Folding up the map on the table between us, Lucy tried to teach me how to play chess, but the open windows blew hot air all around the bus and the pieces kept falling down. Finally, we gave up the game. The dust was relentless. It stirred in our lungs, our hair, our eyes.
We passed establishments with names like Digger’s Diner and Swagman’s Rest. At a petrol station I browsed through a selection of CDs with beer drinking favourites. The prior week, three pubs shut down after too many fights broke out. We stopped for lunch at a roadside truck and swatted at black flies.
On arrival at Wogarno I set up camp, pitching my tent near my makeshift family. The sunset painted pink streaks across the bus windows. We settled into fold-up chairs and watched the sheep station transform into a bustling village. Drums called in the distance, accompanied by the cadence of clapping rattles and an accordion in syncopation with a didgeridoo. Fire dancers twirled under the stars.
In the morning, sleeping bags rustled and zipped. I heard coughing, a child crying, footsteps on gravel. “Want a cuppa?” someone asked, clanging a teapot. Somewhere a radio announced news from beyond: “Bush administration; suicide bomber; we must carefully consider the consequences . . .Zimbabwe’s ruling party; aftermath of elections; rocks, teargas, automatic weapons . . . In Perth, four rounds were fired; car crashes, murder charges, all drug related . . .
And now with sports . . .”
“Are you too old for an egg hunt?” Lucy asked me. It was Easter Sunday. We scrambled to find foil-wrapped chocolates hidden in the brush. After breakfast we boarded sheep carts towed by pickup trucks. Standing room only. I held on tight to the rickety wooden side rails as we jostled against one another and ducked under brittle branches on the rutted road to Lizard Rock. Sitting atop the outcropping, we listened to the haunting melody of instruments improvised from tin cans and iron pipes that mimicked the wind.
Later I took a walk under the blaring sun, staying close to the road so as not to get lost. My shadow accompanied me past a broken windmill and metal sculptures made from rusted farm implements. Stretching out under a bit of shade, I watched ants that seeped from the iron-rich pores of red earth.
In the evening I braided Lucy’s hair, weaving the plaits with festive ribbons. Members of a samba troupe painted their faces with glitter to match their shimmering metallic costumes. Their feathered headdresses and hips tilted to the beat of the agogo, snare drums, tambourines, and sordo – a bass drum that extended from waist to toe. I, too, would soon dance with a local samba troupe after returning home, and the spellbinding rhythms would return me several times to my birth country of Brazil. But I did not yet know this.
I asked Lucy where in the world was her favourite place to go. “I liked Disneyland,” she replied, “but Paris is unique. It has things like frog’s legs to eat.”
We watched the shearing shed transform into a stage, floodlit in red. A silent film flickered onto the corrugated siding with images of a Chinese city while a percussion installation imitated urban street life. Another group performed Strings Attached with ropes connected to drumsticks, which formed waves of electric light, matching the motion with sound. The samba band played a mesmerising finale as magenta hues melted into the horizon. Strands of tinsel whirled past in a gust of wind. The future remained unclear. But as I gazed up at the Southern Cross traversing a distance of nearly 20 million years at the edge of the Milky Way, it was still full of possibility.
“The wolf licked me,” the boy says. “It walked slowly, nose touching the ground, then lifting up its head, looking left, right.”
“But that was four years back,” the father says. “He was just three.”
The villagers point at him as the boy who was licked, but not taken away, by the wolf.
The older kids are a little less scared of the wolves now, but the parents keep telling them cautionary tales that involve careless kids who are taken away by wolves.
It doesn’t matter whether they eat them or raise them. When a wolf comes near a lonely little kid, it’s already a scary tale.
The boy grabs my hand and leads me to the back of their hut. He isn’t tall enough for his age, but I sense the wild strength contained in his impatient hand. His thick hair is overgrown and a few strands fall over his forehead, some reaching down all the way to his button nose. It’s hard to fight back a smile as I think of watching Mowgli on TV last week.
“See, it happened here! But none of them saw it. Only I saw, its mouth wide open, teeth sharp. Then it smiled and licked my forehead.”
His eyes glisten, though he isn’t smiling. He wasn’t old enough when that happened, to realise that he was within a story. He is here to tell the story now, to a stranger who just needed a water refill, and some shade, and perhaps some rest in human company for a few minutes.
The jungle is too close, and it spreads around in thick foliage, nonstop bird songs, and occasional animal calls. The tall trees hide beneath them the lake and hills that aren’t too far away. It’s a challenge for me and my team to be here for a fortnight, hiking each day from the forest department’s bungalow, always accompanied by guards and guides, but for the villagers, the everyday existence must mean eternal lessons of peaceful coexistence with all sorts of animals and climatic conditions. They seem to know the right proportions of friendliness and distance as well.
But this boy! He will need many more years to come out of his own fairy tales in which wolves smile at him.
He’s fascinated by my camera, but doesn’t attempt to touch it like the other kids, when it hangs from my neck, unused. I had taken a conscious decision to not take too many photos of people, as my photo feature centers only on wildlife.
But I click twice when we are alone.
Him looking up at me. Pointing to the woods.
I show him the results on the screen. He smiles at last, happy to be a hero trapped in pixels. I imagine how good his pearly white teeth might look in a portrait, but decide against one more photo. He’s obviously under a spell, and is desperate to convey the magical moment from his childhood, in the hope that someone might understand him, someday.
I wonder what a wolf’s smile is like, but stay silent and smile encouragingly at him.
“It smelled like meat stew. The saliva was cold,” he says.
And All Those Bright Little Things
When Vanessa Onwuemezi won the White Review Short Story Prize in 2019, the aesthetic principles of her project were outlined: This was to be prose that was confronting its own poetic limitations, where the narrative — not plotless modernism, but modernly plotless — was frequently to elope into lyrical embellishments usually reserved for balladic folklore and to commit itself to this while disregarding the risk of seeming arch, aloof, or flowery. In so doing, the writer flings her bouquets of old yellow fibreglass with noiselessly sinister laughter in the face of the austerity and minimalism of the modern short story form. Her work sometimes resembles, in brief, a file-corrupt recording of purgatory.
there is no meaning. Hanging a picture on the wall
I give a little too much force to my thumb skin
breaks under pressure an orb of blood red red to
dark red to dry red to skin to iron to rust to
heat to sweat to yesterdays as we move, we move.
It was her story “At The Heart of Things” that won her the acclaim of the White Review and that is located as the terminal piece in her début collection, titled — with an obscurity that again somehow avoids its own cliché — Dark Neighbourhood.That “somehow” is a modesty that borders on the audacious and therefore forgives a plethora of potential sins that have long been pinned on the board of what-we-talk-about-when- we-talk-about-writing-fiction, which frequently lists lyricism as one of its cardinal faults. But what Onwuemezi achieves in reclaiming the lyrical form is done through melding it with a surrealist abstraction that might otherwise seem to be of yesteryear and that, through this reverse seance, is injected with the brightness of the new.
A moan.
And I had to leave my chair, alone in the green green
afternoon.
The boy was bleeding from his side, eyes of gathering
water blind pools iridescent lungs a well draining
out of life a gurgle deep.
My hands on his stomach (exposed with shirt pulled
upwards where he had dragged the body across the
slabs) and felt warmth and trembling and wet, blood
sweats the wound.
‘Young man,’ I said, ‘my man.’
Onwuemezi confronts this phobia for lyrical abstraction with a perseverance that, as it must, becomes an innovation where innovation has been decried. Intrusions into the prose, digressions and divagations, wanderings that are neither musings or explorations, but the slow process of searching for the glow of the exit-sign in a room where the lights have gone out: These aspects of Onwuemezi’s writing hazard meshing the story in a text too convoluted and labyrinthine for its subject matter’s own good, much of which is realist in tone. A man witnesses a death in his (seemingly English) neighbourhood and goes searching for answers. A drifter in the American West kicks around motel rooms and falls unrequitedly for a sex worker. A novice cleaning lady in a Spanish hotel confronts the reality of her working life amid personal grievances.
What this should suggest is that Onwuemezi’s writing is not an act of avant-garde style-over-substance, considering the tropes with which she is working. The realist narratives are rechartered through the style for which she opts. It’s the fragmentation of the tropes she handles that gives the book its oral (or aural) quality: that of hearing a well-known fairytale distorted by the speaker or listening to a classic filtered through layers of deteriorating tape-loops. Knowing-how-it-will-end is a knee-jerk response, but that the best stories are those in which the end is inevitable is an aphorism that still holds together under duress.
I lie down next to her with a pen in my hand, and I’m
ordered onto my knees to fill in the missing punctuation
of this long scroll. Yellowed edges and musty of old.
Pen a nightmare to operate but I must: full stop, colon,
semi-colon, speech mark, open bracket and close
bracket, forward slash, comma, exclamation mark,
question mark, apostrophe, dash, quotation mark and
every error sends me to the beginning again. Mark after
mark, endless and I feel it, every moment of it. My mind
is dragging somewhere behind me.
The cigarette burns down and she’s green gone.
There are two tales being told in Onwuemezi’s stories: the narrative of the writing and the writing of the narrative. Though self-reflexivity is an innovation repeated unto death, the tales in the collection succeed in validating the notion that every work is the parable of its own creation. Feeling the struggles of Onwuemezi’s characters is also feeling the writer’s struggle of putting the right words together in more-or-less the right order. Each time reality is intruded on by recollections, or augmented by fantasy, the writer’s own di- and ab- stractions are reflected in the writing itself, the poetic pauses artistic gaps as much as narrative ones. Private tragedies, unavoidable as they must be, are made enigmas of cinematic image and literary dissolves.
Ursula loves me
she loves
the way sunlight
touches
the exposed parts of me
and my insides are warmed
by its touch
sometimes it burns
her love will burn a hole through me
There’s an argument to be made that poetry succeeds in reaching the points where prose can no longer be forced to stretch, and a supporting testament in Onwuemezi’s lapses into lyricism. That the sublime is depressingly elusive is a facet of experience Onwuemezi distils. Moments, glimpses, lights. They pass. Out of ruptures of coherence, a beauty is gleaned that isn’t given the name or the sharpness that beauty must be conventionally allowed to possess. Her tales lend themselves, through their occasional obscurity, to this kind of ponderousness. Something in the blueprint of a narrative concerning a Born Winner OD’ing on crushed pills on the floor of his office as his life is played in retrospect is inclined to a L’Innommable-esque contemplation of liminal existence and all those bright little things that transverse it, fast and nameless as they are.
Where is she? Somewhere behind my back and
knowing I can’t turn around. Light hangs above my head,
a draft it swings a little,
shadow passes over the wall
revealing, crack in the paint.
A siren runs past, through my mind.
I am the siren now, a wave flung into the air.
There is a slightly sophomoric tone to the collection at times, the sensation of feet searching for the earth that dried, caked, and fell away underneath them, a tone translucently reflected in the elliptical and digressional prose. Onwuemezi, though, pulls it off, and the result is decidedly and impressively more nascent than it is amateurish. What feels like the progress of the collection might be better understood (or appreciated) played in reverse, the reader an acid-casualty searching for meaning in the vinyl grooves of a secret track: from the last story, which was Onwuemezi’s first success, a commuter’s tale of concussion and remorse, backwards to the first story, a narrative of criminal comradeship between two women who occupy a borderland in space and time. The collection, played in retrograde, becomes a steady undoing of reality, and a map of an emerging writer’s accomplishments.
A Nietzschean quote prefaces the collection as its epigraph, though it’s attributed not to the philosopher but his speaker, Zarathustra: “Night is also a sun.” In the collection’s eponymous story, denizens of an obfuscated world gather under floodlights, described as illuminated day and night, concealing both waxing moon and rising sun, the children born there clueless as to the significance of such celestial objects. Light upon light is darkness, Onwuemezi writes. And following this logic of inversion and erasure, maybe the book would have been better named after what feels like its most intimate story — Bright Spaces — in which a letter seems to address itself innocently beyond the grave. If Onwuemezi is making use of fragmentation, it seems to be with the purpose of shining a torch through the cracks. The book lights over dark neighbourhoods, but the spaces it navigates, occupies and dwells in, for a time, are made to flicker brightly, to glow.
Dark Neighbourhood
By Vanessa Onwuemezi
160 pages, Fitzcarraldo Editions
Back then, back in 1963, my friend Tommy and I shared a dream of someday opening a menagerie. To us, “someday” meant “tomorrow” or “next week,” not “when we grow up.” The original idea had been Tommy’s, but I got on the bandwagon pretty much the moment he told me about it. First of all, there wasn’t any competition; no one in our neighbourhood, as far as either of us knew, had or had plans for, a menagerie. Plus, we both liked animals. And we liked to be in each other’s company.
Until the fifth grade, Tommy had lived all the way over on the other side of the tracks, in the northeast section of Oritani – also known as the “Negro Section” and some worse things we weren’t supposed say. The summer after fifth grade his family had moved down the block from us. His was the first Black family in our West Tanglewood neighbourhood. Demonstrators had picketed outside Tommy’s house when they first moved in, but the hubbub subsided quickly. The cops parked a prowl car with a couple of bulls in it at the curb where no one could miss it. And then one of the neighbours put out a big sign that read,
IDIOTS’ CONVENTION TODAY!
whenever the picketers came around.
My old man told me to walk down the block, ring Tommy’s doorbell, and introduce myself to him and his family, something I noticed he himself hadn’t yet gotten around to.
“I hear the poor boy hasn’t met any of the other young men yet,” he said, “He’s probably lonely. Who knows? Maybe you’ll become friends!”
I was too self-conscious for that. It seemed like a creepy thing to do, and I already had plenty of problems with the other kids and their opinions of me – they thought I was an uncoordinated “shrimp” with thick glasses and a smart mouth, among other things – and didn’t need more. But my father made it clear it wasn’t a suggestion, even though he’d bent over backwards to make it sound like one.
Pretty soon Tommy and I were best buddies, sharing dreams of our future – not the usual Boys’ Life dreams of a being a fireman or an astronaut or something – but the kind of dreams we could start on immediately.
We were always sneaking off on our bikes over to the northeast section and down to the Armoury, which stood on a great bluff overlooking an oxbow in the Hackensack River, to see what we could turn up. There was nothing better than exploring that riverine landscape that had been shaped and reshaped over millennia into muddy flats, tiny ponds, sloughs and stands of reeds, and hardwood groves that tended toward flooding.
We’d been told not to go there. Everybody, including Tommy’s mother, said it was a dangerous neighbourhood and people, especially white people like me, weren’t safe. She wanted Tommy to make friends in his new neighbourhood, but we rode over there anyway. I was okay about it because Tommy knew a lot of the kids, and they were mostly just like the kids around where I lived; they liked racing their bikes, standing around the playground throwing rocks at garbage cans, stealing dirty magazines from the soda fountain, hopping freights to the edge of town and back. Stuff that would make our parents, from both neighbourhoods, go apeshit if they knew.
Tommy and I would ditch our bikes in the bushes and slip under the barbed-wire-topped cyclone fence that protected the Armoury from whatever marauders might be hanging around, using the cuts some of the older kids had made for their own purposes. Kids were always ahead of the army in this department; as quickly as the army guys could repair the fence some other kid would cut a new breech.
Tommy always said, “It makes you kind of wonder how they’re going to have a war with the Russians if they can’t keep a bunch of dumb kids out. I mean, what if we were Commie spies?”
Once we’d made it through the Armoury perimeter, we climbed the bluff above the river and clambered onto the seven-foot-high rock – one of the mastodon-sized boulders the retreating glaciers had rolled and polished and abandoned all over the Eastern Piedmont – that dominated the grounds, and we stared at the bronze plaque listing all the luckless schmoes from Oritani who’d died in various wars.
We could never resist the tanks and halftracks and stuff stashed out behind the Armoury. From the top of a low rise we would pelt the idle war machines with rocks and dirt clods, making a lot of noise but doing no damage.
“I don’t see what they need all this stuff for anyway,” Tommy would say, “If the Commies are just gonna A-bomb us anyway.” That year in school they had us doing drills, dropping under our desks and all that.
“Maybe we can hide here under the tanks instead,” I said. It seemed more secure than our desks would have been.
“Yeah, and then when we come out we can see all the dead bodies and go into everybody’s house without knocking and take anything we want.”
Inevitably, the fat-assed security guard would hear us and pile out of his shack, making like he was going to chase us. We knew he couldn’t catch us, but it was grand fun to run from him anyway. Adding to the thrill was the persistent rumour, handed down by generation after generation of twelve-year-olds, that government buildings, important factories, and railroad cabooses were equipped with special automatic cameras designed to capture pictures of rock-throwing miscreants like us and send them to our school for identification and possible prosecution or, worse, parental notification.
Our fleeing feet carried us out of sight of the guard and the real or imagined cameras and down a steep overgrown slope and into the green world of the riverbank, which was where we wanted to be all along.
There we stalked tadpoles, frogs, leeches, crayfish, worms, and turtles without much success. We turned over rocks and boards uncovering salamanders that twisted and flopped in the sudden sunlight. In the cattails, red-winged blackbirds screeked and warbled, overhead crows chased each other out over the water. Jays fluttered and coasted, fluttered and coasted from tree to tree. Tommy and I waded into the green-choked ponds, keeping our sneakers on to protect against the broken glass and petroleum muck on the bottom. Our mothers, both of them, told us over and over never to go in the water – neither of us could swim, for one thing, and the water was hazardous, filthy, and polluted as well; we were sure to drown or die of some dread, yet-to-be-discovered disease. We listened and nodded as if this was welcome and never-before-heard advice while behind their backs we laughed their predictions off as the fate of other dumbass children, not us. Certainly not us.
We stood belly-deep and giggling as scores of minnows nibbled curiously at our skin. If we stood still enough long enough they would swim right up to us. Tommy’s mother made us sandwiches, and we shared the bread with them and induced them to rest in our cupped hands, shimmering and glistening, their mouths gasping as if blowing us kisses. A few old guys with beer guts fished and dozed, once in a while causing a small hubbub by hooking a good-sized catfish or hauling in a snapping turtle. My old man claimed to know guys over in River Edge who bought up snappers cheap and cooked their meat in char-blackened trash barrels, making vile stews they would sell you by the roadside if you knew just where to stop.
We figured we were the only ones aware of all this natural abundance smack in the heart of a modern suburb, an area endlessly fascinating, and reckoned that eventually it would be discovered by the right people – naturalists or scientists – and set aside for future generations to study. But no one cared about it – no one was responsible for cleaning up the rusted-out cans and busted coolers delinquent teenagers had discarded or burying the charred wood left behind from their illegal fires.
Someone had to protect the riverbank for the future, but we had no idea how something like that even happened. We both agreed it should be made into a national park. Neither of us had ever seen a national park, but it sounded like a good idea. Who would we contact? No one at City Hall seemed to know when we called down there, and Tommy said, “Can I talk to the guy in charge of making the Armoury into a National Park?” They just transferred him from one department to another and put him on hold over and over again until Tommy’s mother told him to quit tying up the phone.
That’s when Tommy got the idea that the next best thing would be to start a menagerie to generate some interest in the National Park project by showing off all the animals that inhabited the area. We already kept some of the creatures we’d managed to capture in old mayonnaise jars and fishbowls in Tommy’s cellar: crayfish, leeches, a couple of tadpoles, spiders. We netted some minnows and put them in an old five-gallon aquarium and sunk a couple of rusting beer cans into it to make them feel at home.
Stashed in Tommy’s garage was some rolled-up, corroded chicken wire, and there were discarded window screens stacked around the back that we figured could be fashioned into enclosures for the possums and raccoons we’d snare and tame down. In the back of Boys’ Life, there were ads for Havahart Traps, but they weren’t anything we could afford on our weekly allowances of zero. If we could collect a dime or even a quarter from everyone who wanted to see the menagerie, we could probably afford a couple of traps after a time; but who was going to come to a menagerie that only had leeches and crayfish?
Tommy’s mother thought we had some pretty good ideas and encouraged us to donate our future earnings – our dimes and quarters – to the National Park effort. But donating our funds would only complicate everything and put the Havaharts even further out of reach.
“Donating the money will give people an incentive to come see your menagerie – that way the money goes to a good cause,” she said to us. “If you appeal to people’s better natures things always come out okay.”
In the meantime, we dreamed about foxes and bobcats returning to the newly established Oritani National Park. Could mountain lions and peregrine falcons be far behind? I wanted to be a herpetologist when I grew up and thought maybe I would lead an expedition someday to inventory the flora and fauna, with me specialising in the snakes and lizards and turtles.
My old man and Uncle Scrubby, both with cocktails near at hand, were sitting in sagging lawn chairs on our front porch, watching “that Cohen idiot,” our across-the-street neighbour, wash his car with a floppy sponge and a bucket of sudsy water, when Tommy and I told them about our menagerie.
They’d thrown the front windows open and turned the hi-fi up loud so they could hear it out on the porch – Harry James, “I’ve Heard That Song Before,” with Helen Forrest on vocals. My father had that sentimental look in his eye, the way he always did when he heard it.
My mother loved Harry James, too.
“I always hope this will nudge her in the right direction,” my father said, “if you get my drift.” Which I did, if only vaguely.
“Has that ever worked?” Scrubby said.
“Not so far,” my father said.
My father was neatly pressed, as always, dressed and at the ready should some unanticipated opportunity come up the porch steps. He was tall and wide, his forehead like a blaze, visible for blocks.
When Uncle Scrubby laughed, it sounded like a bad cough. Short and skinny, he bought all his clothes at the Salvation Army. He was neither my uncle nor was Scrubby his real name, but everyone but my mother had called him that since about the fourth grade. She insisted on Lloyd, believing it sounded more dignified. No one knew for sure where my father had first met Uncle Scrubby, but none of the smart money was on the library.
The Harry James ended and another record dropped onto the stack. : “I Got Rhythm,” hard, loud, and wild.
“Excuse me, fellas, but I don’t think all the neighbours appreciate the Dorsey Brothers nearly as much as you two,” my mother called from the kitchen. She had to raise her voice quite a bit over the music. My father and Uncle Scrubby pretended not to hear.
Both of them were, as usual, unemployed and all but broke. Until something came along, there was nothing else to do but sit on the porch. Uncle Scrubby was old enough to get away with telling people he’d retired, although retired from what was a question better left unasked. If my father had tried that same line, no one would’ve bought it, not in a million years. As was his practice, he’d smart-mouthed the boss once too often and was again washed up on the beach. Not that the condescending bastard hadn’t deserved every word of it.
They had nothing more important to think about than Cohen’s car and our proposed menagerie. We showed them a jar we’d brought along with water striders in it, another with a bunch of leeches.
“There’ve been great menageries through history you could model yours on,” my father said. “Hell, Regents Park in London, the Villa Borghese in Rome. Don’t forget Versailles. You can look all these up.”
“If you can spell them,” Scrubby said.
Both my father and Uncle Scrubby were huge circus buffs; they loved menageries, roadside carnivals, snake farms, and freak shows, no matter how rundown and cheesy; the cheesier the better, in fact. When there was money for gas, we were always driving all over the map in my father’s falling-apart, behemoth Buick Roadmaster looking for gypsy entertainments.
“All the great royal families of Europe – The Hapsburgs! All the Kings of Norway! Frederick the Great! – all maintained menageries.”
“C’mon, Rich. Where the hell these kids gonna put a thing like that? Where’s there room?”
“Well, there’s absolutely no reason not to think big. They don’t have to build an attraction on that scale, but it’s a good thing to keep in mind, as good a place to start as any. Start small but think big is what I always say.” He quoted himself often.
“Show ’em,” Uncle Scrubby said.
My father pulled back his shirt cuff to show us the disc-shaped scar on the back of his wrist. He told us it was where he’d been bitten by a giant anteater the owner of a gas station out near Carlyle, Pennsylvania, kept chained up in his parking lot. Tommy was bug-eyed, but I’d seen it a million times.
“This was back before the war when a good many service stations kept small-scale menageries to attract customers. It was something of a fad. Shit-nickel little outfits they were, but fascinating nonetheless. This particular anteater was either the first denizen or the last of this guy’s collection. They say those things don’t have teeth but I’m here to tell you that it isn’t so.”
“Whaddaya gonna name it?” Uncle Scrubby wanted to know, having lost interest in gas stations and giant anteaters. He directed all his conversation to me, as if Tommy weren’t there. When Tommy’s family moved in, Scrubby was going to join the picketers before my father talked him out of it.
“A bunch of ignoramuses,” he’d called them.
Uncle Scrubby took a second to think and said, “Not that I’m against it, them moving in…
“…fucking morons, those guys…”
“…but I ain’t for it either.”
“Then it’d be best to stay out of it,” my father had said.
We shrugged at Scrubby’s question. We hadn’t gotten as far as naming the place.
“Ringling Brothers is already taken, so’s Barnum and Bailey,” Uncle Scrubby said.
“You should look into getting a sign like P.T. Barnum had,” my father said, “one that says,
THIS WAY TO THE GREAT EGRESS!
to dupe the rubes into leaving out the back entrance.” He was a big admirer of Barnum and considered him a Great American.
“A man who was years – hell, decades! – ahead of his time,” he’d declare as proud as if Barnum were his own son.
“What about Clyde Beatty?” Uncle Scrubby said.
“Taken,” my father said, “And too small-time.”
My father said if we wanted to attract visitors to our menagerie we’d have to get something and impressive “like a bison.”
“People will travel many miles to see one,” he told us. “Especially if it’s a particularly robust specimen.”
“A bison?” Tommy said.
“Yeah, what kind of a respectable menagerie doesn’t have a bison?” Uncle Scrubby said. “I mean, without a bison what’ve you got?”
“A bunch of invertebrates,” my father said, “which is what you’ve got now. And in jars to boot. I mean, for Christ’s sake, boys.”
“Too little for anybody to see,” Uncle Scrubby said. “You gotta have something that’s visible from the street.”
“Yes, exactly. Something to attract a crowd commensurate with your ambitions,” my father said. That his ambitions and mine were identical went without saying. He always figured if I grew up and turned out to be exactly like him it would be best outcome anyone could imagine.
“I saw an albino one once,” Uncle Scrubby said, “in a zoo back home in Indiana, I think it was.”
“An albino bison?” my father said, intrigued. “Never heard of that. Didn’t know they came in white.”
“I might still have a couple buckets of whitewash under my porch,” Scrubby said. He pronounced it white-warsh.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” my father said.
Tommy and I retreated down the street to his house. Most of what my father and Scrubby had said baffled us. The only thing I knew about Versailles was that my mother used the word sarcastically to characterise our house. We thought about the sign pointing to the egress. The more we thought about it the more we couldn’t understand it. Why would we want people to leave our menagerie after having gone to all the trouble and expense of getting a bison to draw them in in the first place? We were baffled, but we sensed my father would be proud of us if we tacked up a sign like that, so we added it to the list of stuff we wanted to do.
Also, we had no idea where we could lay our hands on a bison. There were no bison found in our region – at least not anymore – and if they had once roamed the landscape they’d have been shot out along with the Indians and everything else. And even if there had been a few still around, they didn’t make a Havahart big enough for us to capture one. At least not one they advertised in Boys’ Life.
There was nothing in the Yellow Pages under Bison, Livestock, or Pets.
We went to Tommy’s old man to ask him about finding a bison. He owned the record store at the Port Authority Bus Station. He worked long hours, was always tired, and acted sore whenever you came near him. He said we should stop bothering him with our foolishness before we even had a chance to tell him what we wanted.
Tommy’s older brother Boobie just sneered and called us dumb motherfuckers when we asked him if he knew anything about where to get a bison. He used any excuse to call us that.
We rode our bikes over to Kazmir’s Pets, the big store over in a run-down section of Hackensack that carried exotic parrots, monkeys, and baby alligators along with the usual puppies and kittens, tropical fish, snakes, lizards, frogs, gerbils, guinea pigs, hamsters, mice, white rats. We figured we’d ask Old Man Kazmir, the owner, an enormous man who was always dressed in an oversized white shirt with dog-food-stained shirttails. He was the closest thing to a biologist within biking distance. A lot of kids were scared of him because he’d lost both his legs to diabetes, which left him lunging around the store, wheezing and gasping, on aluminium crutches and wooden legs that didn’t seem to work very well. Some of the older Black kids brought him Red-Ears and garter snakes they’d managed to snag somewhere. Old Man Kazmir would give them fifty cents for them. The places they found these treasures were closely guarded secrets, only shared with other insiders. We were left to figure stuff out on our own. Kazmir paid better for spotted turtles and king snakes, pointing out pictures of them in the water-warped Golden Guide to Reptiles and Amphibians he kept behind the counter.
“Get me one of these sonsabitches and I’ll give ya two bucks,” he’d say, pointing to the corn snake illustration. If anyone could help us with a bison, it was Old Man Kazmir.
It was Saturday and busy. Old Man Kazmir was surrounded by a crowd just short of a scrum; : people seeking advice, wanting cat food, dog toys, monkey chow, clutching plastic bags and damp paper towels containing unfortunate purchases that had died just barely within the three-day warranty period.
“No refunds, only exchanges,” he’d say, his standard answer to practically every question from, “Why did my fish die?” to “Where’s the bathroom?”
He called each supplicant forward in an order known only to him.
“Yo, Yankee cap, you’re next.” Or, “Pretty lady! What’s up?”
He finally got around to us, “OK, Salt ‘n’ Pepper over there. What do you boys got?”
We asked him how to go about getting a bison. He looked at us with popping eyes, as if we were both crazy.
“A bison? Do you have any idea how much a thing like that would weigh?” Old Man Kazmir said, “And think about how much that sonofabitch would eat. Whattaya gonna tie it the yard or something? Not to mention the droppings. Holy Moses! A bison for Christ’s sake. Boys, someone is putting you on.”
As we slumped out of the store I said, “Maybe if we come back during the week he’ll have more time to talk to us.” I could tell Tommy doubted this, and I wasn’t sure I believed it myself.
We unchained our bikes from the No Parking sign out front, mounted, and headed back to Oritani.
“Hey! Salt!” Tommy yelled over this shoulder.
“What?” I shouted back.
“Nothin’.”
“Hey! Pepper!” I yelled.
“What?” he said.
“Nothin’,” I shouted back. We cracked up.
Tommy slowed so I could pull even.
“Know what?” he said. “We should name it the Salt and Pepper Menagerie. How does that sound?”
We laughed and slapped five.
“Know what else?” he said.
“What?’ I said. We were pedalling so hard our bikes were rocking from side to side.
“When I die,” Tommy said, “I’m gonna leave my legs to Old Man Kazmir.”
*
Later that summer, on a perfect afternoon, in warm sun gentled by a soft breeze, Tommy and I were doing what we loved best, wading among the shining minnows in one of the tree-shaded ponds downhill from the Armoury – soon to be the Oritani National Park. We thought of the minnows as friends even though my father told me all the time that anthropomorphism was a serious breach of scientific discipline. It was nonetheless a great deal of fun to suspend the prohibition for an afternoon of undisciplined pleasure. The little fish were tickling our bellies and feeding on the scraps of bread crust broken up small we floated for them, when an eastern ribbon snake – an elegant slender snake that I recognised from hours spent in my room studying my own Golden Guide to Reptiles and Amphibians – glided smoothly out from somewhere behind Tommy, belly-swimming on the surface with its head held up full of pride – and whipped through our gathered minnows. He dipped its head, snatched one up, and dashed past me, a lovely comic thief fleeing with the fish crosswise in its jaws, struggling to swallow the unfortunate creature alive while trying to elude us.
“Wow!” Tommy shouted.
This would surely be my only chance to capture such a rare animal, and I was not about to let it slip though my fingers.
“I got it.” I exclaimed and plunged after it, laying myself out full length and groping for it as it went by, but it was too single-mindedly fast – its bright yellow longitudinal stripes enhancing the appearance of great speed, making my eyes think it was still somewhere it no longer was, leaving me grabbing at the spot it had just vacated – and disappeared into the mat of duckweed that covered half the pond. So fast I wasn’t sure I hadn’t imagined it.
Empty-handed and soaked through, I struggled and splashed, working myself upright only to discover that the bottom had inexplicably fallen away. My sneakers like weights pulling me under, I didn’t touch bottom until the surface had closed over my head and an amniotic, green darkness enveloped me.
Tommy had started laughing as I’d thrown myself semitheatrically after the escaping snake and still thought I was fooling around even as I kept reaching for him every time I kicked to the surface, flailed – grabbing a mouthful of half-air, half-water, green pond scum, slobber running down my chin – and went under again. Gripped by unalloyed terror, I pushed off the bottom and for a second broke through into the sunlight but instantly sank into the green again. My toes hit bottom and I pushed off again and bobbed up for a tiny gasp of air. Each time I tried to scream to Tommy, but I had to cough out water from my latest trip to the bottom and take in air before I could summon an alarm. That next inhalation was mostly water anyway.
By the time Tommy caught on, I was going down a fourth or fifth time and had worked myself further into the hole, further out of his reach, further into strangling panic. He stretched out over the hole and caught hold of one of my panicked hands and pulled me toward him. I climbed his arm with a desperate hand-over-hand and grabbed onto him, my arms pinning his shoulders and my legs around his waist in a death grip, my ankles crossed at his coccyx, my hands laced and strapped across his shoulder blades, shivering in the sun-warmed water, holding on, smothering him, sputtering and clutching, laughing and coughing and gasping and thanking him all with the same limited breath. But it wasn’t over; my frozen weight was pulling him under. He twisted and thrashed, trying to free himself from me. Finally his heels found some small purchase on the bottom. He kicked strongly a couple of times, gagging on his own mouthful of green water and propelled us both into safer water.
With his feet planted well enough to steady the both of us, Tommy looked past my shoulder, his one glance covering the pond’s beaten-grass perimeter to determine if anyone was witnessing our awkward embrace. If any of the guys happened to be hanging around and spotted us hugging there in the middle of the pond they would surely take us for a couple of fairies, although what that constituted was only a vague notion. A lot of the guys already had their doubts about us; this we’d never live down. Tommy turned toward the shore and pushed me off of him, not violently but not gently either, into the shallows near the water’s edge. I came to rest sitting with the water up to my chin. The ribbon snake, as if on cue, raced past us, his half-dead minnow still held high, taunting us. I didn’t go after him again; he’d earned his lunch and his freedom.
It took a couple of seconds for what had just happened to sink in, that all the terrible fates our mothers had warned us about, all the things they’d told us not to do, all the things they had told us could kill us had nearly just happened. Tommy offered me a hand, like one athlete helping another up. We stood on the shore dripping and covered in muck. We looked at each and started to laugh, labouring to catch our breath and the same time wordlessly agreeing between us that from that point forward it would be like none of it had ever happened. We would never talk about any of it again – our dreams, our getting in over our heads, our near-drowning, our embrace.
Boobie continued to call us dumb motherfuckers on a regular basis, but more and more on general principles, less and less in specific reference to the menagerie idea.
My old man brought it up only when he and Uncle Scrubby were teasing us. Pretty soon they got tired of not getting any reaction out of us and moved their ridicule onto other targets, other, newer dreams. We had enough to keep them occupied for the rest of the summer.
Making Your Acquaintance
My name is Masha. My three-year-old son only knows that name thanks to my namesake, a dog, whom he was introduced to a few months ago and was talking about for two days afterwards. “Masha walked in the woods! Masha had an ouchie leg! I want to play with Masha!”
Masha the dog, in turn, was named after the character from the Masha and the Bear cartoon. One of the few Russian export goods – alongside oil and Kalashnikovs – which are in demand. Since I’ve lived in England, I’ve lost my informal name. Of course, my Russian friends still call me Masha, but to my family here, all work colleagues and local friends, I’m Maria now; Masha is the “short version” of Maria, and only in my native language.
“How can it be short with the same number of letters?” wondered my (then) future husband when we started seeing each other. In English, short versions are literal: Rach from Rachel, Ben from Benjamin, and even Richard is not (necessarily) a Dick anymore. Informal names in the English-speaking world have become pretty official, used by historic figures as the names they go by (e.g. Joe Biden or Kate Middleton).
In Russia, where these “short” versions have existed since Medieval times, representing relationships between the classes and attitudes toward those named, these are still informal only and imply a certain easiness between the people communicating. There was what quickly became a viral scandal when the press secretary to the Russian Prime Minister of the time, Dmitry Medvedev, was shouting at media representatives, demanding they don’t call the Prime Minister Dimon, which is a very frivolous version of the name Dmitry. Besides an official name, there is the archaic (some would say traditional) addition of the patronymic name, which is the name of the father plus respective suffixes for men (-ovich/-evich) and women (-ovna/-evna). Anyone who has ever survived through a classic Russian novel will have stumbled upon a lot of such suffixes.
Working for a big corporate company, you are constantly communicating via email. If the company is based in London, quite often – despite knowing their names – you have no idea who is opening your electronic envelope, a man or a woman. Ambar, Vibha, Alex? One time I was involved in a long email thread that, among others, included my colleague Emmanuel from the finance team. If you lived in the Soviet Union in the 70s–80s, even as a child, you would have known the same name belonged to the French erotic movie that had a very touching main theme tune (together with a lot of other touching). So, receiving those back and forth emails, I was picturing a half-naked Parisienne solving my financial issues, until Emmanuel decided to come over to introduce himself, and appeared to be a large middle-aged man.
Another time I advised a Russian marketing agency, whose representative Nikita was talking to a consultant commissioning their services, Jo. For about two months, until I was invited to witness their correspondence, Nikita was sure consultant Jo was a young Matt LeBlanc, where Jo had in mind the Soviet military lady from Elton John’s video, crossed with Luc Besson’s hot assassin-ess. Of course, in this case, Nikita was a guy and Jo a lady.
I miss my not-so-international informal name and the way I was called by my parents back home. But being named, in your son’s opinion, after a cute dog is not so bad after all.
Learning to Be Polite
In school, they taught us that “How do you do?” is the question English people ask each other not expecting an answer. “Why would you ask a question not expecting an answer?” wondered my Dad when I told him at home what I’d learnt that day. “Why are you doing it right now?” countered my Mum in their usual sarcastic exchange.
Whilst rhetorical questions are the norm in Russia, substituting Hello with one certainly seems unusual. And “How are you?” in English is in effect the question that means nothing more than Hello, whereas in Russia, anyone asking the same should anticipate a flow in response outlining issues in relationships with family and partners, problems at work, and a general dissatisfaction with their everyday life.
Russians are still very sceptical about therapy, but talking to an impartial and barely known person one comes across is considered quite therapeutic. Another reason to not just respond with “Very well, thank you” in Russia is a tradition of superstition. If everything is very well, keep it to yourself; otherwise you might jinx it and whoever hears it might curse you.
Neighbourly affection is sung about in folklore: “It’s bad enough that your cow has just died, but even worse that the neighbour’s one is still alive.”
Due to the vast scale of the country, travelling by train has been a common means of transport for centuries, with the journey from A to B taking many hours, if not days. As ordinary folk couldn’t afford a private compartment, they often shared one with strangers (either with four bunk beds that had a door with a lock, or six bunk beds on each side of the aisle, or taking just a seat instead of a bed – especially if the train ride took several days, as that would be the cheapest, if most uncomfortable, option). They drifted through stations on the way, by chance meeting someone they would never see again in their lives. The so-called road conversations have been glorified in Russian literature, songs, and movies; the travel companions usually weren’t plotting a crime, nor anticipating the relief of reaching their destination, but rather talking about their hard lives, relieving each other’s burdens. This has turned into a collective belief as to the best way to unload one’s problems.
With that, I can’t say that strangers in Europe are in general mean or non-supportive – I have definitely experienced a few times the kindness of a passerby who helped me carry the buggy up the tube station stairs or even lent me their mobile phone. But whichever experience we were sharing, they didn’t expect to listen to the issues in my life. To replace that sort of chat, there is the (in)famous small talk – a most pointless (as I thought for the first few years of living in England) exchange of questions and answers that two people voluntarily agree to participate in. What is the aim of discussing the ever-changing weather when living on a small island, the forecast, and how – once again – that forecast was wrong? British people would rather discuss inconveniences in the mail delivery system than any frustrations in their own relationships, talk about fauna having visited their gardens than raise their serious health issues. I should now admit, when conversing with somebody you barely know, these subjects can help an introvert feel a little bit more comfortable in a social situation without having to confide all your inner secrets. But when that small talk happens between people who have known each other for years, it drives me mad.
Being seen as an angry person is also quite common for a Russian in England. The first reason is that we are generally much more tense. Despite being ready to confide in a stranger, we’re also used to a hostile environment and are prepared for a fight (usually verbal) with others, in whichever public space we inhabit: tube, street, council building, shop, traffic. Making an impression is also a defensive mechanism, most notable with Moscow residents, where status correlates with certain attributes. If you compliment a Russian woman on her dress, she will most probably name the high street fashion brand, or say that she got it from somewhere in Milan or New York, or dramatically roll her eyes to sigh that it had cost her a fortune. If you compliment a British lady, she will immediately point out a flaw with it (“It’s got a hole right here,” “Sales at Primark,” “I’ve had it since I was 12.”)
Our verbal style of communication is another reason for Russians’ “brutal” image. When I started my first job in London, my boss had to read and edit my emails – not in a spy witch hunt (at least, that’s what he told me) but to help avoid the embarrassment of being considered rude. I was quite literally translating communications to my new stakeholders and colleagues the way I would have written things in Russian, i.e. very straightforwardly. He taught me that even when I had a short message to deliver, I needed to apologise for being a bother, double check if my respondent had enjoyed a nice weekend, and wish all the best things in the world would come to them and their families.
I find it interesting that with this culturally embedded verbosity, Brits are surprisingly concise in their celebratory sentiments. Birthdays seem to me like such a great occasion to reconnect with someone you like but don’t have many reasons to talk to otherwise, to wish them something personal for the year ahead, ask what they’ve been up to, and comment on any life status changes. But Brits seem at most to hope the birthday recipient has a good day (only one?), and are otherwise happy to be reminded by social media about the event so that they can just press three keys and accept the predictive text suggestion of Happy Birthday! For Christmas they won’t even stretch that far; people bother to buy dozens of Christmas cards and stick the same number of stamps but only sign their names beneath an already-printed felicitation. As a properly angry Russian, I think that, unless the addressee is under seven, this should be forbidden as a crime against the British love of wordiness.
Staying Sane in Lockdown
I remember how the world feared the year 2000; but it was the year 2020 that has changed the world. Our vocabulary has accepted so many novel word combinations and expressions as the new normal (including new normal). My children, reading Mr. Men books, ask why the characters gather together without wearing masks. I had my 40th birthday celebration on a virtual Zoom call (although the hangover the next morning was pretty real). I love being stuck with my family, but I wish for us to travel, go to live gigs, and hug (some) people beyond our inner circle again.
Having united different nationalities in hysteria and fear, this pandemic has also separated them from each other – quite literally, many countries having closed their borders. Britain, only a year ago split in opinion regarding leaving the European Union, was left in doubt whether it was good or bad not to have followed the quarantine policies of other European nations. In March 2020, shopping lists for post-Brexit (canned food, pasta, rice, long life milk, oats) were thrown away to be replaced by shopping lists for self-isolation (canned food, pasta, rice, long life milk, oats), also complemented by toilet rolls – which caused toilet jokes of varied quality. The country was left with empty shelves, crowds seeking out any by-a-miracle remaining box-of-doesn’t-matter-what, and the public in general shocked at witnessing this.
Well, I wasn’t. I come from a country where, up until I was in my teens, I thought shops could only have empty shelves. Whilst the Soviet Union was very keen on perfectly organising military production, everything that was related to its citizens’ comfort, including food consumption, was secondary. The word deficit was a common attribute for a range of products: from ham and cheese, to rice and toothpaste, to jeans and lingerie. Some companies and factories would allow their employees to put their names in turn on so-called “pre-order” lists at certain grocery stores, and if they were lucky enough to fall under a quota, they would get a box of delicatessen – e.g., tinned fish, chicken, tinned peas, butter, instant coffee, a box of chocolates – to be locked away until a family celebration. I don’t mean to ask for pity. I was born and bred in Moscow, which was the place to live to eat (Trains returning people from all over the country who came to Moscow to buy food to take it home were called “sausage trains,” as, according to legend, they smelt of sausages brought home by the passengers.)
My Mum – as many Soviet women – was an excellent cook. Not the kind of gourmet chef who knows about mixing flavours, but someone who could create something delicious out of nothing. For example, because of Peter the Great (who violently introduced the veg to the peasants), Russians love potatoes – cheap and filling, they allow a whole variety of dishes (mashed, boiled, fried, used in bread, ravioli, salads, pies and pancakes; the irony is that my English children only eat chips.) Up until the very end, my dad would eat everything – even chocolates! – with bread, as all his childhood he knew the feeling of permanent hunger; I was lucky enough to never experience that. But standing in queues that lasted for hours at the grocery store and then seeing empty shelves inside was standard. When the Russian market was opened up to foreign companies selling their products, one of the first Mars commercials looked like this: the family gathering after dinner for tea and sharing a Mars bar between the five of them. Through my school, I was participating in an exchange programme, and my American counterpart who stayed with us in Moscow asked, “Why can’t they have a Mars bar each?” It’s true that they weren’t very expensive, but it was a true reflection of our mentality.
Those living in post-Soviet times are genetically used to crisis – wars, famine, repressions, terrorism, financial defaults, revolutions; we’re among the nations that have learnt to survive despite the circumstances. In the current pandemic, this transmitted-through-generations experience seems to leave the older population in a naive denial. “It will be fine – we survived the war,” or “This is all just a plot fabricated by [insert name of hated community],” or, as my parents’ friend told me when I rang during lockdown to wish her a happy 80th birthday, “My girlfriends came over to have some bubbly – don’t worry, none of them was using public transport!”
I understand that denial sounds familiar – older generations in England can be as oblivious, missing their grandchildren and desperately in need of socialising. Apart from the extremes to which Belarus’ Lukashenko, Brazil’s Bolsonaro or America’s Trump were refusing to admit reality, actions and reactions – both from governments and citizens – have had many more commonalities than any other pan-national issue since the creation of the UN. In the end, how many ways are there to be literally locked down?
Perceptions, however, depend upon the country’s history and national mentality. In England, the Prime Minister, despite being more mocked than loved, is being listened to and the public tries to find reasonable explanations for the measures imposed (low testing levels in the early stages – not enough capacity; another lockdown – a necessity for protection, etc.) In Russia where there is a habit of not trusting the government, the same circumstances are being perceived in a very different way (low levels tested for the virus – they’re lying about the numbers; lockdowns – aimed at limiting everyone’s freedom of movement, etc.) But most importantly, rules are rules in England, whoever in the country’s power elite dares to break them and whichever length they are set for. I’m not saying no one is (inclined towards) breaking them, but, as with the law in general, antisocial behaviour is a minority of cases and not considered cool.
Russians, on the other hand, are so used to unfair laws introduced to bite chunks off regular citizens’ incomes and freedoms that even when they are set for people’s protection, it’s never a dialogue but a forced measure. During lockdown in spring and summer 2020, movement around Moscow was not permitted; one had to apply for a pass to take public transport, and fines were tremendous. When diagnosed with COVID-19, people in Moscow would not just be asked to self-isolate, they would be monitored and fined again if found breaching the rule of not leaving the place where they contracted the virus. (The notoriety of Big Brother – in one story, a young man replied to an official text message confirming his location, but the satellite defined it wrongly as he had sent the message from his balcony rather than inside his apartment, hence the young man received a penalty.)
At the end of 2020, most European countries went back to some form of restrictions, across the spectrum of curfew to wider lockdown measures. But not Russia, where COVID cases were declared to have been under control. Interestingly, the UK was one of three countries that Russia opened air travel with first (naming the other two should be a question for a pub quiz, as no one would ever guess that they were Turkey and Tanzania). The UK has since been removed from that list, and other countries added to make it look like it’s going back to the “old normal.” People wouldn’t necessarily believe the official positivity, but no one would voluntarily choose to go back into lockdown if not being forced, and Muscovites have been enjoying a variety of entertaining activities.
When the last bastion – museums – were reopened to the public at the end of January 2021 (someone had decided they were the most evil source of virus spread), there were queues outside despite the freezing weather – people had been craving what was not available to them. To us, having lived in the English countryside through lockdowns for most of 2020, pictures of New Year’s celebrations, friends’ gatherings, show openings, facial massages, eating out, swimming in – all looked very alien. It is much easier in Russia than in the UK to obtain COVID tests, which show not only a positive/negative result but also the level of antibodies; vaccination has been rolled out on a mass scale, and everyone can sign up for a first and second jab of the protective potion patriotically named Sputnik.
I recently spoke with my friend who happened to be in a packed café in Moscow’s Gorky Park. Having been once to the pub and twice to a café in the past year, I mumbled something about jealousy. With a sarcastic pride, she replied, “Yes we’ve silenced the opposition and Coronavirus!”
“Can’t we joke anymore? How do you think one keeps sane in this country?”
The question is posed to Dr Kighare Menka at his social club after the surgeon ruined a celebratory event by chastising club members for engaging in a little gallows humour. Menka’s nickname is Dr Bedside Manners but his calm veneer is cracked irreparably after he is paid a visit by several businessmen trafficking in the acquisition and selling of human body parts for medicinal purposes. A few days after this disturbing meeting, Menka can’t hold it together as his fellow petit bourgeois make light of yet another tragedy staring them in the face from the pages of the evening newspaper.
Satire is inherent in the title of Wole Soyinka’s novel Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth. Anyone with a cursory knowledge of the Nobel laureate or his country of origin knows that neither the writer nor a fair number of Nigerians would refer to the country by that moniker (Would any body politic refer to its country as such?) Since gaining independence from the United Kingdom, the “Giant of Africa” has seen problems ranging from military coups and civil war to power outages and domestic terrorism. Soyinka has lived through all of it. Decolonization, Biafran independence movements, Boko Haram. He was imprisoned in the ’60s, fled the country multiple times in the ensuing decades, and, throughout it all, has remained an influential voice in Nigeria, Africa, and the world.
How has he managed to do so without losing his mind? By satirizing a country rife with hypocrisy and corruption, represented in the novel by the characters of Papa Davina and Sir Goddie respectively.
Papa Davina is a religious leader; an ecumenicist/Chrislamist/Zoroastrian who invented and re-invented himself after sojourns through West Africa and the United States. It is in the U.S. where Papa Davina, then known as Tibidje, learns the American art of hucksterism and finds inspiration for his final incarnation in the Harlem preacher Father Divine. Tibidje realises the importance of good branding, thus the name change to Papa Davina and the realisation that “prophesite” was a “mellifluous name for a spiritual quest.” Papa Davina builds his ministry, borrowing from any religion that can help him to become a “skillful, creative spiritual trafficker” and disposing of the ones that were “economic basket cases” like orisha. Before long Papa Davina has established himself as the go-to guru in top Nigerian social circles.
Papa Davina is not the only one obsessed with branding and nomenclature. Soyinka’s stand-in for corrupt politicians, Sir Goddie, is the prime minister of Nigeria, a position that hasn’t existed in the country since 1966. Perhaps changing the title of the most powerful person in the land is one more safeguard against those who might not appreciate Soyinka’s need to poke fun at a country he has grown tired of trying to understand.
For his part, Sir Goddie has no use for the title of prime minister or “His Excellency.” He prefers to be called the “People’s Steward”, an alias created after Chief Akpanga, a politician from Goddie’s own party, unwittingly usurps the position of “National Servant” when he refers to himself as such. The fallout from this slip of the tongue leads to an all-night brainstorming session for a new self-effacing honorific as well as a Catch-22-esque trial for the innocent Chief Akpanga cast in the role of Clevinger.
Why all this focus on names? Because in Soyinka’s Nigeria something is what it is called and not what it appears to be. Thus, the citizens of Nigeria are the happiest people on earth even if they are dodging jihadists trying to behead them at bus stops or policemen trying to extort them on the perpetually clogged roads of Lagos. The politicians, their pockets bulging from the withdrawal of funds from the nation’s coffers, are salt-of-the-earth public servants competing for The Yeoman of the Year and Common Touch Awards. Of course, those awards for the unassuming, incorruptible servants of the people are celebrated at costly fiestas, local and national, that allow citizens to revel in their happiness and prosperity. No need to believe what you read in foreign newspapers or see on your way home from work; who are you going to believe, the People’s Steward or your lying eyes?
Duyole Pitan-Payne is one of those who choose to believe the latter. He is an engineer, the scion of a powerful and rich family, and the creator of the carefully named “Brand of the Land.” His friend group from his university days, which he punnily dubbed “Gong of Four”, includes the aforementioned Dr Menka, another Nigerian citizen who can’t quite understand how to be happy. This puts them at odds with Sir Goddie and his spiritual adviser Papa Davina.
Sir Goddie versus the Gong of Four is ostensibly the central conflict in the book, but for much of the novel that conflict is subterranean. There are interactions between the principal characters but less time is spent on plot development and more on describing the current and past Nigerian milieu. With each new character, the novel feels congested (like the Lagos traffic Soyinka continually bemoans) and weighed down by introductions and side stories. Soyinka ventures down off-roads and byways, taking every opportunity to point out gross contradictions and absurdities. He is the tour guide for the last sixty years of Nigerian history and there is so much to see: instances of falsification, atrocity, and criminal neglect. Unfortunately, these detours often come at the expense of the plot. The funny anecdotes and insightful observations often disrupt the narrative rather than add to it. Those disruptions result in Part I of the book being around 200 pages longer than Part II.
Due to the various asides, the story really begins a third of the way through the novel when Dr. Menka loses his bedside manners at the Hilltop Mansion. The chapter is indicative of what happens throughout the book. Soyinka sets the scene: Menka is the poor villager from Gumchi who has worked his way up the professional ladder, accepted his government post in Jos and now is being honoured with the Independence Day Award of Pre-Eminence. He is surrounded by people who have less humble beginnings and less day-to-day interaction with the world to which Menka is exposed. It is Menka who treats the physically marred victims of Boko Haram and so he cannot join in their mirth when the club treasurer Kufeji reads aloud an account of the killing of a housewife by 13 “ritual gang members.” Menka stews, his ire rising, as Kufeji reads the report egged on by friends and passers-by. Soyinka builds the scene, priming it to explode, but before it comes to fruition the chapter flashes back to Menka’s stressful day. The interlude goes on for pages. Slowly the tension begins to ebb; by the time the narrative is resumed, it has all but dissipated. Eventually, Menka does unload on the club members but only in fits and spurts, struggling to get his point across before deciding that he’s had enough and calling quits on the whole affair. Menka’s momentum, and the scene’s, had stalled. The end of the chapter is acceptable but lacks the satisfying climax that should have been.
The crux of the matter is that after 60 years of independence Soyinka has more to say than ever. He’s bursting at the seams with critiques and condemnations. There is a story to be told about the Gong of Four but inevitably in telling that story he finds reason to mention that Sani Abacha has a hospital named after him or that the Maitatsane were the uncredited predecessors to Boko Haram. It is Joyce recreating the streets of Dublin from memory while in self-imposed exile only Soyinka has returned home, more than once, and what he has seen has left him at a loss. As Pitan-Payne says after reading about a separate gruesome event in the newspaper, “This is different. This, let me confess, reaches into… a word I would rather avoid but can’t—soul. It challenges the collective notion of soul. Something is broken. Beyond race. Outside of colour or history. Something has cracked. Can’t be put back together.” One can almost hear the author wondering aloud if Nigeria can recover from this fracturing of the spirit.
Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth does not allow the reader to escape the history and reality of Nigeria today. The reader is strapped in and exposed to Nigeria as Soyinka sees it. You can laugh to keep from crying but you’ll have to see it all the same as Soyinka tilts reality ever so slightly to showcase how mad his world has become. The book is bursting with humour and irony, and there is much to be admired in Soyinka’s writing and use of language. Unfortunately, those elements are scattered across a disjointed narrative weighed down by side stories and a strenuous history. There is, however, value in simply being exposed to Soyinka’s viewpoints and wisdom. Riding along with Soyinka there will be points of interest but more than once the question will inevitably bubble to the surface: where are we going?
Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth
By Wole Soyinka
464 pages, Bloomsbury
The Amur in the Time of COVID-19
In their baccalauréat orals, French students have been known to sidestep the open-ended C’est quoi l’amour? (What is love?), craftily submerging the examiners with a torrent of geographical minutiae: L’Amour est un long fleuve tranquille de Sibérie (The Amur is a long calm river in Siberia…) No doubt that deporting love to Siberia earned a singular student or two top marks for thinking on their feet. But no doubt either that, in later years, those who attempted to follow in their wake were dispatched to meditate on Ernst Jünger’s maxim that one should never resort to facile wordplay on names (You can always be sure they have been used before, in the school playground.) Touché!
But this is not the Thubron way. Launching his account of his travels, The Amur River: Between Russia and China, from the river’s fountainhead in Mongolia, we will necessarily, and with interest, soon learn the particulars of the Siberian river, of where it rises and where it falls and of the natural and historical events encountered along the way. But Thubron never waters downs his ink and, for all its length and breadth, the river peregrination he conveys the reader along is never waterlogged. Thubron travels light, and he does not bog down his writing with trivia.
In the first chapter, “The Source,” Thubron provides us some bearings, telling us that the Amur “drains a basin twice the size of Pakistan, and more than two hundred tributaries, some of them immense, pour into its flood in spring. For over one thousand miles it forms the border between Russia and China: a fault-line shrouded in old mistrust.” Having provided us this vade mecum, he rapidly moves onward. He grabs our attention with able sketches of place and people, flowers and wildlife. The terrain in which the writer and his party of guide and horsemen find themselves floundering along as they search for the fountainhead is, quite literally, a bog. Paradoxically, the swamps that give rise to the great river also give rise to the book’s strongest chapter. The reader is pulled forward into the currents of the meandering narrative and learns early on to place faith in the narrator’s able hands. We ride forward with him on his old (yet dependable) Mongol pony (the White One). We feel for his mishaps on the way. Through deft touches, we partake in his party’s painstaking advance through the marshlands. And while you hold in your hands a hefty tome with its last page still to be reached somewhere far away to the east, on the shores of the Pacific Ocean (If Thubron hadn’t made it, there would be no book), you read on with bated breath for his safe exit from the quagmire.
Also apparent in this first chapter is the author’s reserve (another paradox). If we learn early on that he is a man who has reached his 80th year, we are often left to guess at the fatigues associated with the age. When he does evoke his age, he does so with some surprise, as glimpses of his physical frailty are revealed to him in the way his companions consider him. But if Colin Thubron is old, he too is dependable. He is always diligent when describing the people met on the way, always sympathetic. Discovering that his guide, Batmonkh (“dark skinned and handsome, with large, swimming eyes”), has a Congolese father, he muses out loud that Batmonkh must have experienced some prejudice, but the latter retorts that if he suffered it was not for his colour but “for his family’s obscurity” (which is both poignant and funny too when you reread the sentence…But Thubron does not much care about humour, and this is no doubt involuntary.) He gives us to see Batmonkh, who speaks fluent English (his “smile returns with a kind of gentle apology”), but also, convincingly, the Mongol horsemen who do not (“They are both born in The Year of the Horse – although they say this means nothing,” and they have heard “of a British prince marrying a mixed-race American.”) When Thubron is dragged through the bog by his horse, owing his life to a cheap tennis shoe slipping free of his stirrup, he refuses to dwell on the incident. He prefers to linger on scenes such as the one he trained his eye on in the dancing flames of the fire, portraying his fellow travellers with camaraderie rather than probe his throbbing ankle. His reticence is a balm and allows him to train his sights on the world: a flicker in the camp light, a ray of sunshine on the waters; that’s all it takes. The personal modesty allows the writer to recede into the shadows and places the people he encounters at the centre. “You do not fondle their heads,” says Thubron, unsentimentally, of the Mongol ponies (The horsemen will later tell him that the horses are “good to eat when they are old.”)
But the writer truly comes into his own when describing the fall of the land, its flora, and its fauna. Thubron here reveals himself at his most precise as he effortlessly folds blooms and butterflies into the page. There is no profusion of flowers in Thubron’s Amur; rather, there are “asters, sweet vetch, gentians and purple and red clover.” The grasslands are “whirring with wasps and flies, and tiny marbled butterflies are careering above.” Yet this is not specific enough, and Thubron proceeds to name them, one by one: There are “red admirals and painted ladies.” There are “fast-flying tortoiseshells” and “wagtails (…) shrilling by the river.” I myself am sadly deficient in my knowledge of lepidoptera – the chasse subtile is too subtle for me. Animals smaller than a rabbit don’t hold my attention for long, but I do share in Thubron’s delight in naming the world – a true journey is largely the joy of bringing forth by calling into presence and Thubron has retained a sense of childish wonder. (And yes, although a bird is a bird is a bird…I do understand that a wagtail is not a butterfly – but I certainly did not know that wagtails “shrilled.” That unerring precision again, the poetry of accurate description – at the beginning was the Word.) When Thubron goes on to say that there where “many others [butterflies] I did not know,” one half suspects that this admission is courtesy on his part, a courtesy that sits well his with his vocabulary which, if recherché at times, is never recondite. (Who on earth still uses the word hoydenish? A boyish 80-year-old with a stiff upper lip stalking the Amur, that’s who.) Thubron excels at reenchanting the world, with his chiselled sentences and careful vocabulary. Later in his travels, he encounters “slow-smiling” women, and when a missionary plays him the Jew’s harp, it sounds as if “a crowd of tiny people were crying to leave her mouth.” But having chosen the path of gravity, from the congenial bogs of Mongolia, it’s all downriver for the Amur from here onwards.
Thubron chooses to travel from spring to embouchure, and not, as done for nearly all history, from mouth to source. Perhaps this decision simply flows from the fact that the springs have all been mapped: No longer of any use to us is the Latin phrase caput Nili quaerere (to look for the head, or founts, of the Nile) – a saying once used metaphorically to convey an impossible endeavour.) But as Chesterton once said, “only a living thing can swim upstream,” adding conversely that “a dead thing follows the current.” This leaves the lesser travel writer in a conundrum. What to describe in a fully chartered world? But Thubron, who would no doubt recoil from being labelled a travel writer (no more than Gustave Flaubert was a travel writer when relating his trip along the Nile in Egypt in his correspondence), is not the type to travel down the Amazon in a bathtub (as everything else has been done before). He is too enamoured by the word and the world for such silliness, too contrarian also no doubt, too anadromous (An anadromous fish is a “species that swims against the current, upstream, such as salmon.”)
While readers will no doubt be strongly engaged by the sparse beauty of the prose and find themselves rooting for the wise and ancient narrator in his aquatic travails, one element which is never found in the thousands of kilometres from marshy source to Pacific mouth is a sense of purpose. There is no fetching quest here, no long lost family connection deciphered in antiquated family papers, no mysterious souvenir brought back by a distant cousin that has excited the curiosity of the narrator and serves as pretext for his trip (and, more importantly, his book). This is refreshing as there is nothing worse than the contrived motives writers muster from a few dusty volumes found in their aunt’s cabinet to provide meaning to their futile divagations. On the other hand, and this is no spoiler really, it still comes as something of a surprise when the last drop of ink reaches the river mouth, and we find that there never was a goal to begin with. There are a few themes that can be grasped between the lines of the different tributaries that come to form the main trunk of the book. There is age. There are the aptly conjured up lives of the famous and the unwashed masses who sought to make the Amur into their “Far West.” Thubron is, as ever, discerning in his use of the troves of historical material. There are the unknown – to me – Japanese gulag camps, the anti-Chinese pogroms and the (vain) glories of the Cossack. Thubron hardly ever places an ill-foot when touching on these blood-soaked pages of history. A quibble would be that Thubron feels obliged to disparage the Far East Russians’ “Yellow Peril” fears. Racially prejudiced or not, the danger of Chinese hegemony in the region is, from a geopolitical angle, real enough (Likewise, the Chinese do not care much for their neighbours, calling them the Hairy Ones). But Thubron mostly tells it as it is. He shies away from politics, and, besides Vladimir Putin, the only contemporary politician to be name checked is Donald Trump (one of the few details that gives the reader a hint as to when the book is set). Shrewdly, when asked about Stalin, Thubron parries, answering, “I hate him for what he did to Russia.”
Indeed, training his watchful eye on the Amur, Thubron would have us believe he has forgotten the world – there are no impediments in his Amur in the time of COVID-19, which surely must have featured heavily in his travel arrangements. When he interrupts his travels because of winter, the gap is elided in one sentence, and we pass from autumn to spring, from first snow to last ice, in one paragraph break. For the time the snow settles on the Siberian plains is a blank page, and Thubron retreats deeper into his inner citadel, ever the stoic.
If I have a distant memory of reading Among the Russians a very long time ago and a much older memory still of having read In the Hills of Adonis (Both very, very good, I remember that much), I know nothing about Colin Thubron himself. And, not having carried out a search for his name nor having read anything about his person (apart from his Wikipedia page, characteristically terse) I – that is to say the average reader for whom I am here a stand in – is left in the dark about the narrator’s persona.
We are left with the author’s allusive memory of past place: his memories of being in certain places twenty, forty (!) years beforehand. But apart from these far and between lines of thought on being older and a little barebones reminiscing, there is very little of the desires and thoughts of Colin Thubron that breaks through in these shimmering pages in which he so adroitly captures the reflections of history and the lives lived along the mighty river’s shores. Thubron will not indulge in bathing in the same river twice. Are we to conclude then that this is art for art’s sake – travel writing for the amour?
We learn more about Batmonkh, his Mongolian-Congolese guide in the dark heart of Asia, than we learn about Thubron himself, so that we are left groping for something of the author to hold on to. Borges comes to mind when looking for Thubron in his own book: “A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, instruments, stars, horses, and individuals. A short time before he dies, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the lineaments of his own face.” And so with Thubron: What you hold in your hands, the Amur, c’est lui.
*
There is much to be admired about this attitude, in our age of celebrities in which daily hiccups become the subject of Promethean TikToks (Oh, how many Instagram updates that swollen ankle could have provided!) But there is also something disingenuous.
Searching for clues, the reader sometimes feels that what he has in his hands is a sort of nouveau roman of travel writing: Character is not required, and the only plot is the gravity-led river. When we get glimpses of the writer, it is by peering between the lines as seen through a lattice, and you read The Amur River much the same as you would read Robbe-Grillet’s Jalousies. Ultimately, one should, I feel, be grateful for this hauteur: One twitches in pain at the thought of what many writers (the bloggers, the vloggers) would have made of their near-death in a Mongolian bog. Colin Thubron has no social media accounts – he is of the wrong generation, but he also lacks the required amour-propre (Somehow, I don’t think the Colin Thubron from Sunderland on Twitter is he: six followers – tagline: “All around Good Egg!!”)
I have long had an interest in Siberia. It fulfils for me the need we all have for that special locale we like to preserve as a distant destination for some future far-flung destination, one that we will probably never reach (the Potala Potala in Lhasa, the Juan Fernandez Archipelago or perhaps Paris, Texas; destinations vary according to personality.) This means that I have read a number of books on the region and that I have also in recent years watched a number of YouTube videos by some of our travel vloggers. These videos, cobbled together from smartphone “rushes,” taken from the end of a telescopic baton, may go on to garner hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of views. While I do enjoy the window onto the world provided by these videos (They are skilful, too, in their way), Thubron’s web of words, his erudite and self-effacing accounting of reality, the time invested to travel, put words to paper, is a monumental effort (He has a working knowledge of both Mandarin and Russian, a feat in itself.) The Amur River is a labour of love, a life’s work.
I sojourned in Paris during this second long COVID-19 summer of discontent. Abandoned by the Chinese and American tourists, the streets were at times eerily quiet. The metro underground walls were also empty, and the usual advertisements for easyJet and Ryanair (weekend getaways to Dubrovnik, stag nights in Latvia) were nowhere to be seen. In their place, there were enjoinders about social distancing and vaccination campaigns: Distance was caring, liberty confinement. The Potemkin village had put up new stage sets overnight, and I was reminded of the old Soviet joke: When an American tells a Russian that they have freedom of expression in the USA, the Russian responds that they too have this freedom – but they only allow the truth. Except that now, the joke was on us. When I went to visit an old publishing acquaintance, Henri Dougier, the zestful founder of the Editions Autrement (eighty-five years young), I was not surprised when he told me that the bottom had fallen out of the travel book market. It may be, in retrospect, that the travel writing golden age coincided with the combination of the postwar economic bonanza and the afterglow of the literate prewar generation. The epoch now seems to be pulling into an uncertain destination, and if travel vloggers will remain the toast of the day for some time to come, The Amur River may well be the bookmark of an era (Henry Dougier added, “The big hitters will do okay, newcomers not so much” – that is, the Colin Thubrons, the Bill Brysons, will continue selling.) If you do insist on going down the tubes yourself – we have entered the New Screen Deal, after all – “visit” Bald and Bankrupt’s YouTube channel (a cheeky Englishman’s forays around Eastern Europe), and Yeah Russia (gritty Russian realism in Vladivostok, from a twenty-something).
Colin Thubron, although not adverse to describing his physical ailments (for the sake of truthfulness) and even describing in passing a visit to some toilettes à la Turque (the “Turkish” design is problematic for his sprained ankle), errs in the opposite direction. This bashfulness is certainly appealing. So that I will confess that I was much taken by Thubron’s writing, indeed I liked is so much that my main reservation is that there just wasn’t enough of it. “Anecdote! Anecdote!” I felt like clamouring at times, together with one of the rowdy guests at a dinner Thubron attends. In a lovely sentence, the author, forlorn and injured, having managed to exchange a few words with his wife on a loaned satellite phone, alludes to the roses that are now in full bloom in their English garden – but this is as close as we will get to the Englishman’s keep. These lovingly crafted sentences are one of the joys of travelling down the Amur with Colin Thubron. “There was some sadness with a Chinese woman,” one of his interlocutors tells him while a French passenger on a river boat throws “his sugared cabbage out of the ship’s window, plate and all, in a fit of outrage.” And a year “lies like a trench between a teenager and any future.”
But it is highly revealing that while the author does not hold back from describing a visit to the lavatory, at no time does he mention writing (not even notetaking). One can be thankful for this, in our navel-gazing era, but one rather has the impression, as displayed by his craft in writing about the marshes, that Thubron is one of a rare breed: a writer who could delve into all sorts of bogs and not sink in the mire (Perhaps one should read his novels?) Thubron does, after all, write convincingly about butterflies and insects, which, just like intercourse, is a subject most writers should never attempt (Unsurprisingly, one of the sole false notes I thought I encountered in The Amur River was when Thubron describes some Siberian women as “having sex with bears.” Surely, a less clinical word would have been apposite for these shamanistic matings?) But Thubron’s caution serves him well, and he seldom, if ever, turns an off-tune word. One of the laws of travel writing should be to never drone on about insects, except if your name be Ernst Jünger or Nicolas Bouvier, but Colin Thubron himself passes the “butterfly test” with flying colours.
And then there are those intriguing (and frequent) turns to God, in the form of church visits and conversations with missionaries and worshippers. But here, too, we are left guessing at the author’s motivations (When someone offers to say a prayer for him, Thubron is deeply embarrassed, but whether for absence of faith or for British good manners, one will not know.) Perhaps these religious incursions are just necessary sociological background material in a country such as Russia. Is life a long fleuve tranquille devoid of meaning, or does it all make sense at the very end? I do not know what Colin Thubron thinks, and he is too polite to tell me.
In his last chapter, “The Promise,” on the verge of the Pacific, Thubron once more masterfully weaves history and the people with their surroundings (“The forest offers visceral excitement, and a paradoxical peace,” he writes, describing Alexander, his guide in these parts.) He turns his hand to naming the animal kingdom again, fish this time around (including the anadromous salmon). There is the Arctic char, the giant taimen (also a type of salmon), the glassy Mandarin fish, the yellow-cheek carp and the Mongolian red fish…If you can sometimes wonder if Thubron’s artfulness hasn’t enabled him to evade with brio the question that we all have to answer at the end of the river (“C’est quoi l’amour ?”)and if there are, at times, flashes of Old Etonian brilliance in punting aside tricky questions, the author’s love of the Amur, this Amur in the time of Covid, and of life itself in all its variations, beguiles on every page. Thubron has ably steered us down a difficult river with eyes wide open and a generous heart to boot (a rare combination). Rarer still is the ability to put all this to paper.
I doubt I shall ever reach the Amur River myself, but I owe Thubron thanks for having allowed this reader to remain, for a while, “alone for an idle interval in someone else’s home,” as Thubron aptly writes, when put up for the night in an empty guesthouse – this could be a ready definition of the traveller in foreign lands (and also for the reader of an honest travel tome). To paraphrase Henri Michaux, writing of being plunged into reading a book in his eponymous Ecuador travelogue: I was no longer in Paris but steeped in the great Siberian waterway. In his fine pursuit of the river Colin Thubron has ever so diffidently allowed his readers to immerse themselves in the Amur, with love.
The Amur River
By Colin Thubron
304 pages, Chatto & Windus
At eight o’clock sharp I locked up the library, set the alarm, and walked off to the station, getting up a quick stride despite the June heat. Quite often I stay late, sort a few things out, tidy the counter ready for the next day. Not that night. After twenty years’ service I still haven’t learned to sit through a Libraries Management meeting without irritation bordering on despair, and that afternoon’s had been no exception – worse than usual if anything.
On the walk I mulled it all over, somewhat resentfully. As we’d sat down in the dim hall we use as a meeting room, I had inwardly groaned at the agenda bullet-pointed on the monitor: “Inclusivity and diversity, outreach, community involvement…” As the Head of Service lectured us assembled librarians and managers on all those subjects, I thought: “Glad you’ve caught up. Those of us actually working in any of your libraries practise ‘inclusivity’ daily, thank you. I treat everyone the same, always have, and do not need my consciousness raising.” Then I realised I had my arms folded and was scowling. I might even have sighed. Fortunately there was no “person of colour” – as we’re to Newspeak now – present in the room to notice and possibly be offended.
The crowds at Denmark Hill railway station made me feel sick in this mood, negotiating the usual beggar-and-dog, Big Issue seller, commuters pouring out of Camberwell and two local hospitals, heading mostly to the suburbs. I blanked them out, a flickering blur I had to blunder through to get to the platform. When my train pulled in, I stood to one side of a door to let two teenage girls alight. Grey and invisible to them, I had to wait until they’d won a shouting match with someone behind them before they stepped off the train and I could climb on. Going up to Victoria at that time of night, it is possible to find clear space and that was definitely what I wanted now, a zone of my own away from everyone. I searched until I came to a carriage that was half empty, sat by the window in a bay of four vacant seats, planted my satchel against my other side, and took out my mobile.
Disappointingly, just before the doors locked, someone jumped on and threw himself down in a seat diagonally opposite mine across the narrow aisle. I just had time to think it might not be so bad if the man was quiet, before he pulled off his T-shirt to reveal a light brown, well-muscled torso, glowing with sweat. He tied the shirt around his waist. I looked away.
“Sorry – just cooling myself off,” the man said. His breathing was agitated from running until he brought it under control. His unorthodox entrance of course didn’t necessarily mean trouble. Nevertheless, this was another of London’s jumpy summers: demonstrations, street fighting, statue-smashing: there was a lot of anger about.
“Of course,” I said. “Quite right.” I turned back to Facebook, kept my head down.
“So hot. We ain’t used to this heat in England, that’s the problem. Our bodies ain’t used to it.”
“No, we don’t get enough heat to adjust, do we?” I said, summoning my most measured voice. Polite but neutral. Not showing fear or irritation, but not fully engaging either: That was the best way to avert any danger, any unwelcome involvement.
I went back to my phone and its screen-lock picture of my wife hugging our daughter, twelve now, on the swing in our garden.
“‘Adjust,’ yeah. That’s the right word. Excuse me.” I heard a rustle and glanced up again to see the man pull a greasy brown paper package out of a plastic bag. “I’m going to eat.” He unwrapped a crumbling patty running with red sauce and took a couple of bites.
“My auntie packed these for us,” he said through munches. “Loads of food. I’ve just been visiting my brother in King’s. All the family there. She’d brought enough food for all of us and more – good Jamaican stuff. She’s always cooking for me.”
After throwing the wrapping under the seat in front of him, he chewed through the rest of the patty, slapping his hands together when he’d finished. “She’s a great cook, my auntie.”
As he said this he stared at me – broad face, high clownish eyebrows. But I could not detect the threat I still feared: more an entreaty, in fact, enough to keep me from more phone-scrolling. Anyway, my mobile seemed a pretty flimsy barrier in the circumstances. I dropped the black slab in my satchel and took off my glasses.
“Sounds like a great auntie,” I said, smiling awkwardly. “Fantastic if you don’t have time to cook.”
“Don’t now. Used to have a woman to cook. Not anymore. Thought she was the love of my life but she was a lyin’ bitch.” He took two apples out of his plastic bag and offered me one.
“No, thanks. I’ll be having a meal at home.” I hoped that sounded simply explanatory, not dismissive.
“My uncle said to me: ‘Don’t think she was some big love of your life. She wasn’t. You’ve hardly lived any of your life. You’re twenty-four. She’s just some woman and you’ll forget her. Anyway, you were too young to settle down.’ He was right, wasn’t he? Twenty-four is too young.”
His lifted eyebrows revealed an emotion I couldn’t find a name for: anticipation of agreement, or request for affirmation of some kind? Looking at him full on now, I saw openness, almost innocence, in the expression, as if the face didn’t belong above the sinewy body, as if it hadn’t aged at the same rate. Eyes almost uncannily wide and alert, small mouth, above a body like an oak. A striking face, and as I looked at it, I began to wonder if I recognised it, or remembered a younger version. But I see so many people in my profession. The whole community passes through at some time or other in their lives. I couldn’t be sure.
“Yes, absolutely,” I said, too loudly, nodding. “Far too young to settle down.”
“Plenty of time ahead, right? Plenty. To find the love of my life, if there is one.”
“Absolutely.”
Sunlight flashed from the towers of glass and concrete we were passing and flickered from the rails, softer, yellower now as the day at last began to let up. Twenty-four. I thought of the way I had been at that age: unsettled, not knowing what to do with my life, what direction I was going in, not very much in control at all. I would have envied this man’s solidity then, most probably. But somehow I had ended up with security, not such a bad job after all, if it wasn’t glamorous, a decent home, and a wife and child. Somehow I had landed comfortably. I had a lot to be grateful for.
“My brother’s married, with a daughter. We were all there, around him. Uncles, aunties, cousins. But they chucked us out – just now. Last night we were there till ten. We were supposed to leave at eight when visiting hours are up. So tonight they came with security, to make sure – loads of security, man.” He pushed his elbows out and swung left to right, in imitation of waddling security guards, rocking the flimsy metal and plastic seat.
I laughed, which seemed to please him. “Why did you stay past eight? You just wanted to make sure he was all right?” An acceptable question? Or too obvious?
“Yeah. I’m not gonna lie: He’s in there with knife wounds. Two to the chest, one to the neck.” He demonstrated the position of his brother’s wounds with the flat of his hand. “King’s. That’s where they take all the stabbings, right? Just missed an artery. He’s lucky to be alive, man. But there you go. That’s life. Par for the course. Par for our family’s course, anyway.” He nodded, paused to let that sink in. A news cycle–based fear screamed at me, but I tried to ignore it.
“No different to other walks of life, really,” the young man continued. “I mean, if you’re a builder, you can get hit by falling scaffolding, right? It goes with the job. It’s part of the deal. You don’t complain. It’s what you expect. He don’t complain either, my brother. Getting chinged, it just goes with the territory. It’s nothing.” A shrug. “But I said to him: ‘You’ve got a daughter now. You can’t be going on like this.’”
“You said that to him?” My mouth felt dry.
“Yeah. I said that. I said: ‘You take it easy. Concentrate on your wife and kid. It’s up to me to get whoever done this to you now, not you.’” He turned to look out of the train window on his side: a huge excavated pit, concrete pylons, dust, cranes.
“Yeah. I’m his brother. So it falls to me. It’s my job. That’s the way it is. I’ll sort it out. We’ll drive round there. We know where the guy lives. It’s nothing to me, man.”
After a pause, trying not to show any reaction – I think I might have cleared my throat – I said: “He’s your older brother, is he?”
“Yeah. Two years.” A sigh. Then: “I bet you’ve never spoken to anyone like me before, have you?” He threw himself back in his seat, folded his arms, stared. For a moment I thought he was angry, that perhaps I had after all, despite my wariness, said the wrong thing or not paid enough attention. Or, simply because of who I was, from his point of view, perhaps I did represent a source of frustration for him and suddenly the feeling had got the better of him. Had a semiconscious memory surfaced, even, of some untoward day in my library? I pulled into myself. Where could I run to?
But he wasn’t angry. He straightened, chin up, chest out, looked around the sparsely-filled carriage as if preparing to take on the world. If there was any anger, I soon realised, it wasn’t against me: It was a sort of habitual bitter pride. “No,” – he nodded – “you’ve never spoken to anyone like me.” He sank back in his seat, relaxed. “How about you? Where are you off to man? Home?”
“That’s right, yes.” Even now I found myself afraid he would ask where that was.
“Been to work? Where’s that?”
“Grove Hill Library.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of my workplace, trying for a dismissive gesture in case he really did remember me on a bad day, or the idea of talking to a librarian struck him, anyway, as too funny. I felt conscious of my worn olive jacket with its leather elbow patches, my tie with gold tie pin, the reading glasses poking out of my breast pocket. I do like to cultivate the image of “librarian” – learned man, book man.
“I know exactly where that is,” he said. “Exactly.” He nodded vigorously. “Been there a few times. A few times. Mum always took me there as a kid. Always looking to do right for us. Set us up straight.”
He frowned and shook his head, stared at his stretched-out feet a moment – “Yeah” – then out of the window. Then he turned back to me with narrowed eyes.
“In fact I think I remember you, you know. Yeah. Your shoulders stoop a bit – I remember that. And your…excuse me, but bald patch?” He patted the crown of his own head, smiling.
“I’m sorry but we used to laugh at that, a bit, us kids.” He chuckled. “But you always used to help me and stuff. You did. Homework. Finding the right books. At least I think you did. Yeah, I do remember. You must have been working there for years, man.”
“Oh yes, years. Well, I’m glad I helped you.” Looking at the man in front of me, I couldn’t be sure I did recall the boy, not that precise one; but that same fearless stare at the world, the same immediacy, lack of any barrier – as if he didn’t trust the effectiveness of such a thing: How many times had I seen that in a cheeky child? If I didn’t remember him, I remembered many like him. But if he had ever come into my library as a boy, I realised, I might well have spent more time being irritated with his unruliness than helping him with his homework, contrary to what he said he remembered: Flashbacks came to me of chasing giggling delinquents around the tables and shelves, shouting, threatening. Certainly in particular moods. Then it occurred to me that he might recall such unfortunate scenes himself but prefer not to say.
With that in mind, I couldn’t look at him for a moment. I stared past him to where the building works around Battersea were still passing in the window, a huge swathe of old London lost to wrecking balls, gleaming new structures replacing ivy-covered brick. A city changing faster than anyone can keep up with.
“Well, thank you,” said my fellow traveller. “At least you tried.” But then he shook his head. Staring out at the same building works, he said: “Don’t be thinking I enjoy this life, man, the way I’ve ended up. People think we do it to be cool, or we’re proud of it. None of that, man. It’s not cool. In and out of jail. Everybody wants to get out of it. Don’t think I wouldn’t like my nice wife, my nice job, my nice car, my nice penthouse flat, nice holidays. Course I would. But it’s hard to get out once you’re in.” He sighed and stretched his fingers in his lap, staring down at them, and I realised it had cost him something to say that. And me, going home to my suburban house, my wife and child, a well-cooked meal and a peaceful hour in front of the telly – what could I possibly say?
“Maybe you’ll find a way.” It was about as lame an answer as I could give. I almost forgot to breathe waiting for the reply.
The young man nodded eventually, still gazing out of the window. “Yeah. I’m studying computers. A bit.” His shoulders slumped and his gaze returned to his feet. “Doing a course. Maybe that’ll be a way out. You never know.”
We were coming into Victoria, slowing, and the wheels on the track set up a new, special kind of squealing. Tower blocks on the right, offices on the left, as the train ground across an open sea of rails. When it drew into the station the young man stood up, leant over me, and offered his hand. I imagined knife scars, one day, in the compact body that arched above me.
“I never speak to anyone like this. Never. Never talked about myself like that. Take care, man.” He shook my hand hard.
“Good luck,” I said, even now not quite meeting his gaze. He took his phone out of a trouser pocket and went to wait by the door as the train slowed to a halt. It wasn’t fear so much now that held me back as another feeling, one I didn’t like to name. I stayed in my seat until two other passengers moved between the young man and me, then joined the short queue, looking down at my satchel.
“Yeah, he’s all right…He’ll just be in for a few days. Yes, I will. Sure. I’ll sort it.” As he stepped off the carriage he looked round his phone and gave me a thumbs-up. “Take care, man.”
“And you. Good luck,” I said again, this time managing to look directly into that open face.
I watched him stride towards the ticket barriers, hang back until the single guard was distracted, then dart through them against the back of another passenger before the gates closed. He turned and winked at the passenger, a young woman; walked in a half-dance half-swagger towards the crowded tube entrance, his T-shirt flapping around his waist like a kid’s on a beach. I hoped he was right, and I had really tried to help him years back, after all. I hoped my shame was misplaced. And I hoped that someone – maybe a kindly IT tutor – would help him again, more successfully this time, give him the simple chance he deserved.
Not much can prepare you for a life-changing event, not even if it comes in the shape of a programmed video call.
I tend to doze off in moments like these, try not to think too much of the meaningfulness of it all. I go into a safe space, trying to imagine something different. I pictured myself fixing my hair in front of a mirror, the window behind me slightly open, letting in a soft breeze that carries the faint smell of the orange blossoms from the garden. Our House from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young plays softly in the background. I take a deep breath focusing on Nash’s lovely voice, letting myself drift away…
“It’s TIME! Only five minutes to go for the call!” shouts my brother from the other room, forcing me out of my daydream.
My imagination, running wild thanks to the crippling anxiety, left me hoping for a sprinkle of magnificence that I wish this moment had, but I was nowhere close.
I’m sitting at my desk in my small flat in summer-soaked Berlin, Germany, eating cherries while my dog sits beside me, licking her paws, impatiently waiting for me to take her outside for all of her sniffing delights. Thousands of kilometres away is Santiago, Chile. Some snow has accumulated in the Andes already, a beautiful sight to catch during the early mornings when the sky is clear.
I give out a loud sigh and turn my computer on. I had two things to take care of before I joined the call: my physical appearance and the background. I used the screen reflection to put some makeup on and fix my hair quickly. The background was more important. Everybody is more curious to see what is going on in your house instead of staring at your face anyway, I figured. I added a few plants to make the place a bit more cheery; it was my wedding after all.
Yes, I was getting married, but it wasn’t a big deal. Surely, Zoom weddings were in a different category. “It is only paperwork, not much to worry about,” I repeated a few times over to myself like a twisted mantra. “If you want to join, you can, but don’t worry if you’re busy,” I had texted my family only hours before, keeping up with the blasé attitude. I didn’t even tell my friends. The situation was ridiculous and ironic but also extremely real, although I was swimming too deep in denial to notice.
I pressed the Join Meeting button.
“Hey! CAN YOU HEAR ME?!” yelled my fiancé. I could see his pixeled-self looking dazzling with a sharp navy suit, combed hair, and matching facemask. He was at the Civil Registry Office with his family. They were all dressed like this was the real thing. I was 10 seconds into the call when, after seeing my mother-in-law wearing a white dress no less, that it finally hit me. This was truly happening. I was a guest at my own wedding, watching it all happen through a 13-inch screen thousands of kilometres away. Was this even legal?
It still feels like yesterday when I first travelled to Chile. During the last night of the trip, my friend and I went to a bar to celebrate. After two extra-sugary cocktails, we were dancing and chatting our souls away. I stepped outside the bar for a moment for some air when I noticed a man with his back against the wall, casually smoking a cigarette. He had black, messy hair, a stubble of a beard, and wore large, squared-shaped glasses. He looked like a hot, mad scientist. I immediately gravitated toward him.
Family members started to join the call. My sisters joined; his cousins joined. I checked my background to make sure the plants looked good enough. It had taken us 10 years to get here, countless Skype calls, MSN messenger texts, YouTube links, Facebook wall posts, and now we were using Zoom to make the most important decision of our relationship, and arguably, our lives. I looked up for a second. I imagined God sitting on his couch with a bucket of popcorn, laughing while he watched over this particular scene. “Nice one,” I muttered with a smile. Of course, the classic long-distance millennial couple would end up marrying each other online.
He crossed the entire continent by bus three months after the night we met. Then we waited around 10 months to meet again, saving up the little that we had as college students, taking turns visiting each other. Our relationship grew with the distance, slowly building a solid foundation out of the constant, open communication we needed to make it last.
Living in two different countries eventually did become too painful to handle. Although life and its complications got in the way, we still managed to find each other again years later when we both coincided in Paris. It felt like we had paused our story for a while but now could finally witness its ending, or its new beginning. We went for the second option. We moved back to Latin America, this time to the heart of the Andes: Cuzco, Peru. The long-distance was finally behind us, or so we thought.
“You can come in now,” said the lady of the Registry Office. My fiancé gave his phone to an uncle who would be doing the filming. The lady indicated where he could get the best filming angle, making it clear this was not the first, nor the last, Zoom wedding she was officiating. “Are you ready?” she asked my fiancé. He nodded. “Let’s begin then,” she said. My hands started to shake.
This was the polar opposite of the wedding we had in mind when we got engaged. The plan was to move to Berlin and have a ceremony there. I would go first to settle in and start my new job, and he would come later with our dog. Being together would prove too much to ask for in 2020. The world as we knew it changed, and no plan could save us from facing the dreadful distance again.
It would be eight months until we saw each other again. It was heartbreaking. We were our own little family already. We were experts in long-distance, but the uncertainty of the pandemic cut deep. No one can tell you how lonely it is to live in an apartment that was meant for two.
We knew how to wait patiently, though, and kept busy looking for ways to be together again. The Love Is Not Tourism campaign that came into effect in Germany in August allowed us to be together for three months. In the meantime, we evaluated our options for him to come back with a long-term visa. We only had one choice: We needed to get married as soon as possible. With the borders closed and limited travel options, the only solution was to get married long-distance. I granted my mother-in-law a special power so that she could represent me, and thank goodness she agreed.
“Will you accept Jerónimo as your husband?” the lady asked. I stared blankly for a second or two before realising she was facing the camera. To my surprise, she was expecting me to answer that question. I wasn’t just a guest anymore; I was an active participant. No, I was a protagonist! My House started playing in the back of my mind as my heart beat faster. I lingered for a moment before I smiled wide and said, “I do, I do!” That second was one of the happiest moments of my life, although I am sure I looked like a maniac smiling like that with my face only inches away from the screen.
We got married over a 15-minute Zoom call. It was not part of the plan, but it ended up being just right, a sprinkle of magnificence.
When I said, “I do,” I realised we were living our own perfect, quirky story. Our wedding was a testament to all that we had overcome and the willingness we both have had to be together, despite the difficulties. It was a celebration for all of our years of talking and dreaming of being together again. It was a celebration of patience, a celebration of love. I was extremely lucky to find him 10 years ago that night. I now get to call the man that has travelled all over the world for me my husband, and I cannot be more thankful. It did not matter if it was an online wedding; it just proved that nothing, not the distance, and not even a pandemic, could stand in our way.
As I wait for my husband to cross the ocean once more and finally come back home, I think of how many other countless couples are in a similar situation. We are not alone in our struggle; COVID-19 has affected all of us in one way or the other. But I like to believe this moment will go down in time as one more chapter we will tell our children about and recall it as a moment in our lives when reality taught us more about resilience and the triumph of love than any fiction could ever do.
Where do you belong? Who are you, really? These, the questions that Winnie, the central protagonist of Violet Kupersmith’s debut novel, has unwittingly set herself as she lands in Saigon from the US before commencing on a lacklustre career as an English teacher at a local language school. It soon becomes clear that this is not the stable, realist world that the finely worked prose might suggest as Winnie makes her way into her first night in Saigon, looking for a room in a sex hotel in order to keep costs down. The novel is framed around Winnie’s disappearance, which anchors the timeline between chapters that otherwise jump through time, space, and point of view. And as quotidian as Winnie’s daily life in Saigon seems at first, this is also a place where ghosts linger underground disrupting the traffic and where cobras are set loose and roam unseen along the pipes and drains and into the mythic heart of the tale.
This beguiling novel is no flight from reality, however; it is too involved with the physical business of being alive for that. The trials and tribulations of the body with all its sights, smells, and inescapable desires occupies Winnie in particular, including plenty of sweat, vomit, toilet water, and a smorgasbord of varying culinary experiences. Winnie is Vietnamese-American, and if she feels that she doesn’t entirely fit in in the US or with her family, it soon becomes clear she doesn’t feel she can entirely fit in Saigon either, and nor does she particularly want to. Seemingly intent on escaping her own body, Winnie wears sackcloth dresses, cuts her hair into jagged lines, and enjoys disappearing into the shadows of the room, all of which raise the early questions: Why, Winnie? Why? And what’s to become of you?
At the language school she is routinely confused with the “other” Vietnamese-American girl, Dao, whom she imagines men would consider to be a better version of herself and who does indeed initially snare the interest of her soon-to-be boyfriend, Long. As Winnie finds some Dutch courage on some frenetic evenings out, she slip-slides into troubled and troubling nights; on that score at least, the men of the novel certainly never fail to disappoint. A sense of sadness around the difficulty of connection with men (but not only with men) infuses the tale generally and is deftly rendered, echoing various contemporary works on the same theme.
It was no surprise to learn that Kupersmith’s debut book, The Frangipani Hotel, was a collection of short stories featuring mythic Vietnamese tales that was very well received. Kupersmith is a gifted writer, and each chapter here has the finely tuned workings of a short story, each turn always propels the reader forwards, which is necessary considering the complications of the plot. Winnie’s disappearance is just one of three; another girl was lost in a rubber plantation long ago, and another, the feisty Binh, disappeared with Winnie’s boyfriend’s heart, although she seems intent on reappearing with increasingly demonic force. The brave and engaging country girl, Binh, could have been given a lot more space in the novel, in my opinion. Every chapter that she is involved in has extra energy, and the love triangle between Binh, Long, and his brother, Tan, is beautifully set up, offering us some rare hope of real connection and allowing us to get close to Long, who is by far the novel’s most sympathetic male character.
This, says Kupersmith, is a revenge novel, and it ends up turning around the various ways a woman’s body is requisitioned, transgressed, betrayed. How, it asks, can a woman find a home in the world when the very home of her body is constantly under threat? If that sounds heavy, the experience of reading the book is not; Kupersmith’s chapters coil around the reader ensnaring us in a hunt for something, even if I wasn’t always sure what. History, myth, and the reality of women’s lives converge in Kupersmith’s writerly imagination in rich, unexpected ways. Colonialism, patriarchy, misogyny: These three strands curl into one bind that cuts off the oxygen of the central women in the piece, and in order to escape they need to be just as inventive as the workings of Kupersmith’s plot.
The variety of characters and settings can become disorientating, which, whilst sometimes difficult, is surely deliberate. You can never get too cosy reading this book. Just as you think you’ve got things figured out, the next chapter takes you somewhere totally unexpected, and, like the characters involved, you’ve just got to go along with the increasingly dyspeptic ride. Kupersmith demonstrates that she is great at the close-up contemporary experience, but she also pans back in time in impressive ways, too. References to Ho Chi Minh are peppered throughout, but those readers with the concentration span will find themselves at the heart of the story in the colonial French highlands. Here we experience a primary wound in the personal and political injustice involved in requisitioning land, as well as a family betrayal, too; a horror that is held in the tangled heart of the rubber tree forest and that creates a haunting loss that resounds throughout the years; a venomous terror powered by the hidden, dark spaces of the forgotten and the wronged.
As noted, Kupersmith’s detail is a strength, yet the visceral detail and sense of place that sometimes overly fills earlier chapters may have been more usefully employed towards the latter part of the novel, where the byzantine workings of the story become less moored to our daily reality. Here, the fantastical situations are sometimes sketched a little too briefly or feel overly convenient, which is a shame. When Kupersmith does use her considerable skill to place us in a new, physically impossible situation that is also closely rendered, it is a powerful experience, something that feels genuinely new. For example, I now feel like I have lived experience of being a rat, I almost want to be a rat, so persuasive is her writing. That there wasn’t as much of this kind of detail in the final chapters won’t be a problem for many, but personally, it led me to detach a little at the end, which isn’t ideal.
Perhaps it wasn’t just that. My own slight detachment came just as Kupersmith’s women detached from their own corporeal binds and from space and time, definitively moving us into a different realm of reality. Whilst there is no doubt that Kupersmith vividly has rendered her revenge in ways that many will find satisfying, I still felt I wanted just a little bit more. Not in terms of happenings but perhaps in terms of a finale that felt viable and satisfying without breaking the laws of physics, and that would therefore be pertinent to women now. Perhaps, though, Kupersmith has reached a kind of clearsighted yet unpalatable truth through this fiction: that a satisfying resolution for her lost girls and women just wouldn’t have been possible inside our version of space and time. Perhaps that is the point. Instead, her tale offers release through a wide imaginative lens, allowing a kind of freedom to women and girls who would otherwise remain trapped in a hazardous corporeal reality for good. Our reality. This juxtaposition offers quite a lot to reflect on in the end, and Kupersmith achieves it in a way that is never heavy-handed; quite a feat for any debut novelist. Who knows where her impressive imagination may take us next.
Build Your House around My Body
By Violet Kupersmith
400 pages, One World Publications
I don’t play cards. I don’t even know how. But I’m sitting here and there are some cards in my hands. I haven’t looked at them yet because I’m not sure if I’ll know what any of them mean. Harry, Bill, and Josh are sitting around me holding cards as well. They stare at me and then stare at each other and then glance down at their cards over and over again.
The room is dark. The lights are all switched off. Only the table is bright because of a lamp Bill brought and placed in the middle. It makes their faces bright and the cards bright, but behind them all I can see is murky and damp-looking shadows.
I hate all three of them and I guess they don’t really like me, but we work together. And when they asked me what I was doing after work I guess they felt obligated to ask me to join them when I told them nothing. I know I felt obligated to say yes though I just wanted to go home and sit around in a dressing gown and wait to see if Beth was finally going to change her mind and come back home.
Bill is a big man with a big body and tiny feet. He has dry skin on his hands and his arms, and he’s always scratching. Harry is smaller but still big with wet eyes and yellow teeth. Josh is alright. He is normal size and doesn’t have any really dry or wet features. He just exists and doesn’t really speak.
What have you got Joe? Harry asks and grins.
You can’t ask that, Josh says.
I was just kidding, Harry laughs.
Yeah, but he doesn’t know how to play, and he might tell you if you ask him, Bill cuts in.
Alright, alright, alright…Harry throws up his hand.
I wasn’t going to tell him, I say.
It’s alright Joe. Don’t worry about it.
I wasn’t going to tell him, I say again.
Exactly, Josh nods and hits my arm softly.
What have you got, Josh? I ask him.
Josh doesn’t smile, but he nods again and lets out a bark of laughter and then goes back to not really speaking.
I’m in, Harry says, and he pushes some notes and coins into the middle of the table.
I’m in, too, Bill mutters, and he pushes some of his pile into the middle.
Their piles were already a lot bigger than mine, and this was the first hand. I hadn’t brought a lot of money.
Josh doesn’t say anything, but he nods as he pushes some of his pile into the middle.
I look at my cards for the first time. I have a two of hearts, a ten of clubs, a four of hearts, an ace and a king of diamonds. I clear my throat and pull at my collar. I itch my leg, and I flick some hair off my nose. I don’t know what any of it means. They explained the rules before the game started, but none of it made sense then and now I don’t think it has ever made sense.
I don’t want to ask them again, so I cough and slap my cards down and grin.
I’m out, I say and shrug.
They nod, and they show their cards.
Bill had three of a kind. He announces it, shrugs, and says three threes, and then slaps them down happily.
Josh puts his cards down. Straight, he says, and Bill’s face falls, and he scowls at him.
Harry spreads his cards wide and itches his neck. Flush, he says quietly and laughs and hooks all the pile in the middle with one arm and draws it all towards him.
Fuck, Bill mutters.
Shit, Josh says.
Harry laughs again.
Goddamn, I say just to say something, and Josh hits my arm softly again.
What cards did you have? Bill points at me and asks.
I flip them, and everybody looks.
I thought you’d have something good and not even know, Bill says.
I didn’t, I reply.
I can see that…I told you he knew how to play, Bill says, and looks at the other two.
I thought you said you couldn’t. Harry frowns at me.
Are you trying to hustle us? Josh says and grins, and then he hits my arm again a little harder than before.
I was just guessing.
Guessing?
Yeah.
So, you could have had a royal flush in there, and you wouldn’t have known?
I guess not.
Bill shakes his head and laughs sadly.
I’m sorry, I say.
What? For what? Now someone might actually win some money, Harry shouts, and he fingers some coins in his pile.
Josh shakes his head and looks at me.
Have you really never played cards before? he asks.
Not really, I used to play go fish with Beth sometimes. My words shake a bit when I say that, and I cough to try and hide it and they all look away. It’s only then I realise that everyone in the shop must know about Beth leaving.
Ahh, poker’s quite different to that, Josh mutters and doesn’t look at me again.
They take my cards and they all put their own back into the deck and then Bill starts to shuffle them around. He does it quickly and the cards flicker as they move. It’s hard to imagine without seeing it how odd his huge fingers looked moving the small cards so fast and delicately. No one speaks until he places the deck back down on the table and flicks Harry and Josh five cards. He pauses before me.
You still want to play Joe?
I didn’t.
Yeah, I say, and he puts five cards down in front of me. I look down at my watch. It’s nearly ten.
When Beth left, it had been around ten. The neighbours phoned me about then anyway. I’d been at work and they called me and they said, “Your wife just left in your car with a suitcase…I just thought you should know,” and then they hung up and I ran out of work and I ran past the car park and the bus stop and the church and the graveyard. I ran until my head pounded a little and I had to stop and breathe. Then I ran again, and when I got to outside the house I stopped and breathed deeply again. I threw up on the drive and I walked in. The house looked the same. It smelled the same. But there were marks on the walls where pictures had hung. Pictures of her and me and pictures of just her. They’d all gone and when I walked into the bedroom, the wardrobe was open and inside there was nothing except my work shirts and one small pink sock. I cried for a bit on my knees holding that pink sock, and then I went and looked to see if she had left any pictures at all. There weren’t any pictures, and there wasn’t a note. There wasn’t anything.
Bill and Harry and Josh all look at their cards. Harry looks up and around at them both.
You know if Mr Fredricks is going to let anyone go over Christmas? Harry asks.
What? Why? Bill looks up at him quickly. Josh looks up quickly from his cards as well. I just shake my head.
Just something I heard, Harry shrugs.
From who?
You know Karen?
His receptionist?
Yeah.
What about her?
That’s who I heard it from.
Karen’s full of shit.
Josh laughs.
Bill turns to him. She is, he says.
How? I ask, and they look up at me like they’re surprised I’m still there.
Bill leans across the table towards me, and his tie falls forward onto the table and messes up his cards.
You ever heard what she told Connor? he asks.
Connor who?
Big Conner… I forget his last name.
Conner Carlson?
Not that one…
Dutson?
That’s him.
Harry hits the table, and we all look at him. He holds up one finger and then wipes his eyes.
Isn’t Carlson the big Conner and Dutson the little Conner?
Josh looks up from his cards and frowns before speaking. I didn’t think either of them was that big.
Bill sighs. Carlson isn’t big or small but Dutson is huge, got it?
We all nod, and I ask: So, what about him?
Well, Karen told him something.
Yeah, but what did she tell him?
She told him something that wasn’t true.
What was it?
I’m getting to that…
He scratches his chin and coughs a little. He looks around at our faces, and we stare at him. I was just happy we’d stopped playing cards for the moment. He looks away and down at his tie and he straightens it and then his cards before speaking.
I forgot what she actually said but trust me…it wasn’t true.
His words fall flat down into the middle of all of us and lie without moving. Josh frowns.
Harry doesn’t do anything at all. Bill’s face drops down a little and turns red. He hits the table again and then shouts…And I’d wager my whole pile here she hasn’t spoken a word of truth since she squeezed her way out into the world.
No one says anything. Josh just nods and nods, and Harry doesn’t even acknowledge him. I decide to laugh.
When I do it sounds too loud and forced for the quiet room and everyone looks at me. I think to myself, You know this is probably better than having to play cards.
Then Harry finally smiles and puts his hand on Bill’s shoulder and says, Are we here to play cards or what?
Harry looks happy and nods hard until the red in his face fades and his wet eyes stare hard at his cards. Josh rubs his cards between his fingers. His fingers are small and square, and his nails are like dirty half-moons pressed against the back of the cards. I still haven’t looked at the cards I’ve been given, and I move my chair back to get comfortable and it squeaks on the floor and then I move it back towards the table it squeaks even louder. Bill looks closely at his cards and squints. Sometimes one of them looks up. No one looks at me. I turn my cards over and pretend to study them.
I don’t know how long we have to sit and look at the cards. I look around and wonder why none of us has a drink. I want a drink. I want two drinks at least. I think about the poker games I’d seen in films when I was younger. Men sitting around with big cigars jutting from their mouths and whiskey being poured over shoulders and everyone laughing and being loud and talking the whole time.
The three of us just sit in silence and breathe heavily, and no one laughs, and no one talks and none of us smoke.
Beth didn’t like watching films or the TV. She said it was all boring. She just liked to sit around and relax, she used to say. Relaxing is my hobby, she’d say, and then she’d lie down on the bed and laugh. I try to think of how she looked when she laughed sometimes, but I can barely even picture what she looked like doing nothing. I stand in front of the picture marks on the walls at night and try to remember the photographs that used to be there. Then I hit the side of my head with my fist or I bunch the little pink sock up in my hand. I ask the picture marks if they know why she took all the photos. I ask them nicely sometimes and I whisper it to them and sometimes I ask them as if I were asking Beth and I scream at them and spit at them and then I lie down on the floor and try to forget about the things I’ve been doing since she left.
Bill speaks first, and he puts his cards down softly. I’m out, he says, and he leans back in his chair.
Josh leans forward. He smiles at us and pushes all of his pile into the middle. All in, he says.
Harry looks at him smiling and doesn’t smile back. He just shakes his head and sits back in his chair and pulls his pile slightly closer to him and doesn’t say anything.
Bill whistles and pats his pile as if checking it’s still there.
I focus on my cards for the first time. I’m holding a king of hearts, an ace of hearts, an ace of clubs, a three of spades, and a queen of diamonds. The cards are meaningless. I look at each one separately. I look at the queen of diamonds. I see the queen of diamonds. I don’t understand the queen of diamonds.
It’s like looking at one of the missing photographs in my house, and my heart beats quietly and painfully in my chest. I’m sure anymore what Beth looks like, but I’m sure the queen of diamonds looks like her. I’m sure the nose is the same and I’m sure the lips are the same and the wave in her hair is the same and I’m sure her little smile is the same. The queen has a red flower tucked in her hair and she’s holding a lute and staring off the side of the card as if she can see something better out there. I touch her face with my thumb. I feel it.
Joe? Are you in or out? Bill clicks his fingers at me. His wet eyes are almost sneering.
I’m in, I hear myself say, and I push a corner of my pile into the middle.
You have to match the bet, Joey, Harry laughs.
What?
If you want to bet, you have to match the bet.
What?
You have to bet everything if you’re in Joe. They all shake their heads.
I’m still staring at the queen and I’m turning the card in my fingers, trying to get her to stare at me.
Alright, alright, all in, I mutter, and I push the rest of my pile into the middle. They all shake their heads again and look at each other and laugh.
Are you sure, Joe? Josh asks, and I can see him leaning forward to hit my arm softly again and suddenly I feel embarrassed. I can feel my face turn red and I turn the queen over in my fingers again and again, and she still won’t look at me.
Yes. Jesus Christ, you don’t have to baby me, man. I know what I’m doing, I snap at him.
Josh holds his hands up and shrugs and nods, and Bill looks at me and scratches his leg and mutters, Okay then.
Harry looks at Josh. Josh looks at me. Bill looks at Josh. I look at the queen. I don’t care why she looks so much like Beth. I just want to keep staring at her. I want to hold the card close the same way I hold the little pink sock.
Josh flips over his cards. He has four jacks and a five of diamonds. He says, Four of a kind.
Bill smiles. Harry blinks. They look at me and wait. From outside the house I can hear some kids laughing and then the sound of a bottle smashing against the floor. I’d heard the same sounds before. Over and over again. But they seemed different now holding the queen. They leaked into my ears and they tickled my bones. Lovely little noises. Even the queen on the card with her tiny smile, seemed to be smiling small for them. The smile was like the smile Beth used to have when she’d be lying on my chest in the morning. We’d lie in the same position most mornings and listen to the noises coming from the street outside. Children screaming and laughing and shouting and cars moving back and forth and back and forth. She said it was her alarm clock.
Harry mutters something I can’t hear, and Josh swears and pushes his cards a little with his hand. Bill scratches his cheek, and some dry skin floats down and falls onto the table. He brushes it off the table and grins at me.
What you got this time, Joe? he asks.
I put the queen back with the rest of my cards on the table, and my hand trembles. I flip them all over and push them forward.
They all lean forward.
One pair, Bill says loudly and starts laughing. Harry blinks his wet eyes as if he can’t believe it and then he follows Bill and laughs as well. Josh just shakes his head over and over and occasionally chuckles.
Did I win? I ask.
Of course not, Harry giggles.
Not even close, Bill roars.
Josh chuckles.
Oh, I say.
I don’t have a pile of anything in front of me now. Josh scraps the pile from the middle back towards him. Harry and Bill pat their piles and laugh quietly every now and then. I tap my finger on the empty space in front of me, and then I slip the queen back off the table and gather the rest of my cards and push them underneath the dealer’s deck. I put the queen between my legs and then I put her in my pocket. None of them looks at what I’m doing.
I guess I’m out? I ask
Bill and Harry both nod.
Josh looks sorry for me. I can spot you some money if you want to carry on playing, he says.
No, it’s alright, I say, and stand up.
All three of them look up at me surprised.
Where are you going?
I’m out of money.
You can stay a bit longer if you want man, Harry says. Just hang out for a bit.
No, I better get home.
They all look away from me straight away, and I can almost feel their relief.
Alright. See you. Harry waves, and he shuffles the cards.
See you, Bill mutters.
Bye, Joe, Josh nods, and leans up and gives me one final punch on the arm. The softest one of the night.
I touch my pocket and feel the shape of the queen pressed in there as I walk out of the house and onto the street. The kids I’d heard were gone, and I kick and step in the bits of broken glass they left behind. I start to whistle as I walk, and for the first time I don’t think about if Beth will be back when I get home. I whistle, and the sound echoes of something. It isn’t a long walk back to my house, and with a smile I realise I can whistle and walk all the way there. My heart feels free now that I’m out the game, and I think maybe if I whistle loud enough the queen will turn that little smile on me.
I walk under a little bridge and it is dark and I whistle. I walk along Cleveland Grove and onto Parkston’s Drive, and I whistle. I walk past the little grey church on the side of town, and I whistle. I walk past the schools and a small nature reserve with a broken gate and a car park with no cars sitting in it, and I whistle. I walk past the graveyard, and then I walk out onto the Highstreet and past the closed shops that are darker than the night and the fast-food restaurants with their bright lights still lit. I walk past open bars and I turn towards one to go in but then do a spin by the door and carry on walking instead. And I whistle.
My heart feels light, and I feel light. I feel like I can float off the ground and into the night sky. I feel like the king of diamonds. I’m the king, I’m the king, I whistle. I’m the king, I’m the king, I think. I’m glad to be out of that house, and I’m glad to be away from everyone and glad I don’t have to sit with them and listen to them anymore. I’m just glad. I’m full of gladness, and it’s all because of the queen. I feel like I’ve gotten my photographs back. It’s like carrying Beth in my pocket. She is the queen and the queen is her and there isn’t a damn bit of difference between the two.
I see another bar and almost go in again. But I catch myself and again I spin away from it. The bartender inside waves as I pass the window, and I wave back. I skip off the Highstreet and I dance onto my street and I see my dark house. I see my empty drive where my car used to be, and my heart doesn’t fall. It stays right where it is, and it sings. I push my key into the door and walk in. The house is cold, and I turn on the heating and I walk into the kitchen and make myself a coffee. I drink it straight away and it burns my lips and my tongue and I smile. I drink it down and it tastes good. Better than it has for a month.
I grab a bottle of whiskey off the side in the kitchen and pour a drink, but I don’t touch it yet. Not yet, your highness. Not yet, I whisper.
I take the queen from my pocket, and I give one final happy whistle before I can bear to look. I was right. For the first time, she isn’t smiling at nothing. She’s smiling at me. Her face seems to have turned all the way around and her lute seems to be playing the same tune I’ve been whistling all the way home and I smile back at her. I put her back in my pocket and I put my glass down. I stand up and open a drawer and take out a small nail and then I stop, turn, and walk back into the kitchen. I open another drawer and pull out a hammer. I walk back into the living room.
I go and stand in front of the biggest picture mark on the wall. It’s above the fireplace. The picture that used to hang there was of Beth. Just her laughing and holding a glass of wine. It had looked like the wine was about to spill all over her, and it had just after the picture had been taken. I hadn’t remembered that before. It had spilt over face and covered her clothes, and she’d shouted and then she’d laughed again. It was from when we’d first met. It was gone now.
I take the queen out my pocket and I hold it in the middle of the dark square and I nail it there and the queen never takes her eyes off me and she never stops playing the happy tune on her lute. I slump down in the chair in front of the fireplace and I stare at her and I pick up my glass and I finally have a drink.
Studies show that roughly 1,500 women are murdered each year in the United States by an intimate partner, but when similar crimes are committed in a Muslim country, they are defined as “honour killings.” It is with this example that Rafia Zakaria most effectively explains how white feminism undermines the entire feminist movement in her Against White Feminism. By culturally coding crimes committed against women of colour, we fail to recognise the collective problem of male control and violence against women. Instead, we create a category of “other” that splinters efforts to achieve rights and protections for all women.
But this is only the first in a cascade of issues that not only further marginalise Black and Brown women, but also working-class women, minorities, and trans women, to name only a few.
In Against White Feminism, Zakaria’s razor-sharp focus on feminism details how white supremacy has negatively impacted women’s rights efforts for decades. She explains that colonialism allowed women to carve out a new place for themselves in society: They remained controlled by white men but viewed themselves as superior to the men and women in the countries they colonised. From here, she takes us through a history of feminist initiatives that have centred on white women. Anyone who has responsibly researched the history of white supremacy both in the United States and around the world will recognise the issues Zakaria raises in her book, but it is the detailed analysis of women’s issues that sets Against White Feminism apart.
Zakaria establishes her expertise with her own experiences as a single mother in the United States. Born and raised in Karachi, she moved to the US as a young bride and later fled to a domestic abuse shelter with her child. An attorney, she has supported victims of domestic abuse and seen firsthand the failures of the feminist movement. As early as law school, she experienced the dismissiveness of the men in charge (a dismissiveness with which all women are familiar), exacerbated by the fact that she is not white: “Even in the United States, I was one of a handful of single mothers in my cohort, insistent on graduating despite the admonishment of white course-load advisers who had told me that ‘law school was no place for mothers, especially not single mothers.’”
The book demonstrates that the greatest hurdle in the global effort to support women in poor countries is a lack of understanding and true political engagement with the issues at hand. Instead of learning about the problems women are facing and offering the help they need, many Western countries blindly offer solutions that do not apply or do nothing to support the political goals of women on the ground. She writes: “White and Western charity donors will eagerly donate money for girls’ education in Bangladesh for the uplift of women, but they will not give up the cheaply produced ‘fast fashion’ that is sold by major American brands and is based on exploiting women in poor countries. The implied goodness of the charitable act thus works to erase complicity in a global system that is instrumental in enforcing global racial hierarchies.”
And this need for “stuff” does not hurt only women in poor countries. Zakaria scaffolds her book with a timeline of feminists calling for change in the US, including Adrienne Rich, Gloria Steinem, and Eve Ensler, but explains how many efforts fell short. Kate Millett’s book Sexual Politics called for “radical political action….targeted toward dismantling the structures of capitalism that were similarly dominated by men.” Unfortunately, it appears Millett failed to persuade, and we see today how capitalism continues to put women at a disadvantage. Capitalism, or the “cash-happy Cosmo Girls interested largely in amassing power in the form of economic capital” won out over the radical feminists who were after real equality. Put simply, and depressingly: “Women could now choose among multiple brands of laundry detergent, but deferred or neglected opportunities to organise politically to demand free childcare for all women.”
The sex-positive movement, as well as “choice” feminism that removes all judgement from the choices women make, misses the mark because it doesn’t advocate for actual political change. Perhaps this failure is most clear when it comes to bodily autonomy and abortion rights.
Zakaria explains that when the British colonised India, there were lax abortion laws on the books in England. But due to the British belief that Indian women were sexually promiscuous, they created laws to curb the abortion they implied was a big problem in India. “Whether or not they may have been concerned with abortion in India itself, the white colonisers were clever enough to realise that painting Indians as inveterate baby killers was an ideal way to construct the colonised as criminal and hence to strip them of their humanity.”
Today, we see the same type of slander against women. In 2019, Donald Trump claimed that mothers and doctors were committing infanticide (a lie) and used this fiction to argue against abortion rights. Those who wish to restrict women’s rights capitalise on making the women dangerous and “other” in the same way the British did in India. While today’s restrictions in the US create hurdles for all women, we know they have an unequal impact on poor women and women of colour. Consider only the Hyde Amendment.
Many writers will say that the key to great writing is to have faith in the reader to grasp what isn’t said. Some of the examples Zakaria provides of white feminism – such as the sexist expectations of women in an office environment to be not too bossy or assertive – are all-to-relatable for any woman. So it is with these examples that Zakaria displays great faith in her reader to remain engaged. White readers could fall prey here to white fragility, but it is their engagement that can add strength to the feminist movement.
As Zakaria goes to pains to explain, there is a critical difference between “white feminists” (who “further entrench the race-based inequities in society and enshrines white culture”) and a feminist who is white. A true feminist will remain engaged in the feminist agenda while also rejecting “white feminism.”
Against White Feminism
By Rafia Zakaria
208 pages, Hamish Hamilton
A Superior Spectre is a portrait of two spirits born in completely different time periods, on different continents, and united not through a moment of synchronicity or a sense of sensitivity but through the leaking of one person’s soul into another. The main characters are Jeff and Leonora. Jeff, a product of a not-so-distant future, has dedicated his life to hedonism, just as Leonora, a product of the 1800s and duped by the constraints of her time, has dedicated herself to education. These two lives have nothing to do with each other until Jeff embeds himself into the past using an experimental technology called DNE, or digitised neural experience. Barely trialled, it comes with the very clear warning that it only be used three times. Jeff wants to escape the illness attacking his body and so uses the drug to enter into that of a 19th century woman living in Edinburgh. Leonora then lives through Jeff’s spirit invading her body, while he enacts himself through her.
This merging is not a harmonious one, and the unfurling and coalescence of Leonora and Jeff’s minds is slow. Meyer employs certain stylistic techniques that work to ease the reader into this combination of minds. At first, Leonora’s sections are written in the third person. The language is demure, considered, and stiff: “Leonora respected the quiet, the guests’ low murmur and the clink of cutlery.” Yet whereas Leonora’s voice is built to be passive, rendered to serve first and think later, Jeff’s first person voice gripes on the page, laced with harshness, cynicism, and aching self-awareness: “I went to bed early and had to have a little giggle at myself, for being so typically human…The dying man reflecting. I’m sickened at the typicality.”
Over the course of the novel, the two minds intersperse inside this one female body, both Leonora and Jeff beginning to think in the first person. Chapter breaks reveal who is who, the scenes alternating between futuristic Australia and 19th-century Scotland, but even these chapters begin to hop around in narration, time period, and location. There is a tension set up as to who is really thinking for whom. Meyer uses small variations in narration to provide hints to the tuned-in reader, allowing for the shift between minds to be relatively effortless. One particular instance is when Jeff (who is inside Leonora’s body) touches himself. As he – and by extension, she – orgasms, the chapter ends, and the following chapter relates Jeff’s thoughts: “I woke up in pain and arousal, on the verge of orgasm but experiencing such intense cramping in my left calf that I yelped.”
The calf pain serves to remind the reader that Jeff’s health is spasmodic and on the decline, but the reference to cramping also couples the idea of female orgasm with certain aches of a distinctly female type. Even when Jeff returns to his own body in the present, he experiences sensations unique to the female body parts, in places that are anatomically male.,
For Leonora, visions of life from Jeff’s time period loom in her imagination, giving her the sense that she is hallucinating. She constantly lives in moments that are not in fact occurring in front of her eyes. It is at this that Meyer excels, writing 21st century normalcies into a 19th century frame of mind: “Waking is coming to the edge of a moor in the fog, seeing ghostly dots of candlelight and heading towards them, seeing brighter lights further in the distance, unnatural. Taller buildings than in Edinburgh. Moving machines that make the noise of thunderclaps.”
The use of the word thunderclap brings both sound and image to the description. The reader imagines dreary, storm-like automatons wandering through the fog. Much like Leonora, we are unable to picture what these machines could be, but the haziness is purposeful, losing the reader in the delirium that is festering in Leonora’s mind.
An avid reader will find echoes of Meyer’s blend of literary writing, social reflection, and genre subversions in Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go and Atwood’s A Handmaid’s Tale. Yet what sets Meyer’s novel apart from these contemporary classics is how A Superior Spectre represents the repercussions of its premise. Rather than using speculative fiction as a space to comment on sexism and female subjugation, Meyer exploits the immediacy of first-person narration to thrust her reader into a purposefully appropriative role. One has to follow Jeff as he takes advantage of Leonora’s young and able body for sexual fulfilment or as he perverts her thoughts with ideas of gender fluidity and Vegemite. The reader is never allowed critical distance from his decisions. What’s more, the merging of Jeff’s narcissism with Meyer’s awareness of her own literary style result in wondrous metafictional observations. “I don’t, for example, know how to represent her accent…And I’m sure there will still be instances when I can’t remember or find the right words to capture the thought or emotion I experience through her. I am tainted by my own time, my own context. We always experience other people’s stories this way, though, don’t we?”
A Superior Spectre cannot be described as merely a political statement or a brilliant premise remarkably actualized. It does not, like so much standard science fiction, simply describe the lunacies of its world. In merging the vantage points of sci-fi and historical fiction, the male mentality with the female, the crags of Scotland with the plains of Australia, Meyer has created a novel of convergence and repercussion, fusion, and dissociation, that never gives the reader – not even once – the option of averting her eyes.
A Superior Spectre
By Angela Meyer
288 pages, Ventura Press
We raised our arms above the grass while she explained about the deer tick – the thing that stuffs its head into you, drinks you up, gives you Lyme disease. I didn’t want to hear it. She said that if you pull off a tick its head comes away from its body and rots in you, which made me think of the prawns I’d undressed the night before and their frilly faces in the dustbin of the guesthouse. The kind of food we’d never cook at home, at least not from scratch – the kind of “fresh food” that’s supposed to make everything else seem fresh. That old trick.
When we set up our picnic the first thing she said, just as I took a deep sniff of our supermarket pate, was that I’d need to check between her buttocks as soon as we got back. In case there was a tick. I told her she could spread herself there and then if she wanted but she was busy running a comb through her hair, checking the teeth. She found a video on her phone of a farmer running a brush through a calf’s tail so that you could see the whole brush alive with ticks, clambering all over it so you could barely see the brush-hairs. Writhing among the bristles. “For God’s sake,” I said.
Back at the guesthouse she peeled off her clothes, stuffed them into a white plastic bag. A smell like bisque wafted from the bin. I hadn’t seen her naked since the thing with Marcus, and even though that’d all been part of the arrangement I still didn’t want to touch where his fingers had been. On her, in her – it made my skin crawl. The sight of her pale body in the en suite mirror, running her fingers under her arms, up her inner thigh. It made me queasy – seeing what he must have seen, in their hotel room or his car or wherever it was. Perhaps it was in a guesthouse like this one, this same one even. On the bed, in the shower, on her, in her. She should have told me some other time.
I forced myself to go through when she called. I could still taste the pate when I bent down behind her. Just a flicker in me expected to find one of them hiding between her buttocks. Feeding, waiting, stubborn to detach. You’re supposed to twist and pull, if you find one, so that the head doesn’t come off. Twist, pull, discard, forget.
She asked and I said, “Nothing there.” Though I hadn’t looked.
Afterwards she stepped into the shower and blasted herself all over with the showerhead. Just in case. When it was my turn, I pulled the jacket off my back like a prawn’s shell, examined my naked body in the mirror, my hairs like bristles. Combed through the folds, the crevices. And then let the scalding water run over me while she made a phone call.
I vividly remember what life was like in 1935 before I lived in this tower, before my nanny died, before my family died, before everyone in India and the rest of the world died, and before I turned fifteen. It was impossible to forget the important details since Dorothy, my nanny, always reminisced about the past. She’d also reassure me about the future, telling me I could look forward to it. “But there won’t be anyone in it!” I’d exclaim.
“You’ll always have friends,” she’d say. She was right because the crows had been looking after us, flying to the terrace or to the sole window in the tower to give us food. For many years my grandmother had fed a crow that had alighted on her window at nine in the morning and somehow since then the corvids were always there when we needed them.
Though I thought of the corvids as friends, I craved to see humans, to touch their skin, to talk to them, to eat with them, to laugh with them, and to remember what life had been like when they had been around. The crows sympathised with Dorothy and me, fetching nightingales to sing for us, peacocks to entrance us with their majestic tails and their dances, and pigeons to bring scraps of paper with writing we could read. “Are you sure we’re the only humans left?” I asked her.
“Don’t you think a swan would have led other humans to us if they existed? Remember the legend of Damayanthi and Nala. It was a swan who made them fall in love with each other,” Dorothy answered. “Your mother could understand birds better than we could.”
Our feathered friends whistled their warnings to my mother in our garden. They told her to get a tower built where we could live. They showered her with gold coins so she could hire laborers. My father wanted to keep the coins for our needs, but my mother insisted that we listen to the birds. She nagged him until, a few years later, he finally agreed.
For two years I’d wake up to the sounds of workmen constructing the tower. They’d sweat excessively and their faces would turn unnaturally red. My nanny fed them nutritious meals and gave them coconut water to quench their thirst.
My mother gazed at the terrace and said, “We’ll be able to see everything for miles from up there.”
“How exciting!” I clapped my hands. At that moment my father rushed into our room to tell us that the people in our village were sick and that most people in the nearby villages were dead.
“The birds were wise. They didn’t want anyone to infect us. We’ll move into the tower,” my mother said.
“We already have the sickness,” my father said, pointing to his toes, which were unnaturally red like mine were. “It’s the first sign,” my father added. My mother and Dorothy wiggled their red toes.
My mother collapsed onto the bed and my father hugged us, saying, “At least we’ll all die together.”
“Perhaps we’ll get better,” she said.
“We have to be realistic,” my father said. “No one recovers from this illness. From what I’ve heard, I don’t think anyone will survive it. It’s spread to all the provinces in India. Everyone in the world will die. We have to remember our bodies will perish, but our souls are immortal. We’ll be reunited in heaven.”
“Will there be space in heaven for the whole world?” I asked.
“Of course. God is omnipotent,” my father said.
My mother said, “We should let the workers finish building the tower. What if we get better? We can move there.” A couple of days later, she felt bad when she saw the terrible condition the labourers were in and she told them she would pay them their wages and then they could leave. They refused to stop because they wanted more money for their families. My mother told them she’d give them plenty of gold coins beyond what they deserved without their having to do anything, but they didn’t think that was fair. After a week, knowing they didn’t have the health to continue working, they descended a ladder, which was propped against the castle. My parents were sad the labourers wouldn’t be able to enjoy their hard-earned wages. It was little consolation to them that the men had been able to support their families the last couple of years of their lives.
The labourers looked like they’d drop dead any minute as my father filled their cupped hands with gold coins. He tried not to stare at their fiery red knuckles. Most of the men had gone bald in the last few days. One of them shivered. Another man dropped an unnatural amount of saliva on the ground. They apologised about not being able to construct the staircase that would have connected the area inside the front door to the rooms high up in the tower. My father said, “We won’t live much longer so we won’t need the castle. Still we’re grateful for what you’ve done. We have something splendid to feast our eyes on during our last few days. I don’t think anyone will survive the sickness.” A labourer, with a large bump on his forehead, was the last to walk away. He collapsed and died before he could open the gate.
The next few days we shivered in the heat and wrapped shawls around ourselves. We were tired all the time. Our toes shone red, red, red, advertising our sickness. We began sprouting bumps on our foreheads. A stranger, who came to our door to beg for some food, told us all the people in his village were dead. He had a large bump on his forehead and a single lock on his pate. A shivering Dorothy gave him a generous helping of rice and curries, and he blessed her. Assuming I was her daughter, he put his hand on my head. My father invited him to stay with us, but he wanted to die in the village he’d been born in. Dorothy and I stood outside the door waving goodbye to him. Then something weird happened. He disappeared at the edge of our property. Dorothy told me that the sickness was making us hallucinate. She pointed to his footprints that continued beyond our property.
The first time my hair fell off in clumps I cried. Then I became too weak to care, too weak to do anything but lie down. “I don’t want to die,” I wailed in bed. I slept most of the time. I was vaguely aware of my sick parents hovering and fussing over me. My mother sobbed into her palms. “I never thought my daughter would die before me,” I heard her cry when she thought I was sleeping.
I fell asleep and had strange vivid dreams in which my nanny and I were the only ones alive. We lived in the tower, and we grew used to this new kind of existence. When I woke up, I felt that something had changed. The room seemed weird. My bed faced an arched window. I was confused for a few minutes until I realised I was in the tower. My head felt heavy and strange. When I touched my hair, it was thicker than it used to be. In fact a black river ran down one side of my body, past my toes, past the foot of the bed. The black river was my hair, which had grown back while I’d been asleep. I felt my forehead, which was smooth as it had always been. I called my parents, but it was my nanny who came running in from the only other room in the tower, the kitchen.
Dorothy gently broke the news to me that my parents had died. I’d slept for more than two weeks while the world as we’d known it had ceased to exist. Some of the desperately sick villagers had come to our property. Under the influence of dangerous hallucinations, they’d run around fighting each other. They’d thrown stones at our windows. Fortunately around that time a few of the labourers, who’d worked for us, had returned for a meal. They scared the men away with our kitchen knives. Dorothy fed the labourers a pyramid of idlis or dumplings with sambar to flavour it. They ate the food, knowing it would probably be the last time they ever enjoyed a meal. Following Dorothy’s instructions, the grateful workmen used a pulley system to get a few pieces of furniture and some of our belongings inside the tower. Then they carried me up, and after my nanny followed me into the bedroom, they obeyed her for the last time by destroying the ladder. She, finally, felt safe from the troublemakers.
“I was asleep all that time?” I asked Dorothy.
She nodded. “It’s good you didn’t see your parents die.”
“Where are their bodies?” I asked.
“They’re still lying in their beds as if they’re asleep.”
“How will I live without them?”
“You have me,” she said, embracing me.
I couldn’t cry, though I tried hard to. All the sadness was bottled up in me. It wasn’t just my hair that had changed after my sickness – I had the ability to understand what the birds were communicating just like my mother had been able to. A couple of months later, a sparrow chirped the news that we were the only humans it had seen.
For a whole year, I didn’t cry, shedding tears only when a sick bird died on our windowsill. I was upset not just for my feathered friend but for my parents, for everyone I’d known, and for the way of life I used to have. Dorothy and I grew used to our new existence. We wished we could escape the tower, though. I’d look out the window at the trees in the distance and long to wander outside. Dorothy said that perhaps the isolation had helped us survive.
Every morning, a choir of birds from the forest near the edge of our property serenaded us with their songs. Dorothy became a substitute mother to me, but she had always regarded me as her daughter when my mother had been alive. She didn’t resemble her, though. Dorothy was an Anglo-Indian, whose mother had come to our village after she’d gotten married. My nanny mainly spoke English to me. We told each other our thoughts as we looked out at the unpopulated landscape. In some respects, we were content because we had each other. We invented stories to pass the time. Dorothy never ran out of tales. She’d been a voracious reader before the pandemic had destroyed humans. She cooked fabulous meals out of the vegetables she grew on the terrace and the ingredients the birds brought us. She oiled and brushed my hair, which she cut every month but which still grew back quickly. She patiently plaited my hair and stuck flowers from the potted plants in the terrace in each braid. She taught me her wide repertoire of songs and nothing gave me greater pleasure than to open the window and sing a song, imagining there were still people alive who could hear me.
“How did this pandemic start?” I once asked her.
“A bat must have infected the first human who got it.”
“Bats are our friends,” I said.
“Yes, but they didn’t deliberately give the sickness to us. They were also victims. They, too, fell ill and died in great numbers. By the way, bats aren’t birds.”
“What are they?” I tucked a tiny loose flower back into my braid, savouring the scent that it gave off.
“They’re mammals. Unlike birds, bats don’t have any feathers nor do they lay eggs. They give birth to their babies.”
“But they can fly,” I said.
“Well, we used to fly in planes,” she said.
“I wish I could see a plane,” I said.
“The world used to be filled with wonders, but we have everything we need to have a happy life.”
“No, we don’t. My parents are dead. Your siblings are dead. We can’t go outside. We’re doomed to live our lives here.”
“When we lived in the cottage we became sick, but this tower only holds good memories.”
“We lost everyone we loved.”
“Remember your father told you that souls are imperishable?”
“I guess they’re watching us from heaven. We’ll be reunited when we get there.”
“And we won’t have to worry about diseases or sicknesses after we die. I remember the Spanish flu that killed fifty million people around the world. That was in 1918 when I was twenty-two years old. Many of my relatives died from the Spanish flu. Twenty-five million Indians died. If our species could have lived into the twenty-second century or the twenty-third, scientists would have found a cure for most sicknesses. But I think before that humans would have fought against each other and everyone would have perished.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
When I turned seventeen, I couldn’t imagine my life was going to be more isolated. The year started off well because my nanny was more loving than she’d ever been and I felt no one had ever been as loved as I was. Anytime I did something stupid like burn a dish of rice, she’d kiss my forehead and tell me not to worry. When I’d accidentally step on her foot, she’d shrug it off. She brushed my hair more carefully than she had all these years. “You’re special. No matter what happens you’ll be all right,” she said. She taught me about the medicinal value of different herbs. She described the forest near the tower. When she was a little girl she used to travel through it with her father to reach this village. She taught me how to stitch so I could turn my mother’s saris into blouses and long skirts. I’d never been happier, even in those times when the world had been throbbing with people. Every morning, I burst out of bed, eager to feel the sun on my skin, to let the wind cool my face, and to talk to Dorothy.
One such morning, I confessed, “I didn’t think it would be possible to be happy after my parents died.”
“I didn’t think so either. I, too, have found paradise here, though as a little girl I could never be confined to my house. You’ve been like the daughter I never had.” She placed a hand on her chest, her eyes widening with fear.
I looked out the window, wondering if there was something alarming outside.
“What is it?”
“I know you can care for yourself,” she said. “But you need someone.” She closed her eyes and slumped back in her seat. One minute she’d confided about how happy she was and the next minute she’d slipped away from our paradise for another one.
When her body began to stink, I dragged the corpse to the terrace and threw it to the ground, where I wouldn’t be able to see it from the window. Dorothy would have been happy to know her corpse had fed our vulture friends, who’d circled the skies above the tower and swooped down. It didn’t seem barbaric to me because Parsis, followers of Zoroastrianism, had disposed of the dead in the same manner. Dorothy had been a Christian, but, like a good Hindu, she had recognised the validity of other faiths, and she’d been ready to borrow whatever she’d liked from other religions. She’d accompanied my parents and me on pilgrimages to Hindu temples, wearing her crucifix under her sari. No one who’d seen her would have believed she used to go to church as a child.
Dorothy’s death filled me with the kind of sorrow I’d never known, not even when my parents had died. I tried to believe I was alive for some reason and that was why I’d survived the illness that had killed my family. I craved the happiness I’d had with Dorothy, her tenderness, the love she’d poured on me. I ached for her soothing touch, her loving brushstrokes that had tamed my hair. I drew a portrait of her and nailed it to the wall, but the picture didn’t capture her likeness. It could have been anyone who had a chubby face, a slight double chin, a rotund body, and plump arms and legs.
After the first year of mourning, I lost myself in the same schedule I had when Dorothy was alive, and I felt serene while I brushed my hair, cultivated the vegetables, prepared meals, fed the birds, and sang. She wouldn’t have wanted me to be filled with despair. Sometimes I imagined her shadow was moving, but it would be mine. Sometimes I thought she called me, but it was my mind tricking me.
Another two years passed in this way. One day a pigeon alighted on the window with a slip of paper. When I came close, I glimpsed a written word on it. I picked up the scrap of paper and read, “Help.”
Someone was alive, a person who wrote in English and not in an Indian language! The cursive wasn’t the type used by Indians. I wrote “I’ll help you” on the other side of the scrap of paper. The pigeon took it from me. Before I could question the bird, it flew off with the paper in its beak. Now I was committed to helping the person, though I was a prisoner in the tower. I didn’t know where the person was or what sort of help she or he needed.
I tried to figure out how I could help the person while I brushed my hair. Suddenly, I realised I could braid my hair, cut it off, and fix it to the window. Ten minutes later, I had a strong, silky black rope dangling from the window. My head felt light. The tips of my hair grazed my neck just below my earlobes. I carefully manoeuvred myself out of the window, grasped my braid, and slid to the ground. I gazed at my feet planted miraculously on the grass, and I smelled the earth. The cottage beckoned, and I was tempted to push open the unlocked door in spite of the rescue mission that awaited me. The living room had been desecrated by strangers. A couple of windows were broken. Roaches skittered underneath a sofa. Lizards and spiders also lived in the house. My parents’ bedroom looked just like I’d remembered it: blue curtains on the windows, the bed facing the door, my mother’s toiletries on the dressing table, and a huge cupboard in a corner. I felt like a ten-year-old girl who needed her parents. And then I saw them lying on the bed, their hands clasped together. It was really their skeletons. For a long moment, I gazed at them unable to advance or retreat. Finally, I walked backwards and closed the door gently, as if I might wake them from their eternal sleep.
Once I was outside again, I composed myself since I needed to rescue the stranger. I headed to the forest, which was another kind of confinement with the trees and vegetation closing in on me, but I wasn’t alone. The chirping, cooing, clucking, hooting, and strange noises reminded me this was a place that teemed with life. I cherished the freedom of being in the wilderness, enjoying the touch of vegetation and the sight of wildflowers. As the darkness descended, I found the river Dorothy had described. I spotted a cave where she and her brother had played, and I rested inside it at night.
When the sun came out, I followed the river and I gathered berries and ate them, pleased that they tasted delicious. In the afternoon I found a green cap, then a shoe, then a suitcase with just a shirt in it. I was sure everything I’d discovered belonged to the person who’d asked for help. I spotted a book hanging on a tree, which I fished out with a long wooden stick. It was a copy of The Great Gatsby. I opened the first page and read the name of the man who owned it – Mark Jones. I walked with the book, shouting “Mark” for ten minutes until my voice felt hoarse, and I gazed at something unfamiliar in a clearing. It was a plane with a missing door and broken wings. I went inside, but Mark wasn’t there. I stared at the interior of the plane, never having seen one before. I returned outside trying to investigate any clues that would lead me to Mark and after half an hour, I came across his footprints. As I followed them, they became weaker. I sporadically called out to him.
I strained my ears for a sound. A simian flung a banana at me. I picked it up in case I found Mark and needed to give him something to eat.
After walking for half the day, I heard a parrot saying, “You’re kidding.” He flew close to me and felt comfortable enough to perch on my shoulder.
“Mark,” I continued to shout.
“Damn,” the parrot said, and I laughed. He flew away before I could ask where his owner was and what had happened to him. The forest was thick now with creepy vines and snakes that slithered around. I saw a button on a rock, a few drops of blood, and I knew I was on the right track. My voice was hoarse from periodically crying out. During one of my silences, I heard the twang of an American voice.
“Is anyone out there?”
“Mark, where are you?”
“Here,” he kept shouting.
I followed the voice until I saw a blue-eyed man whose hair flowed like a golden river, past his knees. His face and body were a map of scars and bruises and wounds. The shirt he wore was half torn off and his trousers were in tatters. He blinked when he saw me. “Any chance I dreamed up the end of the world? I mean did humans really get wiped out six years ago?” were his first words to me. “Are you an illusion?”
“I’m real. I haven’t seen anyone for three years. I’m alone. I got your message,” I said.
“Wow! I didn’t think there was a chance anyone would come to my aid.”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
“The paper was stained. I didn’t know there was a message for me. I just thought the pigeon had brought back my note.”
“Are you hungry?” I offered him the banana.
“Thanks,” he muttered, taking it from me. In one swoop, he peeled most of the skin off and half the banana disappeared into his mouth. The parrot reappeared and perched on Mark’s shoulder.
We made our way through the forest to the cottage, eating and drinking, resting, sleeping, and telling each other our amazing stories. He’d come from America, where there were a few hundred survivors. Half the survivors had hair like ours that grew inches every day. Mark had been eighteen when the illness had struck. His father was a pilot who taught him how to fly. Mark thought he’d see the world, but the illness changed everything. Everyone in his family except for him succumbed to it. The survivors moved into a town near the sea, resided in the best houses, and grew vegetables and crops. They supplemented their meagre diet with lobsters and fish. They stopped believing in God. The survivors only fantasised about Him the way people had about Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. Mark was restless to discover if there were other people outside of America. When he told the survivors about his plan to fly to another continent, no one wanted to accompany him.
We moved into the cottage, and when Mark became stronger we buried the skeletal remains of my parents and Dorothy in the backyard. His love for me was a strange combination of gratefulness and affection. It was a luxury to be touched and adored again. He regarded me as the heroine of his life. “Dad told me that one day I’d meet someone I’d fall in love with. He always said that behind every successful man there’s a woman. I think he wouldn’t have been half the man he’d been without Mom by his side.”
The years passed blissfully. I cultivated a large vegetable garden that brought back memories of Dorothy. I also grew coriander and basil leaves. Mark said that I had a green thumb. “No,” I shook my head, looking at my dark brown hand caked with mud.
“When someone says you have a green thumb, it means the person is good at gardening,” he explained. Goats and rabbits roamed around our property, eating our vegetables. One morning I looked out of the window, and I saw a person wearing a straw hat. Excited, I ran out of the cottage, hoping he would be someone we could be friends with. There was something strange about him. His shirt and trousers rippled in the wind. “Hello,” I shouted, but he didn’t reply. He couldn’t! He was a creature made out of straw! Mark had created him to scare away the animals, but the ploy only worked for a while. Soon our vegetables began disappearing again. In my fantasies, I imagined there was someone living at the edge of the forest who stole from our garden, but it was the goats and rabbits nibbling our vegetables and herbs. Sometimes they even stared gratefully at the scarecrow. The crows liked resting on its arms and talking to me. “I don’t know if it’s a rumour, but a dove told me she heard there are pockets of people still alive in the world,” a raven said.
“I hope it’s true,” I said.
Mark created a fence around our vegetable patch to keep the animals out. “My grandfather taught me how to make things. He was a good carpenter.” Mark was a gifted carpenter himself and he built a ladder so that we could sometimes go inside the tower. When I wanted to descend, I preferred to slide down using my braid.
Two years after we met I was expecting our first child. “I didn’t know it was possible to be this happy without civilisation,” Mark said. At that moment, a sleek white metal bird flew across the sky. As we gazed at the plane our minds filled with dread, then hope, then dread, then hope, knowing that perhaps the time had arrived when the world would be connected again.
We could never have guessed that the strangers who arrived would take us to Europe and from there to America. Mark’s parrot remained in India. He told me he would miss us, but he didn’t want to part with his new feathered friends. As we got off the plane in Massachusetts, many people welcomed us. Some of the women had long hair like mine, and they twirled their long braids, which, Mark told me was a new way of greeting people. Many of the men and children were ecstatic to see Mark again. We were served a meal in a hangar. While we ate, a woman who exuded authority told us how civilisation was slowly coming back together and that a few lucky people who’d survived had developed a special gift. “Do you possess a certain skill?” she asked me. I looked at a seagull that swooped down from the sky. I called out to it. It glided close to my feet. “You’re the girl from the tower. I’d heard about you from other seagulls, but I didn’t think a human could communicate with us,” it squawked. “See that boy with a long ponytail? He throws stones at me. Can you tell him not to do that?”
I looked at the boy. I wanted to tell him it was illegal, but I didn’t know if the people here followed any laws. My guess was that they did. I translated what the seagull had said to the people. The boy with the ponytail stared at me, his mouth hanging open. “She can really talk to the birds. Cool.”
“Don’t ever throw stones at the bird again. Do you understand? It’s illegal,” I said, wondering what the Americans would make of me.
“How did you know it’s illegal?” a woman asked. “Can you read minds as well?”
“No, I just guessed.”
“Can you teach me how to talk to birds?” the boy asked.
“Well, you have to first start treating them like your friends,” I said.
The men and women stared at me with awe. Mark told them there was something else that was special about me. He told them how I’d lived with Dorothy in a tower and then after she’d died, I’d been alone. Soon, I became known as the girl from the tower, but my new friends didn’t mean anything bad by it. On the contrary, they thought the moniker was special because I’d blossomed in isolation. It amazed me that the birds also referred to me in the same way. I knew that even if humans eventually died out, the avian species would sing about me, keeping the memory of humankind alive. I would be a legend, though all I ever wanted when I lived in the tower was the return of civilisation, and most importantly, my family, and Dorothy.
I’m not a homosexual man. My best friend is a homosexual man. He’s also from Argentina. He speaks short, choppy English, like he’ll say, “We go here, yes?” when he wants to go somewhere, usually a pub or bar of some sort. My favourite one, though, is when he says “holiday.” He says it like it’s a national day for someone called Holly, as in: “Holly day.” His grammatical glitches sound so funny and sweet that I don’t have the heart to correct them. Besides, it’s his version of the way things are and who am I to say he’s wrong?
I don’t speak Spanish. I’ve tried to learn it on a few occasions, but to be honest, the only Spanish words I’ve ever had to use are hola and cerveza Just like a mechanic would have use for the words carburettor and spark plug, I’ve learnt my own specific Spanish vocabulary.
I’ve never learnt the word for scars because we’ve never explicitly talked about them – anyone who does ask my friend he deals with himself. It’s his business; I don’t get involved.
Years ago I was in a pub with my girlfriend. She’s not my girlfriend now for more reasons than I care to go into, but then that day she wasn’t exactly acting like she was my girlfriend anyway. She was annoyed because I wanted to watch football. We were in central London, and it had taken us ages to find a pub showing the game – we finally stumbled across one on Charing Cross Road. Her feet were killing her by the time we settled in with our drinks and, boy, did she let me know it. Amy was one of those people who don’t have it out with you when they’re annoyed, but instead go stock-solid silent. She wouldn’t talk to me or look at me, so I left her to it. She hated football or, at least, didn’t understand it. We were very different in our likes and dislikes, but we coped, after a fashion.
That day we were coping by me watching the football and her, with her back to me, reading a celebrity gossip/fashion/self-help type magazine. It was Manchester United versus Tottenham – I’m a United fan. For once it looked like Spurs might even beat us, so I was staring intently, concentrating on the game, meanwhile keeping the peripheral vision in my left eye ticking over so I could see what she was doing and whether or not she was still mad at me – which she was, at that point.
Then, in the peripheral vision to my right, I saw a guy looking directly at me, edging closer and closer to the high bar stool I was sitting on. I could see he was short and chubby with a pretty pronounced beer belly, an unshaven face, a closely shaven haircut, wearing glasses and a sort of half smile on his face.
It’s funny because I remember reading once that it’s supposed to be girls that have the better peripheral vision of the sexes, but Amy had unflappable tunnel vision on her magazine, and there I was taking in everything around me.
Anyway, my first thought was that this guy had to be some sort of lunatic. The almost childlike, innocent and unmoving, unerring stare conjured up images of day release, of dribbling, of schizophrenia, psychopathic tendencies; only the day before there’d been a story in the news about a psychologically disturbed man pushing another man under a tube train for no good reason. I kept him in my periphery, but I couldn’t for the life of me concentrate on the game.
I could tell he was plucking up the courage or the words to actually say something to me, as by this point he was face-on to my leg, which was face-on to the TV. No one else in the pub appeared to have noticed this, least of all my girlfriend, and I began to wonder: If this guy were crazy and knifed me to death, would anyone do anything?
It took a few minutes like that, him studiously studying me, me studiously ignoring him, before he finally leaned his mouth over to my ear and asked: “What is your name?”
It’s an innocuous question – it really is. It’s pretty much standard that if you don’t know someone, the first thing you ask is their name. Yet there, in that pub, in central London – where people go out of their way to avoid talking to others whenever possible – it felt like a very loaded question. Besides that, there was his voice, softly but obviously accented; too soft, too sensual, too like a bedroom voice to be used where men were watching football and ignoring each other, unless personally acquainted.
Thing is, I always moan that southerners aren’t as friendly as northerners – I’m a northerner – and I kind of wanted to make a point that, even in the south, I was still friendly (Take the boy out of the north, etc.), so I said: “Julian.”
But I didn’t ask for his name – I mean, I didn’t want to go overboard. I stared at the telly, seeing nothing. He stared at my face, seeing everything.
The way Amy and I had met had been fairly similar in many ways really: fairly incongruous on the surface. We met at a party held by one of my friends. I ignored her as I didn’t know her and so inadvertently became attractive by being aloof. Years later we’d ask each other “Remember when we met?” and argue over who couldn’t stand the other more on first meeting – whether her pestering me had been more annoying than my ignoring her. She persisted, though. She was undeterred by my aloofness and won me over. By the time we were in the pub on Charing Cross Road, the tables had turned – she was the one who wanted nothing to do with me.
Back in the pub and undeterred by my simple response, the funny little bespectacled man ventured forth again, rocking on his toes, which meant his extended belly touched my leg.
“I like Tevez. He is Argentinean. I am from Argentina.”
That was how I found out he was from Argentina.
“That’s interesting,” I said (It wasn’t.) “He’s very good.”
Despite the ongoing outward innocence of this encounter, there was still the nagging in my gut that there was something not quite right about all this – something not entirely on the level. I desperately wanted to see what Amy was doing whilst not drawing attention to the fact I was looking at her, my brain trying frantically to operate my left peripheral vision whilst maintaining the illusion I was watching the football. Amy, alas, had absolutely no idea what was going on – the magazine was still king for her.
“My name is…,” he said, somewhat belatedly. I didn’t catch what he said; I was doing my utmost not to get drawn into a real, full-on conversation with a real, full-on stranger. Every time he spoke, he leaned into my face and I could feel his stubble against my skin, feel his voice as he breathed out, a push of air into my ear.
“Oh, right,” I said.
He was still smiling. By now, he was standing even closer to me.
“You’re very handsome,” he said.
I was becoming increasingly wary of the direction this conversation was taking. Whilst trying to reconcile what this guy had just said to the idea that South American men can be affectionate and complimentary to each other in a way that English men can’t, that there was no loaded meaning behind what he had just said, I was also aware that normal people just don’t say that sort of thing to complete strangers, regardless of what continent they’re from. This situation was completely and utterly beyond my range of experience.
“Thank you,” I said, still staring directly ahead, drinking more and more quickly and hoping I’d given a good answer.
He felt the conversation was going well, I could tell: His smile was still broad and friendly. I felt ridiculously uncomfortable. I felt even worse when he next said, “Are you bisexual?”
I nearly spat my beer all over the guy sitting in front of me. Then, I felt his erect penis underneath his fully extended stomach rubbing against my leg. I moved my leg away instantly. That was the only time I directly drew attention to the girl sitting next to me.
“God no, no – I mean. No, I’m with my girlfriend – this is my girlfriend,” I hurriedly answered, indicating Amy with my free hand. She was still, incredibly, engrossed in her magazine.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean embarrass,” he said, retracting his belly and his erection.
“That’s okay,” I said, “No harm done.” I looked at him properly then, for the first time. I realised his smile really was a friendly, unmenacing smile, and I felt ashamed I had taken him for a psychopath. He obviously wasn’t a psychopath, just someone looking for someone to like him, some company, a bit of fun.
“You are very handsome,” he said again, but he was moving away, knowing this conversation was over.
“Thank you,” I said again, and I meant it – it’s nice to get compliments, after all, no matter where they come from. I turned my attention back to the football, relaxing finally as I realised it was all over. He sidled towards the bar, still looking at me as he retreated.
When he had gone from me at last I turned to Amy. I couldn’t keep the smile from my face at the sheer absurdity of the situation – both flattering and bizarre in almost equal parts. A half smile was working its way across her face, too.
“Tell me you just heard that,” I said.
She burst out laughing; I burst out laughing. The tension between us was finally broken and we laughed, really laughed, together. She told me, weeks later, that she had been considering breaking it off between us. If anything, the funny-looking gay man saved our relationship – well, for the two months it lasted afterwards.
I glanced up again and saw he was making his way to the toilets, looking over his shoulder as he did so, watching us laugh. I caught his eye ever so briefly, stopped laughing, and returned my gaze to the game. Amy went back to her magazine. The moment of reconnection really was that transient. I saw him turn away and head down to the toilets. I thought nothing more of it. Despite the early scare, the game finished 4-1, to United.
“Come on,” she said when the final whistle went. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I just need the loo,” I said.
She kissed me, and I headed to the door marked toilet, dropping my glass off at the bar on the way. The stairs were narrow and steep, so I kept my hands on the walls to help me down.
I felt a bit drunk by the time I reached the bottom and nearly went into the ladies. I redirected, did what I had to do, washed my hands, and checked my hair in the mirror. I saw the door to the solitary toilet cubicle was closed. I noticed a slight crack in the top-left of the mirror. I grabbed some tissue to wipe my hands dry with and looked again at the closed cubicle door from a different angle in the mirror. It was then I saw the blood seeping from beneath it.
Hospital. Carlos is asleep. His wrists are bandaged: the wrists he cut through with a broken glass that had previously held a gin and tonic. He told me later if he couldn’t communicate with people anymore, he might as well be dead. People had been shunning him and judging him and pushing him away his whole adult life once they knew: his friends, his family. His attempt to communicate his real self had seen him completely ostracised, even by those he loved. So, he turned to strangers, and sometimes that was even more dangerous and just as heartbreaking. See, it’s all about communication with Carlos, which is kind of ironic given our communicative difficulties.
That was the problem with Amy and me. Not Amy. Not me. Amy and me. No communication, no connection. Despite our feelings about Tevez and beer and Argentinean wine, Carlos and I really have little that is significant in common. Carlos isn’t even his real name, it’s just what I call him as I can’t pronounce his real name. After five times of asking and smiling and nodding and not really hearing, I don’t feel I can ask anymore. But that’s the thing, names aren’t important.
Our conflicting sexualities is something many people do not understand, often vehemently and loudly; they cannot grasp how we can be so far apart on so very many issues and yet spend so much time together. They don’t understand. But they’re the sort of people Amy was – it’s not about football, it’s not about who you fancy: It’s not about what’s on the surface, it’s the stuff going on underneath it all that’s really important.
Maybe it’s more about connection – the just being able to sit in someone’s company and feel wanted, feel necessary, feel a part of their lives and be important to them; know that, if you were to get up and leave, you would be missed – or at the very least, have your absence noticed.
Carlos dismisses my conclusions about what would have happened if I had not found him bleeding in the cubicle – if I had just left the pub. I know the truth is I would have never known anything more about him, would have simply retold the incident as an amusing anecdote that ended when our conversation ended. Some other punter would have gone into the toilets, found him bleeding away, and saved him. Maybe they would have had their own story, albeit with a different beginning and ending, like me and Amy.
Carlos and I are probably in the middle section of our friendship now, unless we live to be very old, which is doubtful considering the majority of our time together involves alcohol. The middle for me and Amy was fairly inconsequential – six months dating followed by two years cohabitation. Our ending was pretty familiar territory, too, broken bottles and boxes in the street: the usual. I know these things happen as they’re going to happen so I don’t worry too much about Carlos’s exaltations about fate – it’s not about fate, it’s just life.
For a while, Amy and I would talk about how Carlos saved our relationship. We had so much to talk about after this one instance that all the other dried-out conversations flooded and became lakes again. We were happy again, for a time. Yet, she never could understand why I spent so much time with Carlos afterwards – despite my explaining to her about the continuing responsibility I felt towards him. She didn’t understand that the connection, once made, I couldn’t break, for fear that something horrific would happen. I also never told her that this connection was two-way, that he saved me, too, made me realise there was more to a relationship than stony silences in pubs. So, the scars underneath the surface, my infidelities, her infidelities, despite being hidden, were still open, still raw and slowly but steadily being filled up with the bile of new deceptions.
Unlike Carlos’s scars. They are healing now, at least on an emotional level. Physically, he still has a few raised, bumpy lines across his wrists that are much paler than the rest of his skin and draw attention sometimes when he pulls back his sleeves – you can see it, people physically recoil or quietly but obviously gasp when he does it. It was the last straw for him – his final attempt at contact was rejected and laughed at and so he tried to end it all. Someone would have saved him, I keep telling him that, but it doesn’t matter. I saved him, I was there. Despite the fact I was the main reason he was there in the first place, it doesn’t matter, it’s fate, apparently, and I’m willing to go along with that – it makes more sense than the rest of the reasons I’ve given myself for decisions I’ve made. It was meant to be that I would have to atone and he would have to be saved. I had put him in that situation, and it was my duty to keep him out of it, for as long as it takes his scars to heal – as long as it takes my scars to heal.
First Place in Litro’s Nature Summer Flash Fiction Competition
If you choose to forget the word I taught you, although I am sure it still lives in some recess of your heart, kintsukuroi, the practice of mending broken pottery with gold or silver to fill the cracks and understanding they are part of its beauty but also assuming responsibility for mending it, even if you are not the one who broke it, remember when you were a child and your hands were covered in soil and you were beaming as your father was showing you how to plant shidare, weeping cherry trees, if you saw one with a branch broken by the wind, you would stop and wrap a bandage around it just like bandaging a wound, remember the ume fruit you collected; your father taught you this and many other things, he taught you how to tell trees apart by their bark, together, you walked through the forest, open-mouthed, under red pines, yoshino cherries, moso bamboos; of course, this you cannot learn from your friends for they know other things, your friends with their big ambitions and clenched fists who tell you to forget about the ghost forest, but, son, don’t you remember the cry of the trees, I still dream of the hissing flames swallowing the green, there are no trees no more, only their black bones and crushed souls, some say that if you walk through the forest at night, you can still hear the trees weeping and the burnt grass howling, your friends say the future is bigger than this, there will be huge oxygen producing trees with steel trunks, one of those will produce as much oxygen as five hundred real trees, and you listen, son, with your mouth half-open, anger spilling in your veins, shame, perhaps, at your father’s dream, now small and worthless, a thing of the past, but, son, can you sense the greyness of this, the greyness of walking under these trees with huge pollution-absorbing capabilities and small metal hearts, are you ready to lose shinrin-yoku, I hope you still remember, forest bathing, when you go deep into the woods and everything is breathing and growing and living; your father rushed into the woods, the night of the fire, with bare feet, water and a prayer, it stings when I see you looking at pictures of him, and your eyes turn away quickly, and you sink back into your computer chair, flexible back support and adjustable headrest, you said, I can’t help but wonder is it me who’s not flexible enough, not adjustable to these ideas of yours, you tell me you are travelling, zooming in and out of roads cutting through unknown hills, flying over oceans you cannot place on the map, see, it’s all here, you say, keeping your laptop close to your chest, the woods are gone, you blurt out in a voice not quite your own, and how about the seedlings planted by so many caring hands, I want to shout, but there’s something knotted in my throat; you talk enterprise and making use of the land and passive income, each word a knife; remember, walking through the forest when you were little, softly, your father would say, walk softly because trees feel and listen and talk; if your friends’ words are bigger and truer to you, son, if you choose to close your eyes and your heart, to say I didn’t break it, if you choose to walk through the burnt woods and mistake black and grey for the colours of this earth, then turn around, son, and go.
Olivia Laing’s previous works of nonfiction cover a seemingly unconnected set of subjects: a psychogeographical history of the River Ouse in Sussex, the relationship between writers and alcoholism, and the connection between art, cities, and loneliness. But sewn through this diverse set of subjects is Laing’s appreciation for the human body, the unspoken site of experience through which she allows her stories to unfold. By examining the biographical lives of the writers, artists, and thinkers who populate her books, Laing has always operated not in the abstract world of interconnecting ideas and schools of thought, but in the “muck of personal concerns,” a realm in which one’s material, embodied situation is as important as one’s intellectual output.
It should come as no surprise, then, that Laing’s latest book Everybody: A Book about Freedom takes the body as its central subject, situating it in the political landscape of the 20th and 21st centuries and asking how the types of body we inhabit define which freedoms are open to us and which are denied.
As her guide through this vast and sprawling exploration, Laing has chosen the psychoanalyst and founder of body-oriented psychotherapy, Wilhelm Reich. Following the contours of Reich’s bold and ultimately tragic life, Laing slowly unravels the numerous ways in which structures of power curtail the freedoms of those whose bodies are deemed lesser by society’s hierarchical systems of value.
Wilhelm Reich arrived onto Vienna’s already well-established psychoanalytic scene at the beginning of the 1920s, bursting with energy and ideas. Immediately making an impression on the movement’s founder, Sigmund Freud, Reich was allowed to begin practicing psychoanalysis at the tender age of 22. However, his vigour, in particular his interest in sexology, quickly led him to new ideas and practices, focusing his efforts on understanding the role of the body in his client’s psychological lives.
Reich quickly came to understand the body not just as an inert, mechanical vessel in which our psyche dwells, but as the live, feeling vehicle through which we inhabit the world. Reich believed that the mind and body form a unity in which the body takes an active role in our emotional lives, locking away the feelings that are too difficult or traumatic for us to process. Over time, this will eventually create what he called “character armour,” a term coined to characterise the clenched, taught bodily comportment he observed in his clients.
From this starting point Reich and his sometimes-revolutionary, sometimes-delusional work guides us through Laing’s meditations on the body. Each chapter touches on an area of Reich’s life whilst also taking in the perspectives of a huge range of different thinkers. Reich’s belief that all illness is the result of emotional trauma or repression provides the spark for an exploration of the meaning of illness and mortality. His growing disillusionment with psychoanalysis’ lack of political engagement takes him to Weimar Berlin, where Laing unpacks the complexity of sexual liberation. Reich’s mother’s suicide, driven by the actions of his abusive father, inspires the most compelling chapter in the book: a frank examination of sexual violence knitted together by interpretations of the work of Marquis de Sade and Cuban artist Ana Mendieta. Reich’s most unusual invention, the orgone energy accumulator, was a steel-lined box that sought to harness the universal energy that animates all life. It was his refusal to disavow the orgone that eventually landed him in prison, setting up a chapter in which Laing studies the body behind bars, the ultimate instantiation of the state’s restriction of bodily freedom.
Uniting such a diverse set of ideas into a cohesive narrative was never going to possible in one book. But this is not Laing’s goal in Everybody.As is typical of her style, she weaves together the lives and ideas of an eclectic cast of thinkers, artists, and activists, herself included, using each of their stories to further illuminate the raw and honest truth of the ongoing struggle for bodily emancipation. It is not in providing answers that the excitement of Everybody lies but in Laing’s ambiguous and open-ended inquiry that echoes the mysterious nature of the body itself. Laing’s ability to hold and understand contrary perspectives, whilst committing to neither, invites the reader to take their own view on the history she presents. This journey culminates not in an answer but a question posed to the reader: Can you imagine a world in which the body is free?
It is in the attempt to articulate this question that the theme tying Everybody together emerges: the vulnerability of embodiment. If the body is to be free, it must happen both in spite of and because it is “so cataclysmically vulnerable.” Laing makes it abundantly clear that the body is a mass of flesh, capable of being beaten, bruised, scarred, constantly at risk of deterioration and failure, and always open to the “existential horror of randomness.” The body as the very symbol of our mortality.
However, despite Laing’s more existential overtures, it is the vulnerability of the body at the hands of complex systems of power that looms over every individual story in Everybody. Laing paints a picture of governmental and economic structures that combine to create “a sliding scale of human value,” predicated on what type of body one inhabits. When these structures align against the individual body, it is quite unable to resist the objectification, discrimination, segregation, incarceration, and eradication that can ultimately follow.
Laing’s categorical message, however, is that it is in our often helpless, entirely inescapable bodies that we find the power to resist oppression. She writes: “There is no steel-lined box that can protect you from the grid of forces that limits in tangible, tormenting ways what each private body is allowed to be or do. There is no escape, no possible place to hide. Either you submit to the world or you change the world.”
It is in the journeys of those who inhabit her writing that this hopeful fight unfolds. Each narrative depicts not just the story of a creative mind reacting to its intellectual milieu but a real person’s reaction to inhabiting a body that is judged by the society they live in. Whether it be Nina Simone’s awakening to her own lived embodiment of the United States’ racial oppression or Ana Mendieta’s unflinching creative reaction to the rape of a fellow student, each of Laing’s vignettes unpacks the violence and trauma that bodies endure, showing just how these experiences are transformed into images and words that challenge the status quo.
As with all of Laing’s work, Everybody can be a painful book to read. By invoking “the darkness of the pre-verbal realm,” Laing taps into the pain, trauma, and suffering her subjects carry in their bodies. Like a physical archive for emotional damage, we all carry our hurts in our body, unable to express our emotional pain in language that then bursts out in unexpected and destructive ways. Laing has long been clear that to exist is to face a world in which pain and violence will always have a place.
However, at her core Laing is a writer of hope, frequently establishing love as the polarity of violence, the two “cardinal points of experience.” Everybody manifests this philosophy clearly, for to love is to commit ourselves to one another and to commit to a future in which we fight for each other’s freedoms. What each chapter of Everybody reveals is a history of a shared desire to “turn the body from an object of stigma and shame into a source of solidarity and strength, capable of demanding and achieving change.” It is this message of hope that animates Everybody, ensuring that it does not simply communicate a history of the fight for bodily emancipation but stands as a rallying call for all those who would seek to change the world in which we live.
Some readers and critics will undoubtedly chafe at this utopianism. Those searching for a more thorough political analysis may well be put off by the deep biographical dives into the thinkers Laing marshals. Many, too, may well be left wanting at the lack of explicit argument that precedes Laing’s visionary call to arms. But to search Everybody for a uniting ideology would be to miss its point. The beauty of Laing’s writing lies in her ability to layer stories and ideas on top of each other, creating a pattern that cannot be neatly identified and thus offering readers the chance to read their own experience into her prose.
Everybody is perhaps the furthest Laing has taken this style, writing a book that is almost decentralized in its approach, only loosely structured by its study of bodily freedom and the biography of Reich. But it is in this soft focus that the richness of Laing’s writing comes to the fore. Themes unite across chapters, different events echo through the lives of multiple thinkers, and the joy and pain of having a body resonates within you as you allow Laing to coax you through her vivid tapestry.
With the world slowly adjusting to a crisis that precipitated a drastic shift in the way we use our bodies, Laing’s vision of the body as a site of hope and strength is a hard-earned but much needed dose of optimism and energy. And whether or not one accepts her version of history or agrees on how we should address our future, Everybody is a powerful book that will invigorate anybody who reads it.
Everybody: A Book about Freedom
By Olivia Laing
304 pages, Pan Macmillan
I confess: When Maggie Nelson’s latest work of criticism dropped through the letterbox, I reacted less than positively. I shuddered, actually.
There were two reasons for this.
Firstly, the title. On Freedom – if we are to speak of the title alone – struck me as a flirtation with the tone of those trenchant political manifestos or memoirs, ones that posit single-minded solutions to society’s shortcomings, with little patience for the other side of the debate. (I don’t know, maybe I was being presumptuous, but I operate from the gut a lot of the time, and the title’s loose assertiveness just struck me that way.)
Secondly, the concept of “freedom” itself. As a word, it is vague and ambiguous. As an ideal, it is tragically dislocated, meaning different things to people from different walks of life. How can one approach such a vast chasm of a topic in a way that is meaningful to more than just a narrow wedge of society?
Of course, I should have had more faith in Maggie Nelson’s ability and approach. By the time I’d finished combing through the introduction – which sets the tone for the rest of the book by positing that the border between possessing freedom and acting as though one is free is blurred, if not utterly illusory – I would find myself begging her forgiveness, at least in spirit. I should have known that, in Nelson’s hands, a concept such as freedom (or cruelty, or family) will inevitably take on new and unique colour.
The writer’s tremendous back catalogue is littered with works that can only be described using another barbed and baggy term – genius. (Perhaps we can be forgiven for using the overweighted appellative; she did, after all, become a MacArthur fellow, receiving the so-called genius grant, in 2016.) But where much of her other work acts as memoir/critical crossover, or “autotheory” as Nelson herself has coined the form (see Jane: A Murder, Bluets, and The Argonauts), her latest outing does much less of the former, being more of a straight-up collection of stand-alone essays (see The Art of Cruelty and Women, the New York School, and Other True Abstractions.) These essays are, however, no less relatable. As all of her readers will know by now, there is something about her style of delivery that is entertaining, enervating, and earth-shattering all at the same time.
Approaching the topic like any philosopher worth her salt (i.e., methodically as hell), she splits freedom up into four of its many incarnations, with a chapter for each. The first, titled “Art Song,” examines artistic freedom. Here, Nelson deftly examines how ideas around cultural appropriation, cancel culture, and the “attention economy” encroach on an artist’s sense of license, and how bearing in mind the offense she might cause with her work, instead of being a constraining, limiting imposition on his right to freedom of speech, has the possibility of being “aesthetically or ethically illuminating.”
In “The Ballad of Sexual Optimism,” Nelson weaves together issues relating to the #MeToo movement, queerness, and consent, creating a rich critical tapestry exploring “thorny issues” around sexual freedom. It is here that she begins to hit her stride, demonstrating both her awareness of the wider and more complex social issues around, for example, “age of consent [or] polygamy [or] unwanted kisses or touches that ended as soon as the uninterested party said no,” as well as her radical compassion for people caught on all sides of the debate, where she decries those making “blanket calls for increased institutional intervention and/or sexual policing,” people who “don’t ever seem to imagine themselves on the wrong end of the stick” (e.g., having an allegation made against them).
Chapter three, “Drug Fugue,” picks through the vast spectrum of addiction literature, from its well-known exponents, such as Charles Bukowski and William Burroughs, to the more esoteric names in the genre (if it can be called a genre), such as Anna Kavan and Ellen Miller. Using her source material liberally and to great effect, Nelson considers the mutation of the freedom to do as one pleases (i.e., to take into one’s system whatever mind-altering substances one so chooses), to the slavery of what inevitably becomes a debilitating physical, mental, and spiritual illness.
The final chapter, “Riding the Blinds,” tackles perhaps the most pressing issue out of the collection: the climate crisis. It begins with a brief episode from the author’s life, in what becomes one of the few instances of “autotheory” in the book. In these opening chapters, Nelson gives us a depiction of her son’s obsession with trains, using their visit to Travel Town, “where unthinkably large locomotives have gone to rest,” and then uses this as a springboard to speak meaningfully about our overreliance on fossil fuels and our tendency to what Laurent Berlant calls “cruel optimism.” With her signature empathy, she discusses the tendency of some people to bury their head in the sand about the climate crisis, thus courting further the ruin of the human race.
On Freedom is, as ever, an example of Maggie Nelson’s fearlessness when navigating some of the most contentious issues of today. Her voice is one of grit and steel, yet also one of sensitivity and what is a compelling display of Pema Chodron’s radical compassion, which Nelson contemplates in “The Ballad of Sexual Optimism.” Despite the occasional backbiting remark – as when she calls into question Lionel Shriver’s “fragile sense of artistic freedom” – she mostly holds to this overarching empathy, a fact which enriches her ideas all the more, imbuing them with a humane quality which brings the collection down from the head and into the heart.
As a whole, these essays hold at their core Nelson’s deeply held conviction that we must “love all the misery and freedom of living and, as best we can, not mind dying.” The sentiment has all of the oxymoronic appeal of the word I was so dubious about when the book first fell into my hands. And yet despite its apparently contradictory nature, this form of freedom is, surely, the kind of freedom that is available to all. It is not the freedom of controlling what happens in the world, nor of punishing others for infringements upon our own individual sense of morality, but of altering how we respond to the way the world is now.
As such, there are no easy solutions to be found in this book. Nelson furnishes us with no less than the freedom to make our own choices – to act as though we are already free – in a world that is seemingly falling apart.
On Freedom: Four Songs of Care and Constraint
By Maggie Nelson
304 pages, Jonathan Cape
A story walks into a bar.
Outside, the sky rips open – like a page from a notebook – and just like that, sheets of rain. The bar is not so crowded that when the story takes off her coat, she can’t feel eyes on her, checking her out from every corner of the room, looks slipping like raindrops from her bosoms to her hips. Most people know that stories have subtext, but this story can hear even the whisper of a thought. It gets embarrassing.
She settles on a stool at the bar, figuring the bartender the safest. The bartender reaches for whisky, but no. Stories, you know, like to change things up.
“I already feel too fragmented today,” she says, pushing the shot glass away.
The bartender makes it look like it doesn’t hurt his pride. He shrugs, thinks about chugging the whiskey himself, then quickly flushes it down the sink. He won’t be embarrassed again. He plants both hands on the counter, asks, “What will you have, then?”
“Milk,” says the story, not a heartbeat of hesitation.
The bartender is genuinely surprised. “Kind of early for that, isn’t it?” he mumbles, but already he bends to retrieve a carton from the minifridge under the bar. His hands are shaking. He thought he knew a story or two.
A man two stools down slides one over. The story, without as much as a twist, changes subject. Up come the ramparts. The gleaming brooks of her dress turn dark and boiling with lava.
The man – his name is Bob – doesn’t get the hint. “So you’re a story, huh?” Bob leans close enough that the story can smell his cigar breath. He doesn’t notice the prickly pears in her hair. “I knew a story once.”
The story cuts him short: “Look, I’m just here for the rain,” she says.
“A story for a rainy day.” Bob grins, pleased with himself.
The bartender steps up, pouring the milk. He realises he forgot to ask if skim is okay. “Want cookies with that?”
“Please,” says the story, but the way it comes out, like an exhalation, it’s unclear what she means by it.
The bartender stands there, like a college kid who forgot there was a quiz. She thinks, “It’s so hard to raise them.” The story hates to repeat herself. Always has.
In that awkward silence, she hears Bob’s thoughts loud and clear. Stories are such sluts.
“Not sluts. People pleasers,” she corrects him.
She relishes a moment the way Bob looks stunned. In a minute he’ll twist what she said in ways that will fit his presumptions: that she’s available; that she’s here because she’s available; that she’s available for him, so long as he persists with his bad jokes and thick grins. And if that doesn’t work, Bob’s got a solution. He’s got a pill in his wallet he’ll slip into her drink when she’s not watching.
It wouldn’t work even if she didn’t already see it coming like the fate of the hot blond in a B-rated horror, but it might scramble her timeline and leave her in a stupor of digressions for days and bind her up in commas and semicolons that will take weeks to unknot.
So, Bob. The story knows his type: the type to forget all the important details, the type to get her all wrong when he talks about it later, with friends. Bob’s married, she decides, or has a live-in girlfriend, with three kids from a previous marriage. He earns less than the wife/girlfriend but can’t help lording how busy he is when kid duties come up. The story knows all sorts of Bobs like this one. There’s always a Bob of one kind or another in her day.
It will be hard to get rid of him now that he has a name, even one as obvious as that. There are other people in this bar, but they didn’t get to be named. Not even the bartender, who now places a dish of crackers on the counter and cautiously slides it towards her. Crackers, not cookies.
But then, this is a bar, and what exactly had she been thinking, coming in here?
A story can suffer a little rain. A story can suffer a storm, a hurricane, a climate disaster – gobbling them up like Christmas cookies set out by the fireplace for Santa, but this story chose to walk into a bar, put off by a little rain. And now she’s stuck.
Bob slithers closer, the pill in his wallet his main and only plot point.
The bartender is losing his confidence. He turns his back. He fidgets with the television. She could do something to dignify him, if, say, Bob gets out of hand, but the story is done being generous. In a second, with so many eyes on her, she’ll start feeling it, how every person here will pull something from her. She will stretch and stretch until parts of her will break off, ripped like toffee from her core. And those shreds will never be whole, never come into their own, acquired this way, like rumours, words overheard. They will tumble out of mouths a vapor, offered along with a business card at a corporate event, tossed under a thundering subwoofer at a frat house party, and they’ll mingle with lies, those embarrassing bastard cousins of hers.
The thought of it makes her obscure, riddles weaving up the length of her dress. Her face is a rebus. Already, she can feel the judgements in the room changing her. A story that changes is a dangerous thing. The bartender knows that. He senses it. Still fidgeting with the TV, he settles on the weather channel and turns up the volume, and it works. Everyone gets quiet, listening. Even Bob.
The story catches on with the bartender’s plan. The broadcast becomes all about power outages and floodings. Trembling footage caught on someone’s phone, blurry and dotted with raindrops, follows a whirlwind crossing a parking lot, flipping trucks and cars like quarters in a drinking game.
The bartender is discreet as he bends down, elbows on the counter, and whispers, “Make your exit, now.”
“I can’t,” says the story. “If I leave now, I’ll just fizzle out, like I never existed, and none of this will have mattered.”
“Is that what you need?” says the bartender. “To matter?”
The story thinks maybe she underestimated this bartender, that maybe he should have been a real Bob, not the cliché that’s biding his time for the best moment to drop a pill in her drink. Bob senses his name lifting from his skin like a wet Band-Aid. He straightens his neck, snaps his head around, shouts, “Hey!” He blinks, says, “What sort of story is this, anyway?”
Bob’s question rings up and down her entire length. What sort? What sort? Surely, the wrong sort for this kind of place. It’s a question she knows the answer to, one she doesn’t like to ponder.
She has to admit to herself, she is a story out of her age, longing for a different ending. She would not have minded landing between the glossy pink covers of a girly magazine, not even if it meant becoming a scribble of flowery italic fonts. Her friends would cringe if they knew this, but the story is tired of lying to herself. Tired of being judged. Tired of meeting Bobs on barstools, tired of waking up another college girl’s bad party night story.
The bar, the bar was the first of her mistakes.
Someone puts on music, and the TV broadcast gets drowned out. There is no more time to think about it, no time for regrets. The story’s only got a few moves left, maybe one big twist at most. The bartender’s about to get back to his job, to towel dry a glass or restock the gin. She sees her chance. She grabs his elbow first, then, brings his face down with both her hands. The kiss. The kiss is spectacular. She’s been practising it all her life.
Soon, whistles and hoots will turn into something more vulgar, but for now, for now the story wraps around itself and the bartender, opens wide like a mouth, and swallows its ending into a beginning.
A story walks into a heart.
(Because all a story really wants, in the end, is a heart.)
The heart says, Come in, my darling. Come in where it’s warm. And it stops raining.
For almost his entire adult life, Joris-Karl Huysmans supported himself by working in the French Ministry of the Interior. Despite finding his duties dull, he valued the space and financial security the civil service gave him to work on his fiction and art criticism. More than once he was found reading novels, reference books, and art theory at his desk, though this didn’t prevent him from rising up the ranks throughout his 32-year career.
I suspect working remotely (were it possible in the 19th century) would have suited Huysmans down to the ground. Firstly, it is much easier to neglect your duties at home, away from the watchful eyes of management; and secondly, while work and art kept Huysmans in Paris, something within him clearly craved the hermitic life. He spent his retirement living in a purpose-built house in the village of Ligugé, training to become a Catholic oblate at the abbey there. He also created one of the greatest recluses in literature.
À rebours (translated into English as Against Nature or Against the Grain) follows Jean Des Esseintes, the last scion of a once-powerful noble family, as he withdraws from Parisian bourgeois society to a retreat in Fontenay-aux-Roses. Huysmans had developed as a novelist under the mentoring of Émile Zola and the naturalist school of literature. However, in writing his “novel without a plot,” he took a conscious decision to turn away from the conventions of naturalism, fearing that they would soon bring him to a dead-end. Zola, on the other hand, upon reading À rebours, thought that “no literature could come from a genre exhausted in a single volume.”
Elsewhere, the book garnered equal partsscandal and acclaim. Émile Goudeau wrote in L’Echo de Paris that Huysmans had assembled “all the elements of human despair [and] solidly spat on every pleasure.” Oscar Wilde immortalised the book in The Picture of Dorian Gray as the “poisonous French novel” that leads to the titular character’s downfall.
What does À rebours offer the reader then, if not a plot? Principally, an exhaustive (and perhaps exhausting) catalogue of the ways Des Esseintes spends his dwindling riches decorating his Fontenay bolthole and indulging his excessive and rarefied tastes. I first came to the novel in March 2020, at the very start of the coronavirus lockdown; but rather than finding it a trying experience, I was inspired to embrace the life of a hermit suddenly thrust upon me.
Although Des Esseintes has many flaws, he also possesses an extraordinary imagination. While I was feeling distraught at not being able to attend a friend’s wedding in India, Des Esseintes consoled me with the idea that travel “struck him as being a waste of time, since he believed that the imagination could provide a more-than-adequate substitute for the vulgar reality of actual experience.” With a twist of rope imbued with the smell of the sea, he claims to be able to transport himself to any beach of his choosing. To further the illusion, Des Esseintes commissions the construction of a replica ship’s cabin within his dining room, equipped with a porthole opening onto a large aquarium filled with mechanical fish. Thus, he is able to enjoy all the sensations of a long sea voyage each time he sits down to dinner.
I was supposed to see Guns N’ Roses in concert upon my return from India (These were the two big events of my 2020 calendar.). Instead, I haven’t been to a gig for more than a year and a half. An absence of live music also clearly affects Des Esseintes in his seclusion. Rather than leave Fontenay to head to the opera, he instead creates “the mouth organ” – a system of spigots connected to liqueur casks. To his mind, each and every liqueur corresponds to the sound of a musical instrument. “Dry curaçao, for instance, was like the clarinet with its piercing, velvety note… crème de menthe and anisette like the flute, at once sweet and tart, soft and shrill.” Therefore, by carefully mixing his drinks, he can recreate the sound of a symphony. “To complete the orchestra there was kirsch blowing a wild trumpet blast… while peals of thunder came from the cymbal and the bass drum, which arak and mastic were banging and beating with all their might.”
Have I found myself sniffing old bits of string and hallucinating about brass sections? No, but during the long periods that the pubs were shut, the contents of my spirits cabinet undeniably grew, and I’ve embraced exploring the vast open worlds to be found in video games as a substitute for real travel. (The added value of this, of course, is that you can traverse time as well as space – in my case the American Frontier, Feudal Japan, and Post-Apocalyptic Seattle.)
Above all else, Des Esseintes is an aesthete, making décor of the utmost importance to him. In addition to creating the ship’s cabin for his dining room, he takes great pains over decorating his library, the heart of his retreat. Agonising over the colours, he ultimately decides that those “of feeble constitution and nervous disposition whose sensual appetite craves dishes that are smoked and seasoned… almost always prefer that most morbid and irritating of colours… orange.” To offset these bright goatskin-bound walls, he lacquers the room’s plinths and mouldings a deep shade of indigo and hangs a piece of royal-blue silk from the ceiling.
Later on, he fills his home with several wagonloads of flowers. However, believing that nature “has had her day… exhaust[ing] the patience of sensitive observers by the revolting uniformity of her landscapes,” he seeks out blooms that look as though they are artificial, with petals resembling flesh ravaged by “syphilis or leprosy.” This desire to shape the natural world extends into the book’s most infamous episode. Wanting something to subdue the colours in his new oriental rug, he purchases a large tortoise whose shell he has glazed in gold and encrusted with jewels (The sad creature dies shortly after its delivery.)
It can be easy to ignore the state of your home when the majority of your waking hours are spent confined in an office. But once I was responding to emails from the comfort of my sofa, all the work around the house that I’d happily been ignoring up until that point started nagging at me. An overwhelming urge to nest, to make my flat feel cosier, exerted itself. I quickly started spending the money that had previously gone to commuting and eating in restaurants on soft furnishings, houseplants, and furniture for my formerly unloved spare-room-turned-office. My plain white walls no longer seemed chic, and tins of paint with names like vardo and pitch blue started arriving from Farrow & Ball.
At the conclusion of À rebours, Des Esseintes abandons his retreat. With his health deteriorating as a result of his obsessive and reclusive lifestyle at Fontenay, his doctor tells him that he has to “abandon [his] solitary existence, to go back to Paris, to lead a normal life again, [and] above all to try and enjoy the same pleasures as other people.”
With the last of the pandemic restrictions now lifted, it seems the government is intent on the same prescription. Social distancing has been scrapped, nightclubs have reopened, employees are being forced back to their offices. We are no longer being instructed to stay at home. Despite the anxiety caused by the rising case numbers, this semblance of normality has, admittedly, provided some relief; but a part of me will miss the hermitic life that was thrust upon us. Given the rush for properties located in commuter belts and the widespread support for maintaining remote working for at least part of the week, I suspect many others now also feel the need to indulge their inner hermit. I don’t think I’ll be training to become a Catholic oblate just yet, but perhaps a fourth lockdown might do the trick.
Second Place in Litro’s Nature Summer Flash Fiction Competition
Once we hit puberty, our moms taught us how to shave and pluck until only the hairs in our noses and head remained. Andrea, my cousin, loved to throw herself into the river, grabbed eels to extract their shocks and then would jolt all of us once she was on land, giggling when our bodies leapt.
She sang to the capybaras when the sun rose and hid chickens from her mother so she wouldn’t serve them for dinner. But she forgot to shave, a trail of hair on her arms, barely visible strands dotted with sweat over her small lips. We all warned her. Then Tin-Tin came one night, took her deep into the forest.
He appears naked, his cock as long as an eel, a guitar strapped around his back, and the face of a haggard gnome without a beard, wearing a hat like witches do — but instead of black it’s the shade of terracotta clay. He’s solely in search of women with wild hair on their bodies. I was fifteen when Andrea disappeared. The day after she left I took her old sloth claws to make into a necklace that would live by my heart. Years ago she found a baby sloth, sick and abandoned by its mother, and tried to nourish it with tapir milk. For a week it drifted in and out of sleep, its eyes closing and opening faster than it could move its arms, until the chest contracted and couldn’t blossom out. She buried it, but not before taking a keepsake. She didn’t talk about it, but she’d give me sloth claw face massages when it rained so much the drips hurt our skin, using the outer crescent on my cheeks, the smooth leading me to a tingly sleep.
I stopped shaving but told no one. Slept in the day, and stayed up at night in the corner of my hut. I pretended to be asleep, clogged my ears with leaves to avoid the guitar’s lull. First came the smell of mangrove. A miasma of rotten eggs that had sizzled under the sun. The faint odor of crabs that live deep in the muck. When it touched me, its skin like the grease of pink boto dolphins, I grabbed the razor I’d shaved with since I was nine, cut its jugular. The next morning I didn’t let the people in the pueblo burn it. I placed the body on the branch of a tree in the outskirts of our village, the flaccid rope that was once a cock next to it, the guitar in pieces.
As the weeks and months went by, on the days the sunset traversed from pink to the red of heliconias, I’d walk by the river to wait for her, clutching the sloth’s keratin to my chest. Hoping she’d rise from the water or appear from the east like an arboreal fog with a baby straddled on her breast. But she never came. I haven’t shaved since I last saw her. Most girls still do. I don’t blame them. Some of the women are convinced he couldn’t have been the only one. And we all know it’s easier to control skin than risk letting a body do what it was born to do.
The hardest part wasn’t breaking into the sperm bank.
It wasn’t hacking the guard dog. Or dodging surveillance drones in broad daylight. The hardest part was doing it all with Keke, whose vocabulary shrunk overnight to the size of a single hypothetical question: “What if we get caught?”
Under the ski mask, Lance felt his face burning. “You worry about the damn pictures,” he said, dragging the mechanical mutt to the nearest bush.
Here she was, the mother of his unborn child, casting all kinds of shadows of doubt. These types of questions made Lance question her faith in him. Hell, he got them this far, didn’t he?
Keke checked her watch. It was quarter to nine. The cops didn’t get out of church till after ten, then they’d be coming right back here.
“Fifteen minutes, in and out,” Lance repeated, dusting off his gloved hands.
About then, another surveillance drone moaned overhead. Lance took Keke’s arm, yanking her to wooden boards against the wall. She had a hard time making herself flat with her backpack on. It was supposed to storm at some point. But the grey clouds hadn’t crept in yet, which left them both exposed in their classic burglar black on a sunny Sunday morning.
“I don’t know about this, Lance,” Keke said. “Why’d you make me do this?”
His lady, he knew after six years together, was a blamer. This woman blamed him for dirty dishes in the sink, dirty socks on the sofa and, if provoked, she’d say these dirty cops were his fault, too. But Lance wasn’t fazed. Sticks and stones and such. It was nothing to clean dishes, toss socks in the washer and, in this case, it was just a matter of getting photographic evidence to blow this whole operation wide open and put this perverted ring of pigs away for good.
“Just follow me,” Lance said once the drone moved on.
Keke shrugged her backpack up on her shoulders as he moved along the wall to the back door. He’d come here a few times before. But this was years ago, back with his philosophy major ex, back when this place was an art-house cinema showing films that made his brain bleed. Last year, the theatre shut down (after too many deaths by boredom, Lance figured), but the city bought it and boarded it up, announcing plans to renovate it for affordable housing. Nine months later, from the outside, the place looked like another pathetic display of public dysfunction.
He wedged his fingers behind the board blocking the door. And pulled.
But it didn’t budge. He pulled and pulled.
Keke reached out to put her fingers back there, too. “Here, let me help – ”
“I got it.” Lance pulled till the sliver was big enough for her to slip through. “Go, go,” he said, pushing her and her backpack through the hole. He slid in after her.
Just like that, they were inside. Even through the mask, Lance could smell popcorn.
Keke looked around the corridor. “Which way?”
“This way,” Lance said, leading her through the hall, lit only by dots of blue service lights.
Frames were still on the wall. No posters. But they all said Coming Soon. Lance couldn’t remember the last movie he saw here. There was a whole lot of talking, he remembered that. All talk and no action. He fell asleep halfway through, his ex broke up with him that night over milkshakes, and he vowed to never to return to this godawful theatre. And yet here he was.
Behind him, Keke gasped. Lance turned around. She stood there, hand over her masked mouth. She pointed to the concession stand. Lance had walked right by it without noticing. The food menu offered combo deals. Not only popcorn and soda, but also sex toys of different kinds, shapes and colours. Screw-on vibrators and butt plugs behind the glass next to the Goobers and Milk Duds.
“What?” Lance said. “You want some popcorn?”
She shuddered. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Lance motioned to Keke’s backpack. “Actually, we should get shots of this.”
Keke shook her head, composing herself. “The bank first,” she said, marching forward.
See, this was why he loved her. Keke didn’t mess around. She asked hella questions, but she wasn’t some hysterical drama queen who’d blow up over every little thing. When Lance told her he planned to do this op solo, Keke insisted on joining him and being in charge of the camera. “If you go down, I go down,” she said months ago, before the anxiety kicked in.
Lance followed her past the ticket-taker stand. They came to the foyer with a bigger concession with more special attachments and a bin of lube packets.
Keke stopped. Checked her watch again. “Which way?”
Lance headed for the door marked Authorised Personnel Only. “This way.”
“You sure?”
He nodded. He wasn’t sure where the bank was, but she didn’t need to know all that. What she needed to do was trust him. She needed to know that he would protect her and their son.
“Wait.” Keke held out a hand. “You hear something?”
Lance froze. Listened. He heard traffic outside. A drone in the distance. But nothing else.
“You sure the cops don’t come till after ten?” she asked.
Lance cocked his head. Who did she think he was? He’d been clocking their movements for three months straight. Sunday mornings were reserved for using the “blood of the Lamb” to wash the blood off their hands.
“That!” Keke’s bulging eyes filled up the eyeholes with terror. “You hear that?”
Behind his mask, Lance squinted like that would help. Was she hearing things? Or was he not hearing things? He figured the former but then heard the grating sound himself: a wooden board scraping against concrete. Somebody was coming.
Lance grabbed Keke’s arm, yanking her toward the storage room. He grabbed the knob. Locked. No time to pick it, either.
“Here,” Keke whispered, pulling Lance into the screening room.
It was a dark, tight space. Six rows, ten seats each. They darted past the pneumatic tube sending station and down the aisle. The exit sign glowed to the right of the big screen. Lance thought she was going straight there, but she cut left into the second row. The floor was very sticky, underscored by the suction sounds their boots made.
Voices echoed in the foyer.
Lance yanked Keke down to her knees.
They dropped.
Crawled to the middle of the row. Froze. Stayed there, huddled up, trying not to breathe or move or touch anything. It smelled like buttered popcorn and ball sweat. The chairs were custom-made to serve the clientele. Plush recliners with prostate massage functions. Self-cleaning, retractable hoses – like octopus tentacles – that toys could be attached to. Seat pockets loaded with tissues and lube packets. A smart sterile cup in the cup holder for manual deposits.
Lance couldn’t see Keke over the backpack. But hearing her gag, he tapped her calf. They had to be absolutely, positively silent if they had any chance. Keke craned her neck to look back at him and shook her head. Was the headshake out of disgust for him or their current predicament? Probably both. Definitely both. They just had to lay low, wait for whoever was out there to vacate so they could finish the job and get the hell out.
But they weren’t leaving. Their voices got louder. Big, twangy voices. Three men’s voices:
“Fuck me, I can’t find him.”
“You sure he’s not outside somewhere sniffing ass?”
“Or maybe Boner’s resting for the Sabbath.”
“It’s a fucking machine.”
“Machines sleep, too, shitheel.”
“Your wife doesn’t. That bitch keeps going and going.”
“Hunter’s got a point there.”
“Fuck you! Fuck the both of you bastards!”
“Aw, poor little Jakey – you take everything so goddamn sensitively.”
“If you like her so much, you can have her!”
“Keep your thong on and help me find Boner, will ya? I got the alert for a reason and if Murphy finds out we lost his precious K-9, he’ll be having all of us.”
“Where are we supposed to look?”
“You’re the detective, you tell us.”
“Fer Chrissake, I can’t think under these conditions.”
“Then what do you suggest, Welch?”
“I say we clear our heads first.”
“I concur.”
“Fine.”
Then: Silence. A minute went by. Then two. Keke turned around and shrugged. Did they leave? Lance held out a hand: Hold on. It was one thing to hear voices, but nothing? The cops could’ve left. Or they could’ve been there, right over him, looking down on them.
But he had to make a move. Be smart. Think, think, think.
Lance tapped Keke’s calf again. He motioned for her to crawl. Slowly. And she lifted one knee, but then a hum shook the room, sending tremors through their bodies. He clutched her ankle.
She froze.
He froze.
The big screen turned on.
The voices were back. Coming inside. Two of them this time:
“Whoa, whoa, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Aw, c’mon Jakey boy, sharing is caring.”
“No sirree, this popcorn’s mine. Go get your own!”
“You’re acting like a pussy, you know that?”
“Yeah? Well, I’m a popcorn-munching pussy, so if you’ll excuse me, I got a flick to watch. And don’t even think about sitting next to me again – six feet!”
Lance didn’t breathe. Mouth bone-dry. Heart tried to make a break for the exit. He ducked. Looking under the seats. He saw boots. Two pairs. One of them scooted into the middle of the last row. The sticky floor sucking on soles. Till he sat down.
The other was coming down the aisle. Closer.
Then stopped. “You know which one he picked?”
“Didn’t ask. I hate spoilers.”
Lance blinked hard. The dark boots in the aisle blended into the carpet. Hard to make out. Leaning down, Lance’s cheek skimmed the floor. He jolted up, disgusted, then remembered he had a mask on, but was it too late? He didn’t turn around. More sticky sounds came next. Lance checked, keeping his gloved hand between the floor and his face. The second pair of boots entered row four.
Lance put his hand back on Keke’s ankle. He just knew she was freaking out. But they had to be still. Stay calm. A panic attack could get them killed. Breathing could get them killed.
The third man came in. “I couldn’t decide which flick, so I picked the c – ”
“Hey, no spoilers!”
“You already know how it ends, you cuck. Wait, where’s my popcorn?”
“The prick only made some for himself.”
“Waa waa, go cry to my wife about it!”
“Go fuck yourself, Jake.”
“I plan to, thanks!”
The third man moved down the aisle. Passing row five. Then four. Three. Two. Past Lance and Keke to the very first row. Right up front. Slumping down in the middle seat as the screen lit up, but before Lance had a chance to breathe –
BANG!
He flinched and Keke did, too, at the sound of the gunshot.
But they stayed low as noise exploded from the screen: sirens and scared voices, cops barking as human beings pleaded for their lives. Lance couldn’t see anything but could hear other things: buckles unbuckling, pants unzipping, massage seats throbbing, hoses being pulled, toys attached, grunts, moans, and murmurs to the heavens.
Somebody screamed: “Get off of him! Get off!” and a cop in the room yelped: “I am!”
Keke shook her head over and over. She was about to lose it. Lance tapped her leg. Stay calm. But she couldn’t. She lurched. Lifted her glove hand to her mouth. Lifted her mask to her nose.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
But it was no use. The killing. The stroking. The surround-sound screaming. It was all too motherfucking much. Lance snatched a tissue from a seat pocket. Reached out to her. Keke recoiled at the floppy white thing. Lance waved it, insisting it was clean. She kept shaking her head as she plucked it from him. She covered her mouth, but couldn’t cover her ears.
“I can’t breathe!”
“Jesus, I’m coming!”
Her head jerked forward once. Twice. Her cheeks swelled like a trombonist’s, which caused Lance’s mouth to fill with spicy saliva. Stomach bubbling. Seconds from erupting.
Then Keke’s cheeks deflated. Her mouth drooped. Did she throw up? Lance asked with a nod. She held up the empty tissue, her expression telling the story. Lance knew she was beating herself up. He could damn near hear her inner critic, that voice in her head scolding her. (“You just fed vomit to your baby!”) But they didn’t have time to dwell.
Lance pointed ahead. It was now or never. She pulled her mask down. And crawled. Carefully. He followed her out to the aisle. The movie played on, showing bodycam clips, death after death, like a gangster movie montage. Keke got down on her belly, inching forward. Lance did the same, passing row three. Then four. Five. The cops didn’t see them. Too engrossed in the movie, their heads back, eyes rolling, in the throes of pleasure.
As Lance wriggled into the foyer, Keke dusted herself off, massaging her belly.
Lance took her arm and whispered: “Let’s move.”
But Keke yanked away from him.
“Keke, we gotta go right now!”
She pulled Lance to the storage closet. “The bank’s in here, right?”
“Fuck the bank!”
“We’re not finished.”
“Keke, listen to me – ”
“No, you listen to me, Lance. You dragged me into this and I finish what I start, you hear me? Open the goddamn door so we can do this.”
Lance looked to the screening room. Heard the grunts over gunshots. Maybe this could work. If the cops released, they’d be all relaxed. Slow to react. That post-nut clarity could be critical should anything go sideways. He lifted his mask to bite off his right glove. His hand trembled as he put in codes on his tablet. Click. The door unlocked. They hurried through, closing it behind them, dampening the real-life horror soundtrack. Lance hit the switch.
Inside: freezer shelves of sterile cups, all barcoded, filled with whitish semen. The pneumatic tube snaked down from the ceiling to the receiving station, hooked to the computer against the far wall.
“Aight,” Lance said, his ear to the door, “get the pictures and let’s get the hell out.”
Keke crouched to unzip the bag. “When you said you got a tip about a sperm bank run by cops, I thought it was a joke.” She pulled out a metal box. “But you said you were dead serious.”
“I was – I am,” he said, still listening out. “C’mon, c’mon.”
She opened the box carefully. “You said these officers of the law were scared to death of becoming the minority in this country. And you wanted to protect me, to protect your child by making sure the world wouldn’t give birth to no more corrupt cops.”
“Yeah, exactly, so hurry up with the pictures so we can – ”
“Babe.”
“What? What’s the matter?”
“I didn’t bring a camera.”
“What?!” Lance’s bulging eyes filled up the eyeholes with terror. “What the hell is that?!”
“You said it yourself.” Keke carried the device to plant it under the computer. “We gotta blow this whole thing wide open.”
“That’s not what I meant – we’re not terrorists!”
“We’re solving your Trolley Problem.”
“What?”
“Killing bad sperm to save good lives.”
“No, that’s not how it goes – there is no solution.”
“There is now.”
“Keke, think about our child. If we get caught, what happens to our son?”
Keke went to grab Lance’s hand to put on her belly. “Do you feel anything? Any movement?” Lance didn’t feel anything. “I know you don’t, but I do. I feel everything. And he been moving less and less ever since we stepped foot in this shithole, you understand?”
“I didn’t want you to come.”
“It’s not about you, it’s about us!” she said. “I’m not about to let those sick muhfuckas kill my baby before he takes his first breath.”
Keke turned back to the device, but Lance grabbed her wrist.
“Let go,” she said.
“We can’t do this.”
“Watch me,” she started to say, but then, they heard a hum. Not from speakers.
He froze.
She froze.
Overhead, a cup zoomed through the pneumatic tube, landing at the receiving station.
Keke jumped back as a mechanical arm grabbed the cup. The computer analysed the sample. The arm stuck a barcode on the cup, then shelved it in the freezer.
Lance leaned to the door. Hearing nothing, he opened it. Slightly. Peeked out. Seeing nothing, he motioned for her to come quickly. Keke snatched up her backpack. There was no sound booming from the screening room. No signs of the cops. Did they finish? Maybe, maybe not, but he and Keke had to make a run for it. On three. Ready?
One. Lance took a deep breath.
Two. Keke took a deep breath.
Three! Lance took Keke’s hand and they ran.
Past the big concession counter, past the ticket-taker stand, past the Coming Soon frames, running, down the corridor, the exit in sight, there it was, dead ahead, almost there, almost there, almost there. Lance reached the back door, pushed the board for Keke to slide through –
But the metal teeth of the guard dog thrust into the hole.
Keke shrieked.
Lance fell back. “Yo!”
The dog kept barking, trying to squeeze through the opening. Keke helped Lance to his feet, and they turned to run back, but the three cops were right there, guns drawn with sticky trigger fingers.
Twenty minutes later, Lance and Keke rode in silence, their lives flashing before them like the dreary world whizzing by the squad car. Lance blamed himself. Hell, why wouldn’t he? He got Keke into this mess. Said the dog would be asleep for two hours. Said the cops wouldn’t be back till after ten. He assured her they wouldn’t get caught. And yet here they were.
The cops didn’t shoot. They frisked and unmasked, and they asked a thousand questions. Then arrested them for trespassing. They clearly released in that screening room. And in the back seat, Lance’s stomach knotted at the notion that all those senseless state-sanctioned murders caught on video saved his life.
Keke reached over to grab his shaking hand. How could she ever trust him after this? He failed. He failed her and their unborn child. Keke pointed to her watch.
Lance knew he fucked up. He mouthed the words: “I’m sorry.”
Keke pointed to her watch again. Lance didn’t understand at first. Then she gave him a look, her eyebrows raised, and he knew exactly what she meant. No talk, just action. His throat burned, and her eyes welled as he touched her belly. He held his breath, and together they pushed the button, and the eruption shook the streets, shooting flames into the crying, grey sky.
For this installment of A Flash of Inspiration, we’re featuring “Winter in the City” by Andrew Bertaina, which originally appeared in Litro on August 15, 2021. It is part of his short story collection One Person Away from You (2021), which won the Moon City Press Fiction Award.
*
How long have you been writing fiction? Do you write in other genres? Do you find that you return to certain themes in your writing?
I started writing fiction in my mid-twenties. I came to the genre after reading any number of amazing novelists and a few short story writers. My understanding of the genre has continued to expand and evolve alongside my reading, which makes it a never-ending well spring of interest.
I also write creative non-fiction. I had a somewhat unique MFA program that allowed me to work in both genres, and I have continued to write and publish essays since I graduated more than a decade ago. I’ve also written a few poems. In short, I think most authors will work in multiple genres if they write for a long time.
I do find myself returning to certain themes in my fiction. I tend to find that the bigger questions of life, whom should we marry, why are we here, does religion or spirituality play a role in a character’s life tend to be evergreen for me. The answer to those questions varies in my fiction, and in my conversations with friends. The fact that not everyone is drawing the same conclusion makes those subjects endlessly fascinating to me.
I should also note that the passage of time and distortions of time also play a role in my work. Its linearity, at least at our experiential level, is simple but confusing because we spend so much of our brain space thinking of the future or about the past. Thus, I often write about stories or characters where our typical understanding of time is shifted because it allows these distortions to be experienced more directly.
What inspired “Winter in the City”?
First off, I’m so glad to have my story appear in Litro. Second, the story really germinated from that old simple story of a writer having a voice come to them. When I started writing this story, a particular voice just carried me through the story, and I followed it along. The voice was keeping things at a distance, and it was my job to sort of figure out the why or at least represent it. I wrote the story before the pandemic hit, but it’s easy for me to see the way the story thinks through the way we often seek connection in virtual spaces that we’re lacking in the real world, and we all feel the strangeness of that reality.
Tell us a little about the collection One Person Away from You, of which “Winter in the City” is part. How does the story relate to the collection?
“Winter in the City” is an interesting story in the collection because I think it’s a call back story to some of my breakthrough writing during the tail end of my MFA. I read Sam the Cat by Matthew Klamm and got inspired to work in a slightly more voice-driven shorter form. Anyhow, the stories that followed were a first foray into what would eventually evolve into a lot of my flash fiction. I hadn’t really written in that style in quite some time.
However, I suppose that essential loneliness that is a part of most human existence will always be a part of my writing. I went back to that voice and channeled it through the perspective of someone living in 2019, which is when I wrote the story. Since I left my MFA, the contours of the world have shifted radically into the digital world, which has made that loneliness more acute. In a way, I think of “Winter in the City” as a companion or updated version of the title story from the collection, so I love that it’s the last one coming out before the publication!
Did you experience any challenges writing from a woman’s point of view?
As I said above, I really was just channeling a particular voice. On the one hand, that sounds like writer mumbo jumbo, but it occasionally happens to me. A voice arrives and I follow its whims. On the other hand, I was also raised by a single mother, and I was close to my mother and sister growing up. Thus, a lot of my positive and deeper relationships were with women. Thus, it doesn’t seem strange to me to try and investigate reality from that perspective. That said, I also think the primary emotion I’m trying to convey is universal, loneliness, and I think those universal feelings are safe ground.
So many of us lead unremarkable lives or, as you write, day to day lives with such little variation. What’s your secret for making fresh, engaging fiction out of a life like that of the protagonist, who hungers for change but seems to be foundering in the banality of her job, social media, television, etc.?
That’s an excellent question. I would say that I try and keep writing interesting at a line level. What is it about a particular character that makes the world they are rendering unique or fresh? I also love writing about landscapes or including some humor, a way to keep the reader engaged. In short though, it’s really trying to keep the writing interesting at that line level.
There is a reasonable argument for a banal life to not be rendered as banal, but I’ve also read and liked something that did the opposite. However, my story is also relying on these universals to keep the interest of the reader. Aren’t we all familiar with loneliness, with the odd disconnect of online dating or trying to have meaningful conversations at work? I think a story can also render reality and be engaging. I’d have to think more. But you could put that for all my answers here 😊.
I respect that you play with the protagonist’s stasis in this story. We’re so often told in writing workshops and in writing books that characters need to undergo a change in order for a story to be effective. Your protagonist instead just seems to continue shuffling along, and there’s no grand epiphany on her part. Was it a conscious artistic choice to write an inconclusive, “anti-epiphany” ending? What are the larger implications for endings of this nature?
I was in those workshops as well! The character must go through a hinge moment where they either change or have a chance to change but don’t! Iron clad. Except, it’s not really. There are other ways to tell a story. The form is capacious, but we often convince ourselves that the literary movement of our particular moment is all encompassing, and we’re always short-sighted in that way. That conversation continues to this day. Every story, flash, poem looks like this, and it’s just not true.
Our lives rarely have epiphanies of any sort. Rather, we do shuffle along, and then we often create a narrative or epiphany in hindsight. I knew that day my life would change. The first time I saw her etc. Of course, a lot of my stories include fantastical moments or the typical hinge variety. However, I think it’s okay to write fiction that is representative as opposed to one that follows a particular version of arc, resolution, etc.
Where do you turn for creative inspiration? Which writers (and/or stories) are particularly important to you? What of note are you currently reading?
Gosh, this question is really almost impossible. I’ll try though. Years ago, I read George Saunders, Jorge Luis Borges, and Kelly Link, which really inspired me to write in a more fantastical vein. Granted, the story for Litro isn’t fantastical, but I think those writers opened those doors for me. I favor those writers who are playful with form and content, but who also maintain an attention to detail at a line level.
That said, I love the work of some contemporary writers, Alice Munro, Steven Millhauser, Daniel Mason, Rion Almicar Scott, Andrew Porter. The list could go on in perpetuity. My favorite short story is “The Point” by Charles D’Ambrosio.
I’m currently enjoying the short stories of Michael Wang, Seth Borgen, Alina Stefanescu, and the last thing I read that really floored me was The Rings of Saturn by W.G. Sebald.
What are you working on now?
I’m currently working on some longer stories to try and wrap up my second unpublished collection of stories. I have written a lot of flash fiction in the last few years, so I feel I’ve flexed that muscle for a while. As such, I’m working on some historical fiction and a longer piece with elements of fabulist storytelling, which tend to interest me these days. Beyond that, I’m always working on at least one personal essay because I often use those essays as a means of coming to ground, in really deepening my understanding of what is happening in my life. Again, thank you so much for giving this opportunity!
I was a third of the way through Afterparties when I heard that Anthony Veasna So had died, aged 28, eight months shy of its publication. It would have been his debut book, and he was poised, as the press put it, on the brink of literary stardom. I’m not entirely sure why I mention his death upfront. Partly it feels important to admit that I knew, because this knowing must have coloured my subsequent reading. This would probably have been a very different review if I’d assumed the author was still alive – more positive or negative I obviously can’t say, but different for sure. Another reason relates to a note in the acknowledgements: The author thanks a friend for being “an airtight vault of all my opinions that the world is not ready for yet.” It’s an intriguing line, landing just the wrong side of arrogant, maybe, but one which reframes the whole collection as an act of restraint. So, for as much as these stories will almost unavoidably be hailed as an authentic insight into what it means to be a queer, second-gen immigrant living in post-recession California, it’s worth considering that this is only what the author deemed palatable for our current (in)sensibilities. Wondering what those incendiary opinions were and knowing that we’ll never find out meant that much of my time rereading this book was spent looking for ghosts of them – imagining what these edges would have looked like before they were blunted. Finally, there’s something perversely fitting about So’s death being ever-present in my reading. So much in these stories is about how tragedy permeates everything (even – perhaps, especially – when we’re trying not to let it) that attempting to read the collection whilst ignoring the loss of the author felt inimical to the book itself. [1]
Afterparties is a collection of 10 stories, each one an intricate world unto itself. When placed together, they expand to the complexity of a universe. The niche is a Cambodian emigrant community living in California: the Mas, Bas, and Gongs who escaped the autogenocidal regime of the Khmer Rouge, and their half-American, half-Cambodian children. Anthony So was one of this new generation. Likewise for most of the narrators in the collection. Within this, though, So exhibits an impressive ability to convincingly voice a broad range of characters: male, female, gay, straight; and, in the final story, his own mother. The majority of the stories are also set in a similar period of recent history: the aftermath of the 2007–2009 Great Recession. Again, the specific locations are wide-ranging: a donut shop, the after-party of a Cambodian wedding, a down-at-heel old people’s home, a wat.
I was interested in Afterparties because I’d recently read Nothing Ever Dies: Vietnam and the Memory of War by Viet Thanh Nguyen. It’s a non-fiction book but opens with a line straight out of the next Great American Novel: “All wars are fought twice, the first time on the battlefield, the second time in memory.”[2] According to Nguyen, “cultural forms” (such as literature) have a role in memorialisation that can either prop up or undercut official narratives. I was intrigued to see what voices would speak through So’s book, especially after learning that Nguyen had read and praised the first story in the collection.[3] He described its success in an LA Times article, approving of the fact that whilst most Cambodian-American literature tended to focus on the terror and degradation of the genocide, So had managed to document the life and culture of Cambodian Americans living now, without forgetting that history.[4]
Focusing on a generation that didn’t experience the genocide serves to imbue its memory with ambivalence. In “Superking Son,” the title character is a badminton coach who also runs a failing convenience store. Superking Son vents about how he grew up “in the real hood,” training for badminton by curling boxes as he stacked shelves. The current generation will never understand his struggle, just like “the deadbeats (his) age will…never understand the Pol Pot crap.” But the young narrators reply internally that they do have their own struggles, because it’s “hard to do well in school, especially as a Cambo. And aren’t we supposed to aspire…to attend college and become pharmacists? Wasn’t that what our parents had been working for? Why our ancestors freaking died?” Each generation presumably wants the next to have it better, but they can’t help resenting this when it happens. Nothing gives Superking Son greater joy than finally taking Kevin (a privileged new recruit) down a peg, by beating him in one of the finest games of badminton the community has ever seen.
One generation’s chokehold on the next is made more explicit in the twin stories “Maly Maly Maly” and “Somaly Serey, Serey Somaly.” In “Maly, Maly, Maly,” the title character and her cousin Ves are “exiled” from Ma Eng’s house and the preparations going on inside: A sort of baby shower is being planned for Maly’s second cousin. The newborn has been heralded by Ma Eng as a reincarnation of Maly’s dead mother. So not only is the newest generation literally inhabited by the old, but the old deny the young the chance to decide which of the elderly they are inhabited by. Maly is rueful about the fact that her mother has been reborn to someone else – the second cousin – rather than Maly herself, and the reader feels the sense of unfairness in that twisted logic: If Maly’s mother had to die, if it’s possible that she can be reborn, then why couldn’t it have been Maly that gave birth to her? Instead, Maly is left worrying that the child she ends up having will be the reincarnation of Ma Eng, whom she hates. How this worry develops into resentment (again, the blame is misplaced), how intensely she ends up hating her second cousin, is seen later in “Somaly Serey, Serey Somaly.” The story is told from the perspective of Serey, the second cousin whose body Maly’s mother haunts. Here, the memory of the genocide generation is passed on with a little more agency, but one thing remains unavoidable: The ghost has to be passed on to someone. How they will then carry it is unknown.
The ambivalence towards the culture and history these characters (are expected to) carry is matched by their complex relationship with the culture they now find themselves in. Whilst risking the “if they don’t like it, they should go home” vitriol that’s often used to shut down any hint of “complaining,” those who contain more than one culture are often in a unique position to point out what the monocultured can’t see. The author doesn’t shy away from wry but on-point suggestions that the United States might not be so very different from Pol Pot’s murderous dictatorship. In “The Three Women of Chuck’s Donuts,” shop owner Sothy marvels that her hands, worn from working long hours making batter, have become those of her mother, who picked rice for the Khmer Rouge regime. Sothy’s kids have witnessed “drive-by gang shootings, the homeless men lying in the alley in heroin-induced comas, the robberies of neighbouring businesses, and even of Chuck’s Donuts once…” Most characters across the collection are struggling in the aftermath of the recession; most are workers in failed or failing businesses. The final story makes the brutalism more explicit, recounting a school shooting back in the 80s that left five kids dead (four of them Khmer) and thirty others wounded. But, despite the implicit and explicit disenchantment of capitalism in California, in “Safe Spaces,” narrator Anthony can’t stop cheating on Ben (his Cambodian lover) with Jake, an American guy he met at a Fourth of July party: “I reflected on the differences between Ben and Jake in bed, how Ben’s touch felt warm, never-ending, so different from the crashing rush I inevitably had, later that night, with Jake.” Similarly, back in “Maly Maly Maly,” when Ves finds a copy of Videodrome, he explains to his cousin that the film is a metaphor for being raped by the media. He muses that maybe this mind-fuckery is somehow necessary for survival, that “we had to let ourselves be violated by all those shows we loved as kids…Full House, Step by Step, Family Matters – Steve Urkel fucked us in the brains every day after school on ABC Family.” Throughout the collection, characters are fucked both metaphorically and literally by what they want and what they need.
I wanted to end by returning to that line about opinions for which the world isn’t ready. My guesses about these could be way off, thus proving the author’s point. It’s difficult not to guess, though. I keep coming back to another of Viet Thanh Nguyen’s observations: that “minority writers know they are most easily heard in America when they speak about the historical events that defined their populations.” This is what Western audiences are comfortable with, so it informs the realpolitik of the publishing world that minorities must navigate in order to be heard. We’ve already seen that Anthony So moved beyond this expectation, exploring the struggles and joys of first and second generation Cambodian-Americans, part-critiquing, part-embracing the American Dream. The reader grows more uncomfortable, because it’s no longer a harrowing book about “what those people experienced over there,” but an insight into “what these people experience over here.” Within the final third of the book, I felt a further shift towards how we ourselves experience the communities that So is writing about. I wonder if it’s here that we find a blunt knife or two that he was looking to sharpen later in his career. In the story about the school shooting, for example, the mother tells her son that, following the tragedy, Michael Jackson came to pay his respects to the young victims, thereby raising awareness. To which her young son replies, “but why didn’t he visit us sooner, so that people could notice us before?…Then no one would have messed with us. We would have been important.”
So what happens when we do finally notice? Do we, as in the story “Safe Spaces,”employ someone from that minority to “teach rich kids with fake Adderall prescriptions how to be ‘socially conscious’”’ through learning a syllabus called Human Development? And does this only apply “at the most elite of private high schools, the ones whose names started with a capitalised The and ended with a capitalised School, as if only the wealthy possessed a real capacity to ‘develop’”?
It is sad that Anthony Veasna So will not be able to share the opinions we need to hear. Maybe there are other authors out there, inspired by his example, already sharpening their knives. Maybe we should sharpen them ourselves.
[1] Actually, it’s more complicated than that. Certain characters in the stories arguably do try to box-off tragedy and, like squeezing a water-filled balloon, what’s inside is displaced, popping up elsewhere along their membrane. So it would have been possible, maybe, to write a review which “ignored” the author’s death, pushing it down until eventually something else bulged up and out of the review. This might have been a fruitful experiential way to engage with some of the themes in the book, but we’re around 500 words deep already, and all this meta-stuff is probably sapping your patience as much as it’s twisting my melon, so we’ll try and get to the actual stories now. Apologies.
[2] Fundamental to memorialisation is the name given to something, as well as who gets to bestow it. “The Vietnam War” (or “the American War” if you’re Vietnamese) wasn’t geographically limited to Vietnam; it included South Koreans, Laotians, and Cambodians. Memorialised differently, it expands temporally, too, becoming part of an endless imperialist crusade.
[3] Originally appearing in The New Yorker, it can be read here if you’re a paid-up subscriber/haven’t already rinsed your free views: “Three Women of Chuck’s Donuts,” by Anthony Veasna So | The New Yorker
[4] Emerging writer Anthony Veasna So died Dec. 8 at 28 – Los Angeles Times (latimes.com)
Afterparties
by Anthony Veasna So
272 pages, Grove Press UK
Third Place in Litro’s Nature Summer Flash Fiction Competition
The path on the coast which leads to the Abbaye is prohibited to cyclists interdit aux velos is the public announcement on one of those annoying stark signs loved by the French citizenry or at least most of them is it because of the danger of collision or experience of litigious conflict on the narrow ascending gravel tracks which overlook the bay of ostentatious yachts no can remember when there was last even the smallest amount of rain here the hot gravel makes a kind of light dusty smoke when the wheels of my racing green bike trailer pull along and little Max can stay put in there with his teddies his Where The Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak which only half scares him half makes him want to be a King this is a text that is most underestimated for its political message even if I have to get down and walk the sharp stones make me daydream of puncture proof tyres as I’ve had so many punctures recently it may be a tarot sign for a broken heart or maybe the opposite as if I’m some kind of invincible lover from out on the water here or there a mussel or shellfish catcher with their buckets and wellington boots mostly middle-aged masculine Ile de Ré voices some with upper arm marine tattoos or their first girlfriend’s names Melodie Anne-Laure Fannie some scratched out try to keep relatively open minds or wider erotic nonmonogamous relationship options still open to address the obstinately closed world of their prey the track is steep one wonders at other nonobvious reasons for the prohibition of bikes spiritual ones whatever that might mean these days now that god is dead so they say although let’s be honest who knows when it comes to measuring the supernatural realities my daughter finds and photographs two ladybirds mating although they were trying their upmost to keep it a private affair and titles it the most beautiful event in nature knowing full well she is foregrounding a sexual encounter smiling to herself inwardly at the Abbaye the temperature goes past twenty degrees and it is still only mid-May the ruin is twelfth-century Cistercian who still followed the rule of Benedict and the geckos green and grey and longish lithe bodies which rule its stony back walls are prehistory my oldest son finds a baby starling fallen from its high nest and cowering in a corner he gently rubs its furry black-grey shiny plumage and it regains some courage to seek flight again but the odds are now stacked against it Dad that self-same oldest son reports honestly and with a tone of real sadness as he can get quite sentimental like that and sentiment isn’t to be discouraged in boys especially right now still if Max my youngest son still in the buggy reading intently was King I can tell you all for nothing those wild things well they’d have to get in line once and for all and he would never abide the continuing hegemony of Patriarchy as above all he adores his one and only
1.
I found myself wanting to board a roller-coaster in hopes it might terminate the pregnancy. It came to me in dreams, this rickety roller-coaster made of white, wooden planks, held together by rusted bolts and nails. For two weeks, I craved the momentum, the shock to my body, the accelerated rise and fall and the jolting from side to side. Maybe I wanted someone, or something, to shake me awake.
2.
The more I read about pregnancy, the more terrified I became. I wanted to run. Perhaps it was the thought of giving up alcohol for more than nine months, or maybe it was the promise of severe labour pain, or even the thought of what comes after pregnancy: the loss of sleep, the loss of friends, the loss of travel, the loss, the loss…
3.
I thought maybe I was afraid that I would want this more than I already did, and then I would be devastated by the likelihood of a miscarriage. Maybe I would carry my baby to term and love it too much. I imagined how my hormones would change me biologically and how I wouldn’t even miss the independence I once had because I would be so consumed with love. And then I’d find myself wanting to ride that old roller-coaster again, my hands raised above my head, my voice screaming in exaltation.
4.
The night before my husband and I tried to conceive, I confided my lingering doubts to him. We lay side by side in bed, drunk in our pyjamas.
“Maybe I should finish school first,” I said, “or at least wait until I have some more clarity.”
My husband sighed in relief. “I’m so happy to hear you say that. I’ve been freaking out this whole time, thinking I was the only one. You seemed so sure before. What changed?”
I paused in thought.
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel like the right time anymore.”
The truth is that I really did know. The past several days, my mind was plagued with many doubts. I thought of the life I could no longer live, uninterrupted. I thought of the trips I wouldn’t be able to take, the nights I wouldn’t be able to go out, the early mornings I would spend nursing a baby. I did worry about finishing school, but that was only a small piece of the puzzle.
5.
My husband and I went to brunch with some friends. As they each proceeded to order multiple mimosas and Bloody Marys, I settled for one cup of coffee. I was feeling a little jealous of the others until this woman and her baby walked into the restaurant. Her hair was in a messy bun, she was wearing sweatpants, and her baby was wearing a cute, striped onesie with a bow in its hair. She handed her baby to another woman sitting at their table, and the jealousy within me surged with even greater intensity. I wished that I was one of these women who got to hold and cradle the baby. I felt a sense of longing that I’d forgotten I had. I placed my hand on my stomach and sighed.
2015
The trip to London is Jay’s idea, two months into this union that neither of us has given a name to. Jay has an obsession with a tiny specialist record shop in Soho, his nose is on the big side, and his hair sticks out around his ears in tufts that I want to flatten down, but he’s tall and confident in a restless, where’s-my-next-joint kind of way.
Chipotle on Baker Street: The future has arrived at the steel-slab tables where we sit and eat Latin American food from plastic baskets that are stacked neatly for reuse. Outside the window bright clouds shimmy above the people coming and going, and the city throbs with its sense of self. I’m stunned by it all because I’ve been in bed for practically five years; everything seems big and loud and impressive.
Jay is barely out of his twenties and I’m well into my thirties, and this is the gist of it: Jay’s version of time is an elastic infinity stretching into the Neverland of the future. Mine is a condensed, squashed thing that makes the next twenty years seem like twenty minutes. A woman of about the same age as me bounces her baby, taco in hand, and I can see the hint of crow’s feet around her eyes, the last smatterings of youth being swallowed into the vacuum of late nights and early morning feeds. I watch her stare at the baby gurgling through tiny lips, sucking up her vitality and projecting it back out into the world as she laughs along.
I look at Jay and wonder, and then I ask the question.
“Do I want kids?” he repeats, shrugging his shoulders and munching his burrito.
I push shards of taco shell into splashes of black bean. “People usually know, one way or another…”
His body tenses, and his eyes fail to connect. “What is this wanting kids?” he grouses. “Everyone wants kids as if they’re some kind of possession, something I buy from the shop and just take home and stick in a cage like mice or gerbils or fucking…rats.”
He wolfs down the last bite of burrito and slugs back his Coke as if the food is an assault on his throat, and I imagine him with an army of rodent babies that, despite his current venom, he would come to love. He once had a tortoise who died in hibernation despite all the cotton wool and warmth of the radiator. Never had another pet, he said.
I stare at him and smile.
“What?” he licks guacamole from around his mouth, eyes glinting.
“You.” I grin back.
His irritation floats off as fast as the shoal of clouds pushing past the window. Summer London: red bus slick with a model’s outline, bare skin, canary yellow cardigan, easyJet flights to Amsterdam. Jay’s hand jabbing affectionately at my cheek. I want to reach out and smooth those tufts of hair, lay my head on his chest as if it were a bed of grass that hasn’t yet been pissed on by the local cats. Has he? Been pissed on, metaphorically speaking? You could say he’s a popular boy. Man/boy. I always knew who Jay was and that, more often than not, there was a girlfriend or someone he was with. His grass was patchy, let’s just say that.
“Why are you so worried about whether I want kids?” he says. His eyes are so firmly on mine that I blink away.
I think of the last five years when the energy even to contemplate this question would have been too much to muster, and whether I’m now destined to be one of those desperate body-clock women who only wants kids because she’s running out of time. Did I ever want them to begin with? I mean that deep urge you hear about? I know it was one of those momentous life choices I thought I’d have my turn at until the exhaustion came and took the luxury of time away; flatlining in bed listening to radio programmes about the flatlining economy, in which the capitalist holier-than-thous said we have to live within our means and the other people either agreed or became irate. And it strikes me now, so near to the epicentre of the nation’s wealth, that having babies is like the economy, pushing money out into the world, watching it grow and take on a momentum of its own until we’re just this big mass… and when the whole thing goes wrong we just pump a lot of new money into the world. Notes out of think air; speculate to accumulate; pro-creation. Like it or lump it, it’s the way things are, and sooner or later the urge to join in starts pressing at you.
*
I’d known I was getting better when I got the urge to go out and have sex with someone; someone like Jay who walked past my bedroom window, all cocky and knowing and not even really good looking. My limbs had regained enough strength to lift the makeup brush to my face whilst leaving just enough bareness of skin to catch someone like Jay’s eye. It turned out that Jay liked weed and dub reggae and skinny girls with long hair and, though technically not a girl anymore, I fitted the bill. He walked past my bedroom window every morning at ten past nine, his grubby work bag beating against his side like a drum. I found out that he was a builder and which pub he drank in, and put myself in his way for just long enough. By the end of the night he was offering me shots of black Sambuca, which I declined for Bombay Sapphire and tonic. He said he wasn’t surprised Sambuca wasn’t my thing, and he didn’t seem to notice that I made my one drink last all night, hazed as he was in his stoned, smiling way complemented by his friends’ Valium-ghostliness, haunting around each other like shadowless creatures who I bantered with and baited just to bring to life. I’d spent too long being a shadowless creature myself to tolerate it in others.
*
Afternoon in Soho: I tag along to Dub Vendor, which Jay treats as the Holy Mecca and where I forget, for a while, about the unanswered question. Soho is reminiscent of itself but different than I remember, Soho is Wahaca, Bar Bruno, Banana Tree, Vietnamese street food, Hummingbird Bakery, hemp milk and barley grass, cocoa nibs, agave syrup, Thai massage, and technicolour cats waving beneath Chinese lanterns; Restaurant Lease to 2025, £160,000 per year, Substantial Premium, 1 a.m. license.
D’Arblay Street;theDub Vendor concession is tacked onto the back of Black Market Records, but when we arrive Black Market is stripped to its bare bones, light fittings hanging loose inside wooden casings, a single dance music poster hanging from the wall. We make our way through to the back. Cockney-patois ricochets around the four walls, about whole catalogues and pressings and mixings. A man rushes in desperate for news about the sudden demise of the shop, talking about protected leases and strength in numbers and tweeting a photo he’s just taken on his phone. The owner of the Dub Vendor Concession predicts that it too will be gone by Sunday; the rents are going up in September. Everywhere around us things are changing, hanging in the balance, perching precariously on the wings of global capitalism. Notes out of thin air; speculate to accumulate; pro-creation.
As we wander back down D’Arblay Street onto Wardour Street, I picture Jay in middle age, T-shirt brimming over a wide girth; neck, hands, shoulders, everything smoothed and stretched wide like a canvas pulled on a rack, and I wonder what genetic cocktail the two of us might throw out: European Haplogroup I, Celtic skin tone, slightly above average height, several inflammatory markers from my side and a predisposition to some disease or other from his.
*
Water beats time in the hotel wet room, with its Moroccan tiles and marble basin mounted on stripped pine. I imagine this is our home instead of where we usually end up: Jay’s bedsit with its smoke-infused stale-man smell. The jingle of a Disney cartoon fills the room as Jay’s soap-fresh lips tickle my ear, his naked thighs locking around my legs, nudging me onto the bed. He tells me to turn off the TV, pushes in close, his skin warm and soft from the shower.
His eyes pulsate under the spotlights. He burrows his mouth into my neck and whispers his request. I root around in my makeup bag, passing my hand over a foil packet, letting my fingers linger on its sharp edges and then telling him that I forgot, and before you know it he’s inside me, buoyed along by the three Czech lagers and two Polish vodkas and by the act itself, which insists so insistently on supremacy that I am left breathless and wet with the question of future.
I lie awake as Jay snores and wonder whose responsibility it was to remind him to pull out, but it’s a pointless question: me with my recklessly abandoned reasoning and Jay with his drunken willy and his unpredictable semen.
*
Tube back to Waterloo. A skinny girl mirrors her mother’s pose: cross-legged and efficient, with large glasses and an Alice band pushing her cornfield hair back from her forehead. She’s a reproduction in miniature, skin so pale I can practically see inside of her. There’s something in the way nature copies yet still manages to formulate a new cluster of possibilities each time. A buggy hovers over the escalator. “Fuck’s sake,” Jay says, “you think they’d take that thing down rather than lug that kid like Cleopatra on the fucking Nile.” I stare at the buggy, remembering that inside me right now could be the seed of a thing that began during a moment that Jay either can’t remember, or hasn’t bothered to mention.
*
My bedroom back at home is a vortex that sucks me back to inertia. The tulip nets throw strange jungle shadows on the walls. I lie down on the cool bed and watch the road beyond lined in a damp sheen, LED lights casting it in a white-blue haze. The tarmac hums. The shadows cast by the tulips loom large and lofty as trees, their bulbous heads stretched and immense. I am exhausted and uneasy, caught between the cosy claustrophobia of the room and the impending sense of a decision to be made.
The chemist and the doctor’s surgery are closed, and there’s no way of dealing with this until morning, but when the morning comes I’m in a fog of confusion and that crushing tiredness that obliterates everything in its wake. I want to hear Jay’s dirty laugh, I want him to tell me one of his silly jokes. I want to hear his funny, silly voice. He doesn’t return two texts and one voice message. Twenty-four hours come and go; all the websites agree that you have seventy-two hours for 89 percent effectiveness. It’s not the first time Jay has gone AWOL: He recently went off to Bournemouth for two days without his mobile. When I asked him what he had got up to, he laughed and lowered his voice conspiratorially and said, What goes on on tour stays on tour, and then he rubbed my leg with his big hand and said Joking, baby, joking, and told me that it was a mate’s stag do; naked rubber dolls with orifices, coke in the toilets and drinking games all night. Carnage, he said, absolute carnage.
*
On the phone the next morning, Jay’s voice is as bright and buoyant as the sun peeping through the curtains. He tells me he’s taking me to Cantina for breakfast, laughing as if at a dirty joke. And when I meet him there, every crease in his complexion is as it was, every hair as haphazard, everything as unplanned yet fully confident as it always was.
“I was out for the count,” he says in Cantina, looking down at his food. I hide my irritation behind a passive smile; imagine him screwing some girl from the pub with more get up and go than me and ten times the tolerance to Polish vodka. Dan the waiter jokes to Jay about keeping me up all night, and they laugh their blokey laugh, and I laugh, too, pleased to be thought of as capable of wearing Jay out. And still the decision hangs in the air. Something about the whole thing is so abstract, I can barely get hold of it. A potentially life-altering decision that comes down to one little pill that may or may not alter the probability of getting pregnant that may or may not be there to begin with. Jay’s baby, I think: JAY’S BABY, and I can’t imagine it, and because I can’t imagine it, I drag myself up and out of the door. The chemist is closed for lunch and I’ve missed the 8 a.m. deadline to get an appointment with the doctor.
*
When the chemist opens I go back there and ask the male pharmacist for the pill, which is quite embarrassing because he’s quiet and sweet and it just feels a bit furtive asking a man you don’t know to decide whether to sell you something that confirms you’ve very recently had unprotected sex. But the pharmacist just treats it as if it’s any other interaction, like asking for paracetamol, and I go on my way. After I take it, I feel quite nauseous and a bit weird, and later on very tired and washed out.
*
A few months later we have gone our separate ways. Jay proves to be too unreliable, too difficult to pin down. He prefers nights in the pub to nights with me, and it turns out I’m not ready to be a pub-girlfriend. The last straw is the sex we have when he’s drunk again, and I’m sober again, and although I make sure we use a condom every time, I realise that we’re never going to be loving, not in that way. And still I miss his dirty laugh and his silly jokes and his big hands around my waist and my back.
*
And it only takes a few months for Jay to go out and get a new me, who isn’t really a me at all. And still I’m surprised when it happens, six months later, as if I haven’t been expecting it. I see them in the aisle of Tesco Express among the jars of curry sauce and then chatting to someone outside my bedroom window, brazen as the shoal of clouds in the sky; and I can see the oval bump protruding from the vest top of his new love. Jay’s eyes move in my direction a few times as if he expects that I might be here, watching from behind the tulip nets.
A few weeks ago I trapped the little finger of my right hand in a car door and severed the nail at the base, an accident that was shocking and excruciating but ultimately minor. I was with both my toddler and my mother when it happened – getting out of my mother’s car, which she had parked on a hill, so that the incline allowed the heavy door to fall back as I got out – which meant I had 1) someone to care for me and 2) someone to care for, and therefore very little space in which to spin out into pain, as well as water to wash it, a clean cloth to dry it, and a plaster to cover it. The toddler was disconcerted by my momentary shrieking and clutching and sitting on the wall saying I thought I would faint, but I attempted in the hour following, as we walked around the nearby woods and playground, to demonstrate the temporary, surmountable nature of my pain, and of my fallibility. By the evening, it was an inconvenience only.
However, I could not look at the damaged finger without trepidation and an edge of nausea that did not subside over the following days, but rose and churned, started to damp the feet and then ankles and then thighs of each moment, until I was wading in it, tripping, swimming, drowning. It bothered me. No, that’s not strong enough: It disgusted me, horrified me, even, to see that part of my body undone. It felt like I was coming undone. When the severed nail fell away to reveal the raw, bulging flesh underneath – a hot slice of pain at the edge of a playground, a few weeks later, caught on the Velcro inside my son’s nappy bag – I stood staring at it while the blurred world cascaded around me for long enough that when I looked up, it was several seconds before I located my boy.
What I mean is, the injury had a power over me; it wasn’t only an injury, it had become symbolic. It had gained the ability to warp time and space.
I should explain.
A decade or so earlier, on a hill, coincidentally less than half a mile from the hill my mother parked on, another door had closed too fast and forcefully on the same and another of my fingers. The later injury was almost identical, except scaled down, a suggestion only of the previous one, and a tincture only of that first pain. The finger that was caught in my mother’s car door, in fact, was not my original finger, or not entirely; along with its neighbour, it had been reconstructed by a plastic surgeon ten years before. The nails were already distorted: wonky and overly curved, too stiff. They had sat, too obvious, at the end of my hand for a decade, during which early stage arthritis had begun in the joints of the same fingers, a result, a doctor explained, of the ricocheting impact on the bone. Regularly, as I toyed with items on tables, tore up beer mats, rolled cigarettes, took notes, a friend or stranger had asked me: What happened to your hand?
I would tell them the truth, but not the whole truth, which I will try, and inevitably fail, to tell you now.
I was twenty-two and living with a boyfriend in a house that was bordering on derelict. There was no central heating or hot water, and several of the windows were broken or hanging from hinges. The front door was warped and hard to shut. If you were going out, you had to reach back through the door and pull it hard, whipping your hand out at the last moment, or it would bounce open again. We became adept at this act, nonchalant about it, surprising visitors with the strength and suddenness of our yanking. The problem could have been fixed, perhaps, easily, by fixing a door handle onto the outside, but we were not that industrious. We were young and distracted. We had conditioned ourselves to enjoy the idiosyncrasies, deprivations, trepidations of the house. We used piles of blankets and fan heaters, wore hats and gloves inside, and took icy showers in the middle of winter, cooked on a fire outside. But perhaps these conditions took their toll, or the dereliction itself began to creep into us, at least into our relationship, because it wasn’t long before I was catastrophically depressed and he was having daily rages.
We had arguments. At first, it was only once a month or so but then it was every week, twice a week, every day. There were three reasons we argued and this never shifted, only the intensity bubbled up or boiled over. The most common argument we had was because I was sad. I would start crying, and he would be furious. Why are you doing this? he’d say. What do you want from me? Stop crying, why are you always crying, stop crying. And so on. The second was because he was silent. This time I would be the one who could not stand his demeanour. What’s wrong? I would say. Why won’t you talk to me? Can’t you tell me what’s wrong, please, let me help. He did not want me to help, and my questions were not answered, only drove and stuffed him further into his silence. The last type of argument happened any time I said I had seen another man, a male friend or acquaintance or even an enemy, or once, when I had been to a Bruce Springsteen concert. He became belligerent and demanded an excess of details: what we said, if I laughed, how close we stood, if we hugged, if he looked at my chest, had I given him my number, how did the meeting come about, had I ever slept with him, I wanted to sleep with him, didn’t I? Conversely, he was a musician and often made friends at gigs, or out busking, and mostly these friends were women. Sometimes he stayed the night at their houses without telling me he wasn’t coming home or where he was. Often, I found their phone numbers and names scribbled on bits of paper in his pockets when I did the washing. It makes me laugh now to write that, and to think it was possible, that at twenty-two, a recently graduated feminist with hardened ideas about the patriarchy and gender roles and emancipation, I was already doing my boyfriend’s washing, as well as cleaning and cooking for him, and believing all his far-reaching reasons for having these women’s numbers in his pockets. We never argued about that, perhaps because I knew how all our arguments turned out, and it made no sense for me to start one.
The first time he hurt me I was startled, shocked, even, that it had happened. We were arguing on the way to a café – we had no internet at home so went there to work – and he said I was wasting his time and he’d go somewhere else. I said, “Fine,” haughty and hurt, and turned from him and he reached out and grabbed the top of my arm, pinching it, hard enough that I yelped. “Ow,” I said, rubbing the area, “you hurt me.” “That didn’t hurt,” he said, “don’t be ridiculous.” Then he laughed and went on his way. More than the hurt, what surprised me was that later, unusually, he wasn’t angry any more but in a good mood. He’d brought me a tiny chocolate book and a bottle of whiskey for us to share. He played me a new song he’d written.
The second time he hurt me seemed almost like an accident: He pushed me onto the bed during an argument, and I twisted my shoulder and bruised the backs of my thighs on the hard wooden edge of the bed. He landed on top of me, winding me, and once I had got my breath back and the pain had subsided, I was only relieved to see he liked me again.
The incident with my hand, perhaps, was the last time his violence marked the end of his anger. After that – because although his actions had caused the need for me to have my right hand reconstructed, I did not leave, in fact, he left me and I insisted we get back together a month later – his anger swelled and burst its dams, permeated the house, the street, the air, any time we were together. It was a storm we lived inside, a fugue state, a fog, intoxicating and transfixing, choking and suffocating, I would be paralysed, held within it, unable to act except – I recoil to remember – to insist it was my fault.
I always insisted it was my fault.
Even when he threw a chair at me. Even when he threw a shoe at my head, with the wooden shoe mould still inside it. Even when he shouted at me for hours on end, including one night from eleven p.m. until six in the morning, after which I felt certain that something essential inside me had been grated down to nothing, lost forever. Even when he called me an idiot, and a whore, and greedy, and told me that if I wanted to lose weight I should just stop eating, what was wrong with me, I didn’t have bulimia, I was just greedy and wasteful. Even when he admitted he had kissed that girl, and another of them, and walked all the way down Wardour Street – only Wardour Street, maybe a corner of Berwick Street – clasping her hand.
But all of that came later. And what I wanted to write about was the hand. My hand. My right hand. The mangled one.
We argued all that morning, but at some point something flipped in me so that I understood, for one sudden, enlightened moment, that he didn’t love me, didn’t want me, despised me, in fact. And I seized the moment, seized my abrupt self-preservation instinct, and grabbed my bag and rushed out of the house. But then, the door – I had to shut the door. He was coming up behind me. I could see him. I wanted to be on the other side of the door. I was on the front step, but I had to shut it. I reached through to shut the door. And at the same moment, I saw him raise his leg and bring it down.
Moments later, there was only pain, agony, blood, my pulse a clanging bell shattering the street, the moment, severing the possibilities I was trying to rush out into. I screamed. The door juddered open. He stood, wide-mouthed, in awe. There was so much blood.
For years I kept rerunning those brief moments trying to work out if he intended to hurt me, if it was an accident, if he was as shocked by what happened as I was, or only shocked by himself, until in the end I have to conclude that he did, and he knew it, that he saw my hand shoot back through the door – we complained about the door endlessly – so he must have seen it as he raised his leg – I saw his leg, I can remember – and thrust it hard against the broad blue-painted wood, he must have done.
I drank morphine for a week until the operation and, though I had reckoned that as the end of pain, in fact I had to drink morphine for another week after, too, once the anaesthetic wore off and the new pain of having had my finger rearranged by scalpels and needles sunk through the bone and floored me. I won’t go into the rest of that winter, how long it took to heal and the various restrictions and humiliations of my non-linear recovery. It was enough to remember it, last month, when the scaled down version of the same accident happened again.
Accident. It’s not the right word. I guess that is what keeps troubling me, a decade later. That I keep calling it an accident.
That I can’t fully relinquish the idea that it was my fault: I argued, I angered him, and most of all, I stayed. In the moment when he was most contrite – those four hours waiting in A&E while my blood dripped and I sucked nitrous oxide to pretend delirium could crush pain – I told him not to worry, not to blame himself, it was my fault as much as his.
It wasn’t. That’s what I can’t get my head to believe. All this time later, all this life experience later, all this learning and reading and understanding the dynamics of abusive relationships and wanting to be different later. Still, I am asking myself: Why did I let it happen? Why didn’t I walk away sooner? The first time he pinched me. The first time I found a stranger’s number in his pocket.
Now I look at the bulging flesh of the exposed tip of my twice-crushed finger and I try to work out how I can make it up to my body, when in an instant a coincidence of sensation can spin everything backwards so that what happened is happening again, over and over again. I want it to end, to draw a line under it, and yet my bones, my flesh, the prematurely arthritic bulges in my knuckles remember.
Perhaps I will get two doors tattooed there: one to go in, and one to go out. One to get away, and one to hide behind. One to open and one to close. One to pass through, and one to only stare at, scrutinise, creep up to the edges of, and then seal forever. I would like a door that I can close behind me, click it silently into the lock and shut away those memories, and then throw away the key and walk away and not look back once, not ever.
Sometimes it feels to me completely artificial to make statements that I know to be true. It is as though growing up is only a process of borrowing the robes of adulthood, dressing up in facts I still can’t believe are mine to use. Instead, I keep finding myself retelling the story inside my own head, but always with the wrong conclusions attached. He never hit me, I will say, except if you count pinching, or pushing, or throwing hard objects – or perhaps what makes me falter is how easy it is to imagine, to remember, how many are in far worse scenarios, with far less recourse to escape. I can’t wear these facts because others need them more. And yet facts are not finite, and to speak, to write, is to share, to allow space for anyone to remember. And what I remember also is that it was not any of these acts that hurt the most, in the end, but the blunt expanse of his indifference. Not what he said or did but the fact of being close to someone for so long who did not care at all how these things felt to me. Because it’s leaked into me, this cold deadened nothingness, a sense of not mattering, of being nothing at all, and I can still feel it there, alongside the far-ranging insidious shame for staying where I was so obviously unwanted. These are the facts that don’t go away, the clothes that sit so close they become skin, the skin it is still hard to live in.
I wanted to write about the way certain physical sensations can echo, reverberate across time and make tangible connections between unrelated moments, but now I see what I was doing was attempting to draw the door, to put it down in my own hand, the right one, the wrong one, so that it is mine to rub the lines out again, to shrink, expand, and mine to disappear.
Highly Commended from the Summer Flash Fiction Competition
Head to Okey’s shop as soon as you leave the house, but please, don’t go in your blue shoes; not because your shoes may lose their shine and open up like a dead frog’s mouth should you bathe your feet in Nwakpa’s puddles like I have been told you do; but because I want you to listen to me for once; I know how much you like your blue shoes; how you wear them like horse’s hooves; how they stick to your feet, guiding you wherever you go; I have been told that the big girls at school point and laugh at you, blu-shoo girl, they call you, don’t they?; but you never stop wearing them, even though you cut your hair to skin that time they said your ponytails looked like chicken tail feathers; you will do anything for these shoes; I have noticed how you wear them to dinner, to the bathroom, to church, to the mall, when we visit grandma, everywhere; but, please, do not go to Okey’s shop in your blue shoes; I remember those days I would scold you, telling you that you would never follow me to the market wearing those shoes, and how you would cry, drop to the floor and roll your body in the manner of dying chickens; you are not those gentle daughters who listen to their mothers, and know the way of the broom and grinding stone; you are not one of those daughters who massage ease into their mother’s tired backs; you are not one of those daughters who bring responsible men home; you are not one of those daughters who never lose their dignity outside holy matrimony, because you do not listen to me; but I never let boys touch me, not even a handshake!; on your way to Okey’s shop, I know you will bathe your feet in the puddles of Nwakpa Street along Yaba road but do not let Yaba boys touch you; with your open tooth and this beauty mark on your left cheek that gives you the prettiest smiles, everybody wants to touch you; they will want to run their hands through your long, lustrous hair; they will want to caress your skin that glows under the bright morning sun of Ikoyi; they will want to fiddle with the ribbon in your hair; they will want to feel the skin of the shimmering belt you tie around your gowns at the waist—why do you tie belts around your waist?; but do not let Yaba boys on Nwakpa touch you; if they do, look at them with your father’s fiery eyes; if they dare you, do not hesitate to slap them; Yaba boys stay away from fiery girls; I know it is wrong, unfair, but nothing is fair in life; it is not fair that you do not listen to me; what if I don’t find the strength to slap them?; if you were one of those daughters who listen to their mothers, you would find the strength to slap people who harass you; but you are not, are you?
For most readers, the one-sentence novel is reminiscent of James Joyce’s trademark stream-of-consciousness technique. Certainly he isn’t the only one who just will not end his sentences, but the sense of urgency that the technique lends to Dulce Maria Cardoso’s novel Violeta among the Stars is in no way comparable. But let us start at the beginning – a dark and stormy night. Violeta is on a business trip, travelling on a lonely road, and the almost inevitable accident happens. As she is strapped into the car seat, hoping for help to arrive, she sees her life flashing before her eyes. Soon it becomes apparent that Violeta will soon rest “among the stars,” and we get to share a glimpse of her diverse “freakish” inner life, ranging from her often-strained relationship with her daughter, her more than strained relationship with her family, her job, her sex life, and, lastly, her own death. It is a picture of an altogether unremarkable life in about 400 pages. Yet the writing is all but unremarkable.
“remember what happened to the thief who stole the full stops” – the thief was left with a mesmerising account of Violeta’s rich inner life. I was unsure of the writing at the beginning, the style being unfamiliar and Violeta’s own thoughts often being interrupted by other people’s thoughts. It is a deliberate fracturing of both narrative voice and plot that can make the musings about her estranged and difficult parents, her disappointing life, her own dislike of her body, and the absolute adoration of her daughter, who is “the most perfect part of me,” difficult to follow. It is a monologue, almost like a poem, that leaves one tired and drained, at times unable to follow the train of thought. There is no picking-up of pace, and the novel is filled with repetitions and at times slightly odd phrasings.
However, it offers a steady reading experience that lures readers in without their noticing: Somewhere along the line, you will find yourself unable to put it down and the pages will be flying by like Violeta’s quick sexual encounters. The repetitions and breaks in reading that had made it difficult to immerse oneself in the story at the beginning soon put you in an almost trance-like state, in which everything but Violeta’s consciousness begins to fade away. Her almost feverish accounts of her life up to the accident draw the reader deeply into a life that seems so simple at first glance but is overshadowed by an all but picture-perfect family life. Even though Violeta is clearly the focal point, it becomes ever clearer that her daughter is both the troublemaker and the saviour in her life and the life of her own deceased parents.
The most remarkable aspects in Violeta’s life are certainly her personal relationships. As a travelling salesperson for waxing products, she prides herself on her knowledge of both products and customers. Women’s body hair is her sworn enemy, a million-strong army that only the products she sells and her own knowledge can defeat. Even though the pride in her work is obvious – work which brought her into the fatal storm in the first place – Violeta is constantly worrying about her customers only buying from her out of pity. While Angel is, at least at the beginning, made out to be her life partner, she constantly belittles him and his career. He is a mediocre comedian, at best, and the funniest jokes he has to offer are repetitions of what the hecklers on senior citizen days out have to say about him. Of course, this relationship is complicated by a million unsaid things that only come to light gradually over the course of the novel.
The second anchoring relationship in the novel is Violeta’s family life. Her mother, who dabbled in French to raise her social standing, and her father, who slowly slipped into madness and only spoke to his birds the further his mental decline progressed, seemingly had little love left for their daughter with all her imperfections. This relationship, too, is mirrored in an inanimate object, namely the house of Violeta’s parents. This house, beloved by her daughter but disliked by Violeta, causes the last fight between mother and daughter, after Violeta sells the house that is seemingly closing in on her. Only through the voluntary loss of the house is Violeta able to partially reconcile her parent-daughter relationship. Both relationships seem to be based on crudeness and cruelty, but the more insight the reader gains on Violeta, the easier it becomes to pinpoint and differentiate her thoughts and feelings.
Dulce Maria Cardoso’s writing is a force to be reckoned with. While at the beginning the stream-of-consciousness technique might not work out for every reader, it is a structural reflection of Violeta’s life. The frequent stops and interruptions reflect upon the way Violeta’s life was not a one-way street; her life itself was filled with forceful stops and repetitions, misunderstandings and intriguing personal relationships. Parallel to her thoughts constantly circling back to her daughter, she increasingly seems to become the glue that binds the narrative together. As the narrative picks up the loose ends it previously hinted at, Portugal’s contemporary history and everyday tragedies are woven into a heart-wrenching account of a life that we can all envision in our own relationships and our own contradictions and conflicts.
A word on the translation has to be said as well. Both the translator Ángel Gurría-Quintana and Cardoso herself are true masters of their craft. While there are a few instances in the translation that could have been phrased differently to ensure a smooth reading experience, writing still reads compellingly in English. My personal impression was that the few pages where the translation was not as successful do hinder the reading experience but not in any lasting fashion.
Certainly, Violeta among the Stars should be approached with a mind open to less common narrative forms. It is neither an entertaining read nor an easy afternoon or poolside novel. Apart from an openness to its form, this book demands constant attention and the willingness to immerse oneself in Violeta’s monologue. I would argue that Violeta among the Stars is a wonderful example of the lasting impression form can leave beyond content. The novel itself is an artistic achievement in style and form that will move you, even if you don’t want it to. It is an extraordinary piece of writing on the life of an ordinary woman.
Violeta among the Stars
By Dulce Maria Cardosa
Translated by Ángel Gurría-Quintana
MacLehose Press, 396 pages
Ruth Gilligan is an Irish novelist and Professor in Creative Writing at the University of Birmingham. At 18, she was the youngest person to reach number one on the Irish bestsellers’ list. The Butchers won the 2021 RSL Ondaatje Prize and is her fifth novel. Published with Atlantic books, The Butchers is out in paperback now.
Cindy Withjack: First, as if we haven’t been chatting for half an hour, many, many congratulations on your recent award!
Ruth Gilligan: The award was the loveliest thing. I’ve never won an award before, so that was a nice thing. I feel like also The Butchers came out at the worst possible time. I think people who were set to publish books about two weeks before (the UK coronavirus lockdown) sort of just got away with an in-person book launch, and the people who were publishing two weeks later were able to pause going to print or delay by a few months until the world figured out what the hell was going on. But I was in that sweet spot – or sour spot – where, honestly, even up until the week before lockdown we thought maybe there would be an in-person launch.
CW: I remember that! In the end you had a huge virtual launch.
RG: That was lovely. But when the book the book actually came out no one was thinking about literary fiction – we were thinking about how the world was falling apart. A lot of bookshops, especially in Ireland, didn’t have an online offering or hadn’t yet set anything up. So at the time I had friends and family in Ireland saying, “I really want to read your book, but I physically can’t get it.” It was strange because I was like, “My book is out! Wait, it’s actually not.” The timing was crap. Woe is me! But the Ondaatje Prize just felt like a really nice belated bit of karma or the universe smiling on it. I’ve always been a fan of the prize because I love books that have a strong sense of place. When I was researching The Butchers, so much of what I did was trying to capture a particular place at a particular time; it’s not just a book about the Irish border counties, it’s a book about the Irish border counties in the year 1996. It’s a specific time and place. In terms of the research I did for that, it was going there and interviewing farmers, listening to radio shows, reading newspapers, going for endless walks in the middle of nowhere to just try to soak it all up…So the idea that it transferred onto the page is a really lovely thing.
CW: You just went into a ton of my questions. [Laughs.]
RG: [Laughs.] Sorry!
CW: It was fantastic reading The Butchers. I thought the novel was heartening and beautiful. You had these intricate lines and imagery, just really gorgeous.
RG: Thank you so much.
CW: I’m interested by the cover change. The copy I have is a bright red and has hooks. The one I’m seeing everywhere at the moment has all the butcher knives on it.
RG: Almost every book changes between hardback and paperback, but they wanted to go in a slightly different direction with the paperback. This term “literary thriller” keeps getting tossed around. I didn’t really know that was a thing. I still don’t really know what it means? Does it mean there are nice sentences but there’s also a dead guy?
CW: [Laughs.]
RG: If that’s what it translates into, that’s fine because those things are true. The way it’s been marketed in America also leaned into a more thriller-esque novel. I think the UK paperback jacket reflects that, and the quotes on the front are like “gripping” and “exhilarating.” I think that’s a clever way to pitch it. The hilarious flipside then is that people on Amazon or Goodreads – and obviously I shouldn’t read those things, but I always do because I’m weak – have picked it up thinking the novel is an actual thriller and have instead been like “What? This is pretty slow.” Which is true because it’s more about feminism and folklore and rural Ireland. I find the marketing of books really interesting.
CW: I’ve also seen the novel titled The Butchers’ Blessing. Why is that?
RG: The Americans really wanted to change the title. The found “The Butchers” too aggressive. Or too violent?
CW: That’s an interesting thing for Americans to say.
RG: They thought it wasn’t resonating and that the word was maybe more synonymous with serial killers. We then went through the process of thinking up a new title, which was so fascinating. There were just these endless email threads with my American editors, my agent, me, all of us coming up with possible titles. For ages The Broken Fields was the one, which is such a different vibe. There are books that have changed titles completely from the UK to the US, but we felt it would be a shame to lose too much continuity. They decided The Butchers’ Blessing was a bit softer and gestured more towards questions about faith and belief systems. Maybe a bit more palatable. It’s also currently being translated into Italian, and they’re calling it The Widow’s Curse.
CW: I like the contrast and connotations of “blessing” and “curse.”
RG: The Italian publishers went into this really fascinating thing about how we’re in an age where so many people are moving into veganism and vegetarianism or are anti-meat and factory farming, so that maybe a title like The Butchers could be off-putting. Which, to me, initially sounded bizarre, but honestly the number one thing I’m asked about the book is: “I want to read your novel, but I’m a vegetarian. Will I still like it?” It’s so curious to me because I’m not going to make anyone eat a steak while they read the book.
CW: The novel comes with a burger.
RG: If you open the last page, there’s a little trap door.
[Both laugh.]
CW: Although there are, of course, significant differences between the two, what was it like watching the coronavirus unfold having just written a novel involving the 90s BSE [aka, mad cow disease] crisis?
RG: When I would tell people I was working on The Butchers, they’d say, “Wow, that sounds really topical.” Because the novel is about the Northern Irish border and about the transport of people and goods across it, and about simmering tensions, and I was writing and researching before, during and after the Brexit referendum. Obviously once the book came out, then it was like, “Oh! You’ve written a book about disease and how it spreads and how that’s depicted in the media – specifically the differences between the British and Irish media.” So it was topical in a totally different way. It was really curious to experience that kind of pivot. The doubly curious thing is that some interviewers would then ask, “So, having written this book, do you have any advice about coping with these times?” And I was like, absolutely not! I was just as flabbergasted as everyone else about the state the world had found itself in. I think sometimes people consider authors sages who are filled with lots of knowledge and advice. Once the book came out I could see the parallels between what was unfurling but, in terms of learning, I was just as disoriented as everyone else.
CW: Have you read Eula Biss’ An Inoculation?
RG: No!
CW: I read it several years ago. It’s a collection of essays about her experience with vaccinations after the birth of her son around the time of the 2009 swine flu. I decided to reread it during the lockdown, and I was wondering how many people had maybe contacted her throughout the COVID-19 Pandemic to ask if she had any advice. Like you said, author as sage. I imagine she was watching the news and felt just as overwhelmed as everyone else.
RG: Exactly. But then there was yet another resonance – even in the last few weeks while there’s been this EU–Britain standoff about customs checks, they’ve called it “the sausage wars,” and I’ve written a whole book about a kind of beef war. These things often become sites of age-old tensions and conflicts and wranglings over national identity.
CW: I just read an article in The Guardian: “The EU is lifting its ban on feeding animal remains to domestic livestock.” If you go to James Smart’s review of The Butchers, it links to this new piece about livestock.
RG: What? I’ll have to check that out. Wow, that’s interesting.A few years ago, the BBC did a documentary about the BSE crisis. It was one of those annoying things where I had just finished writing the book, and I thought: Couldn’t this have come out a few years earlier to save me all that research? Because by then I knew of all of the things within the documentary, but it would’ve given me so many sources while I was writing.
CW: Can you summarise the research you did surrounding the folklore and journey of the eight butchers? Is this mythology that exists? Or did you make it up?
RG: Okay, so I slightly lied when I said the number one question people ask me about the novel is regarding vegetarianism. The actual number one question is: “Are the butchers real?” I’m fascinated by people’s obsession with knowing the answer to that question. The short answer is that I made them up. The curse is an invention of mine, and the butchers as a group are also an invention or, rather, an amalgamation. I knew at the beginning of what ultimately became this book that I wanted to write a novel about folklore and mythology and how such things still operate in Ireland; how, especially in a country that is so religious, no one thinks it’s odd to hold two belief systems at the same time. Like you can be a devoted Catholic but also believe in the Fairies. It’s mad! And then, many years ago, I went on a road trip with a friend and discovered that his father was a farmyard vet. At some point, like you do, we were swapping stories and he spoke about the different things his father had seen over the years, especially in the 90s and during the BSE crisis. I thought it sounded like a bloody beef mafia! So, I had these two things, folklore and a beef mafia, and I wondered, How can I bring them together? I did a tremendous amount of research into Irish folklore, and I found loads of information about superstitions involving meat and cattle slaughter. For example, burning certain herbs under a cow’s nose before you kill it or tying a knot in its tail for good luck. I sort of brought all of that together to make the butchers. There’s also the fact that they’re a travelling group. The Travelling Community in Ireland has a very fraught history, and they’ve been treated with a lot of hostility because of their way of life. So the butchers were kind of a hybrid of all these things. But people are so angry when they learn I’ve invented them. They get really annoyed. Back to Goodreads and Amazon – they’re like “Don’t read this! She’s made it up!” It’s sort of hilarious to me because it is literally my job. But I think it raises this question about what a “real” myth is versus, I guess, a “fake” myth, when we all know that so much of folklore and mythology is basically invented. That being said, people feeling this uncomfortable uncanniness about what is true and what’s not is sort of what is going on within the novel, too, because of the way different belief systems are being challenged. I think in particular you see this in the way the other farmers feel threatened by the butchers and end up scapegoating them for far bigger issues. I think in a way that unease and often outright annoyance that people have expressed when they find out the butchers are made up is sort of a microcosm of the themes within the novel. I hadn’t expected that at all. I find it so curious.
CW: Like you said, it’s your literal job to create. Of course, I wondered if it was historically rooted and then maybe you adapted it. I think it’s brilliant that you conjured it up from your mind and turned it into a novel. I don’t feel like I’ve been taken advantage of, having read a work of fiction that is…fictional.
RG: That seems to be the thing. Feeling taken advantage of? It sent me down this rabbit hole of trying to ascertain what is telling story versus telling a lie versus misleading someone versus entertaining someone. All these things are on a spectrum. I feel like when we enter into some kind of contract between reader and writer, people tend to have a clear sense of what’s okay and what’s not. For some people it seems like I’ve breached that contract or pulled the wool over their eyes. I still haven’t quite figured out a totally articulate stance on that.
CW: I think that speaks to how well you put together that particular myth. It is believable if also fictional, which is maybe what makes it contentious for some.
RG: That’s so good to hear. You get a lot closer to the butchers at the end of the finished novel than I had written them in earlier drafts. Like the scene where Davey goes to the camp and spends time with them. They’re all just normal guys sitting around in their pants doing a crossword. That didn’t exist until the final, final draft. That was something my editor suggested. It was hard for me to write because up until that point the butchers themselves had remained to me this mythical, out of touch thing. It was really fun to decide how I would play that. There were times I wondered, Am I writing magical realism? I don’t think I am?
CW: Ooh.
RG: Nothing magical actually happens, though. There are superstitions. There are things to ward off the possibility of something magical happening. It is in a way a very realist novel because I became obsessed with mapping the plot onto actual events that occurred in 1996. There’s this cleaving to like: On that Tuesday in June this football match was happening…which is why maybe then people feel like it’s a hyperrealist novel and the butchers should be real.
CW: That takes me back to what you said about people referring to it as a “literary thriller.” I had similar questions about magical realism, realism, and what it means for a story to be thrilling. So, what would you call it? Where would you put it if you were shelving it in a bookshop?
RG: Great question. I’d just call it literary fiction, mainly because I think we use that term for books we don’t know quite what to do with! I sort of wish all fiction could be literary fiction. A wonderful new bookshop opened near me recently, and I was having a lovely chat with the owner. She was talking about how she set out her shelves and eventually decided to just put everything together. And we talked about the idea of people then being able to find books that maybe they hadn’t anticipated finding. Like, for example, which bits of Margaret Atwood are dystopian and which are science fiction or speculative? I’m a big believer in them all just being stories. I do appreciate my publishers for persevering with this novel because it does seem to be a bitch of a book to position. It could be so many things. It could be literary fiction, it could be coming-of-age, it could be magical realism. On the one hand, I think that’s a really fun thing about the novel. But I’m sure from a marketing standpoint it’s a total headache, as it doesn’t neatly fit into just one category.
CW: Like The Butchers, your previous novel Nine Folds Makes a Paper Swan also has strong ties to coming-of age, tradition, and family. There is a consistent theme of belonging in both. In The Butchers, the butchers seem to belong to each other more than they belong to their families. And there’s a thread throughout about what it can mean to belong to one’s country. Are you particularly interested in issues of belonging? Do you consider it to be recurring theme in your work?
RG: That’s another one of those things that I didn’t realise until after the fact. If you had asked me years ago would there be any similarities between Nine Folds and The Butchers I would say, “No!” I felt like I was writing a totally different novel in The Butchers – apart from having multiple perspectives. Then, in speaking with my editor, it was clear certain themes kept popping up, like belonging and faith. Not to totally self-psychoanalyze, but I think as someone who was raised religious and still has some kind of faith that is hard to articulate and adhere to, faith is something I constantly come back to. I find it really messy and challenging. I feel like this is betraying so much, but I think in both Nine Folds and The Butchers one of the questions is, What does it mean to really believe in something and what does it mean to have just been brought up in a household that believes in something? Even now when I occasionally go to a church, am I there because I have a profound belief in God or am I there because it reminds me of my dad and growing up in Ireland and going to church on Sundays? There’s a beautiful kind of solace in that. Is that okay? Is it okay that there are so many things about the church that don’t sit well with me? That spectrum of belonging, family, and tradition, and then the faith and beliefs and principles by which to live your life. There’s so much to deconstruct when it comes to understanding what a religion or faith is. There are so many parts. I’m curious about the possibility of holding some of those things and not others. That’s a deeply personal preoccupation of mine. I think also in a cliché way, as someone who left Ireland when they were 18 and has lived in the UK ever since, I have a very curious relationship with my homeland in that I feel very Irish, but I suspect I probably won’t ever live there again. I think I have that quite annoying emigrant thing, where I’m able to step back and look at Ireland from afar and see all its flaws. That’s probably really unfair of me. But it also holds such a special place in my heart. I love Ireland dearly, and yet I don’t see myself going back there permanently. My husband finds that so intriguing. Maybe because I left when I was 18, being a child and living in Ireland feels synonymous, whereas being an adult and living in the UK feels synonymous. So, while it would be possible and lovely, there’s sort of this psychological block that I have. For those reasons, I think I’m always mulling over questions of home and belonging and identity.
CW: I can relate to so many aspects of that. I’ve lived in UK for almost six years. This feels like home to me, even though when I speak of my home state I call that “home” as well. Like you’ve said, having distance breeds this confusing criticism of and protectiveness over this place that is meaningful. Even though I have no desire to return to it.
RG: Fiercely protective, yes.
CW: Especially with the recent presidential election, I’ve had this weird shame and defensiveness. Like, of course as an American I’m going to be critical of America’s shortcomings, but how dare someone elsebe critical of America’s shortcomings. Suddenly I’m a patriot or something.
RG: I will criticise certain aspects of Ireland or the Irish government, but then when someone British does it I sort of change my tune and want to defend Ireland!
CW: There’s a loyalty that comes with calling a place home, even after you leave. And you have actually touched a bit on another question I have. Nine Folds has several character perspectives and, in The Butchers,so many characters are intertwined beyond their knowledge. I, personally, have two favourites in Grá and Davey. Both are, in their own ways, coming to terms with decisions they’ve made regarding sexuality and identity. Did any characters resonate with you in particular?
RG: People have said to me, “I can’t believe you write with so many different points of view. That must be so difficult.” I actually feel the opposite. I’m currently attempting to stick with just one character in a new novel, and it’s going awfully. When you switch point of view you get to write all the juicy bits. If it gets boring, you can just change point of view!
[Both laugh.]
RG: When I started writing The Butchers, I tried out loads of different perspectives, even more than there currently are. And I think my agent was like, “You need to narrow this down.” I ended up looking over the chapters I had written up to that point, and it occurred to me that there was a really nice symmetry between having a father and a son and a mother and a daughter POV. I think in a book that is so much about generations and what is passed down and inherited, I felt these pairs emerge. I love all the characters dearly, but the one my editor felt was the odd one out was Fionn, Davey’s father. He’s a bit of a shit lad. He’s an alcoholic, he was violent towards his wife, he has a pretty dark past. And yet, I empathised with him, and I wanted readers to empathise with him. I wanted to chip away at what made him so toxic and understand where that came from, especially his upbringing, his father, what the world was like when he was coming of age. In earlier drafts, he was significantly more evil. My editor was like, “We will never warm to him.” So, in later drafts, it was toning down how awful he had been and toning up his atonement and desire for redemption. At one point, there was the possibility of writing out his character entirely, but the symmetry I already articulated felt so integral to the book. I really wanted to keep him. I also talk a lot about the way The Butchers is trying to build upon the traditional Irish rural canon, which is so male heavy. So, to have has two strong female voices and a gay male voice was significant to me. And then Fionn is the remaining male voice that you would traditionally find in this kind of story, the troubled farmer.
CW: The novel is called The Butchers, but is the novel really about them?The butchers and their families have a responsibility to continue certain traditions, even if that comes at the expense of the women and families left to wait while the butchers travel for much of the year. There is such a richness in the way the women come together and occupy their time. At the end of the novel, there’s this brief peek into the lives of the butchers while they’re travelling, but primarily the reader is with the people left behind. Would you say the novel is about the butchers or about their families?
RG: I don’t think this book is about the butchers. As I’ve said, I came up with them as a concept. At one point, I had the idea that the book would have eight chapters and one chapter would be from the point of view of each butcher. Then I was like, What am I doing? I didn’t want to write another book about eight dudes in rural Ireland. We already have a lot of those books. That’s been done. What has not been done or has been done way, way less is the female voice, the LGBTQ+ voices, the other aspects of that world, culture, and community that haven’t been written about to the same degree. The butchers are, I suppose, sort of a foil for the characters around them.
CW: The character of Ronan is a photographer, and his photograph of a butcher is significant in the novel. Why did you choose that particular creative field for Ronan instead of making him, for example, a writer?
RG: In a way, the most important thing for me is that Ronan is an outsider coming into this world and drawing on it to make his art and further his career, and what the potential ethical ickiness that could cause. In many ways, he’s a doppelgänger for me. I’m coming in, writing about this community and part of the world and moment in time that I wasn’t exactly privy to. I was alive, but I was in a boring middle-class community in Dublin not living in the charged rural landscape along the Irish border. I think I am very sensitive to questions around who has a right to tell what story. I don’t think you can only write about your own experience, but I think if you’re going to venture beyond that, then you should do so really carefully and deliberately. And if there’s an opportunity to write some of that uncertainty into a novel, then it will only be richer for it. Ronan is an amalgamation of those questions and concerns. Also, one year in Birmingham, we had a poet called Dan O’Brien come and speak to our students. He wrote a collection called The War Reporter, which was about this real-life Canadian war reporter who would go out to various conflict zones and take photographs (He actually won a Pulitzer Prize for one particularly shocking shot.) But then he would return and feel ethically compromised by the fact that he was able to leave and come back to the safety of his home while making a career for himself based on the atrocities he had witnessed elsewhere. I was thinking about this really early on in the process, maybe even before I had really considered writing The Butchers. You know how sometimes you got to a talk or you hear someone articulate an idea and it just stays with you? That in particular really stayed with me. So, thank you Dan O’Brien!
CW: Yes! Without giving too much away, there’s this conversation in Ireland that Ronan has with Grá where she says something like, “You’re here and you get to see the pretty landscapes and look into our lives and then you get to leave.” There is a very sharp contrast when we see Ronan’s later life in New York. He’s there to display a violent and evocative photograph he took while in Ireland, and the significance of the photograph reach through time and space. It’s really beautifully done.
RG: Thank you.
CW: There’s a line in the novel spoken by Eileen: “In this country, love, cattle are politics.” There are so many endearing and shocking moments involving food and violence and capitalism. Can you speak on how you meld together politics and folklore in The Butchers?
RG: That was a challenge during the whole book really. Like I said, when I went on that road trip with my friend, he kind of opened my eyes to that particular time period. Early on in the 90s, there had been this tribunal in the Irish courts, which at the time was the longest running tribunal the country had ever seen. It was called the Beef Tribunal, and it was basically exposing this whole world of misdemeanours and problematic activity that also involved some Irish politicians. All these guys were making so much money, and it was dodgy as hell! Again, I was very young at that time. I didn’t know any of this then. In a country where agriculture was and still is such a huge industry, I hadn’t realised quite how enmeshed it was in the political fabric of the country. Then, of course, historically you’ve also had parts of the government enmeshed in the church. That holy trinity of men, cows, Jesus was very, very tightly knit! That was so interesting to me, and I wanted to get into that. When I first went digging, I couldn’t have told you about any Irish traditions to do with cows, but I very quickly found loads. I went to various archives, I interviewed a few notable folklorists (which, by the way, is the coolest job title ever). They were able to tell me that, oh, of course, there are millions of stories involving cows. Finding a way to bring all those things together was important to me. Also, for so long, the cause of BSE was unknown, and people did have really odd theories about it. It seemed probable to me that people would scapegoat a minority group. That’s a tale as old as time, right? Even in very recent history whenever something goes wrong people are like “Let’s blame immigrants and minorities!” So, I decided that if the cows are going mad why wouldn’t the local people be like, “Hey, what about those eight weird guys over there? I bet it has something to do with them.”
CW: [Laughs.] Well, speaking of research, it sounds like you’re working on another novel. How much can you share about that?
RG: I can tell you lots. It’s not going tremendously, to be honest. I wrote all this past year. I feel like people said they weren’t writing much during the pandemic. I happened to write a lot, but it turns out what I wrote probably wasn’t great. I’m still in the figuring-out stage. In a really perverse way, I seem to start my books by setting myself particular challenges and parameters. It’s almost like self-constructed brief. So the brief I set for myself this time was I wanted to write a novel that wasn’t set in Ireland, and I wanted to write a novel that only had one protagonist. But then I ended up tricking myself and cheating on my own brief like, Well, if I can only have one protagonist then I’m going to jump around in time a lot. Age 13, Age 20, Age 45 – in that way it feels like different perspectives, but it’s still just the one person, which is sort of hilarious because I’m the one who set the brief to begin with! It’s a book that is pretty personal to me as it’s about things that I’m wrangling with in my own life. There’s a lot about motherhood and the decision whether or not become a mother, and it’s also a book about art. The main character is a sculptor. I feel like all the pieces are there, but they’re not quite in the right order just yet. I’m now taking it all apart and putting it back together.
CW: What a perfect way to describe a book about an artist. What are you reading right now?
RG: Literally this morning I started a proof of the new Sarah Hall novel, Burntcoat. It is exquisite. She is one of my favorite writers. I love her. She was really influential while I was writing The Butchers. A lot of the stuff she’s done about female sexuality and landscape has been so bloody brilliant. Burntcoat is a lockdown novel, as in it was written during and is set during a lockdown. I sort of felt like I’d never want to read a book about lockdown because who the hell would want to read a book about what we have just experienced, but then it was announced that Sarah Hall wrote one and I was like, “Oh, obviously I have to read that!” And, in terms of the best book I’ve read so far this year, I’m obsessed with Luster.
CW: Yes!
RG: I know we’ve talked about it through email, but I read it back in January, and I can’t stop thinking about it. I think it’s really exceptional.
CW: It is intimidatingly fantastic.
RG: Exactly. It’s like, going back to what we were talking about in terms of colliding genres, it’s the perfect combination of a millennial female novel with this beautiful, lyrical prose that is lush and thought-provoking. It’s political, it’s funny as fuck. It is just—
CW: I love it.
RG: I love it.
CW: Well, technically we’ve been talking for well over an hour.
RG: I could talk to you all day.
CW: I could talk to you all day. Thank you so much for taking the time to chat with me. This has been the coolest, obviously. Again, I really thought The Butchers was wonderful. I can’t wait to read your next book.
RG: Well, it’ll be yours next, Cindy.
CW: Oh, God!
RG: I want to read that one.
CW: It’s taking me a long time.
RG: It does take a long time. People should speak about that more often. It takes a bloody long time to write a book.
In the morning, light gathers in the folds of my comforter while I think about how I’d like everything in my life to change. Life rarely changes from bed, though, so I get up to shower. In the shower, I sense something seismic brewing inside me, and I can tell I’ll spend the whole day wishing I could tether the world to me, wishing that I said hi to everyone on the street or danced on the metro. As the water cascades down, I close my eyes and say the serenity prayer. Deep down, I know that today will be like any other day.
To quell the seismic feeling, I lie in bed and watch Instagram stories – someone is asking whether they should make apple or pecan pie, someone else has a picture of a bathing suit and is longing for summer, another person has stitched together several pictures of New York – the elongated shadows of buildings, a string of city lights, a freshly fallen snow coating a statue in Central Park. As I watch, I try to do so without feeling intensely jealous. I try desperately to not imagine their lives as my own. All morning, I cling to the thought that I am as real and important as anyone else.
Outside, row upon row of thick clouds have obscured the thin vestiges of morning light. The drive to work begins to chip away at my goodwill towards men. A large Ford truck cuts me off and another person jets ahead of me at a four way stop. It is as though, even in my car, people don’t see me. I think about honking my horn, good and loud, but I am aiming to be the change I want to see in the world. Everyone in this self-important city is listening to NPR, feeling terrible about the President. I flip on Christmas music and think of how I need to call my mother.
Once at work, I settle into my desk and do twenty minutes of emailing. My therapist has been imploring me to give dating a shot. I take a break from email and message every person I’ve matched on Tinder. Hi, I type. Then hi again. And again. I send my hi’s out into the world one after another. I imagine the route my hi’s are traveling through the city, flowing round the Washington Monument, switching lanes at DuPont Circle, transferring from the red line to green, riding all the way to Shady Grove, taking an Uber to a coffee shop in Shaw – a vast network of hi’s linking me to every part of this goddamn lonely city.
What if no one is messaging on Tinder anymore? Should I have added Bumble, added Hinge, added all the other ways people try and find one another or get fucked these days? I walk past Jennifer’s cube. She’s reading a gossip article on TMZ. We chat for a while about our weekends. She says she’s happy to be at work, getting a break from her husband and children. She says she’s jealous of me for living alone. She asks how I feel about Meghan Markle. I say my feelings about Meghan Markle are mixed and excuse myself to use the restroom. My feelings about Meghan Markle are not mixed. I love her.
I walk to the meeting room at the back of the office. From there, I watch a light snow begin to fall, the first of winter. Snow falls like sadness across the bare limbs of an oak, falls across the cement, coats the half-dome of an adjoining building, falls along the edges of a fence, coating the world in a quiet white.
I do five more minutes of work on a spreadsheet and contemplate answering a customer service email. I am unmoved by the contents of the email and possibly life. Instead, I daydream about the older man, David, I’d dated during my early twenties. He had been so emotionally unavailable that I couldn’t wait to give myself to him. Or at least that’s what my therapist said. At the time, I think I loved him as deeply as I’ve ever loved anything. I had wanted the two of us to sink to the bottom of the sea, where we could find a little cave and make love for as long as we both lived. We had been so incredibly happy.
I did a Google image search for his name, David Rogers, and looked at pictures of him and other people named David Rogers. The other David Rogers were not particularly interesting. My David looked much older now. He had a widow’s peak forming and his beard was suffused with white. There was a cute photo of him and his wife. They were wearing nice clothes – he, a black suit, and she, a backless black dress. His hand was wrapped round her waist, pulling her tight to his body, and her lips were curling into a smile. Once, I’d hated her with an intense passion. Now the sight of her confirmed my daydreaming had been just that. Now was the happiest he had ever been.
With this knowledge of my insignificance, I felt I couldn’t work anymore. I grabbed my coat and walked outside and into the cold. I curled my lips, mimicking David’s wife’s smile, and blew out fogs of breath, one after another. I am here. I am here. I found, in the small pockets of air, something comforting, and I followed that feeling to Starbucks.
Inside, they were playing Christmas music. The store was decorated with wreaths, snow globes, holiday candy. I ordered my drink and sat. No one waits absently anymore, so I checked for messages on my phone. I had a message from Andrew, who was forty-two. He liked old movies and skiing. Hey, how are you? his message said. Tom, who was thirty-nine, and who had nothing on his profile, had also messaged, hi to you as well, lovely lady.
It sent a slight thrill through my body to read the words, lovely lady. A thrill I loathed because I didn’t want to depend on anyone else for my sense of well-being but that I felt nonetheless. I wanted someone to say that to me every morning. And I wanted someone to say every dirty thing I’d ever imagined while we had sex. I wanted to go to someone else’s house for Christmas. I wanted more than my small phone could contain, and I felt myself practically erupting for the second time that day.
How’s the day, I typed to both, then curled my fingers around the warm cup, staring at my phone like everyone else. Michael Bublé was reminding us all that the weather outside was frightful. Michael Bublé was very helpful and charming, and I wished that he were messaging me instead.
Tom said, I’m okay, but my day would be going better if you were here.
Andrew said, Not bad, How is your day going?
With all the possibilities of language available to them, Andrew and Tom had said precisely the sort of thing everyone always said to me on dating apps, a pass or nothing interesting. My therapist said I had a tendency to rule people out without giving them a proper chance. And so, for once, with sadness accumulating outside, a half-inch now coating the streets, I looked back at my phone.
Is that so ;), I typed to Tom, hating myself.
Oh, not bad, I typed to Andrew. The weather could be better, haha.
I walked briskly back to the office. The wind was rising, shedding the last spare leaves from a row of gingko trees. It appeared as though small flocks of yellow birds were trying to escape the oncoming snow. The traffic was light, and the sounds were pleasingly muffled as they always are when it snows. I could imagine this small city street as a picture in a snow globe.
You bet. Just look at you.
Yeah. I don’t mind the snow though. Did you grow up around here?
Back at the office, people were starting to mill around, talking about the weather. Evelyn stood by the copy machine, shaking her head and asking everyone who walked past when we’d be sent home. Our supervisors, seven men and one woman, sent out an email saying they’d keep us up to date on the situation, and we all grumbled to one another. I knew enough about the people I worked with, mostly women, to know home wouldn’t be any easier. It would mean gathering the kids from school, getting them to settle down, do their homework, and keep them entertained all day with projects and colouring and Disney movies. It would mean sorting out logistics with husbands, arguing over who would shovel the steps and salt them. And yet the idea of not being sent home left us all feeling frenzied. We had such little variation in our day to day lives. Couldn’t they just give us the day off so we could feel, if briefly, on the way home, the small relief of change?
You’re a flatterer. Aren’t you?
I grew up out west. The longer I stay here, the less I mind the snow. The first bit of it is so damn pretty.
Anita said she was not having this shit; her kids school had just called, and she had to go. It felt as though she’d won the lottery.
I’m more than a flatterer if you give me the chance.
Ah. Where did you grow up? I’ve always wanted to go out west, but I’ve never made it past Missouri. Which just typing, reminded me how incredibly unexciting my life has been. But I guess that’s precisely the sort of thing I shouldn’t type. Whoops.
I could see bosses meeting in the admin office. I was certain we’d be sent home soon. Those fuckers should have never had us come in, said Stephanie. If I spin out on the way home, I’m suing this place. I’ll be on worker’s comp for the rest of my life. I’ll lie in bed and hate this place from an island I purchase with my severance. It felt nice to have somewhere to direct all the rage we felt at life, at the pettiness and insanity. Those fuckers, we all agreed.
Oh, yeah. What kind of a chance are you looking for?
I grew up in California. And now I miss it. The only place more provincial than New York is California though. We’re insufferable about it. As to your other comment, no. I always get really interested when a man says his life is basically boring. It makes me feel like I’ll have a low bar to clear if we get involved. What else could a woman want?
Am I that hard to read? I think you can figure it out. You’re bright.
Ah. I’ve always wanted to go California. It seems like a dream, oceans and mountains. It’s forgivable to be snobby about it. Phew. I was worried I had already killed my chances here and was going to have to go back to watching reruns of the Price Is Right.
On the drive home, the roads were nearly impassable. They hadn’t been salted, and my Civic fishtailed on a side street, narrowly missing a row of parked cars. Everyone else seemed to already be at home, their cars parked along the street, porticos of light flickering down the row of houses. I parked two blocks from the apartment and walked towards home. En route, I saw a flash of red inside a large tree. There was a brilliant cardinal perched on the branch of an elm. I lifted my phone, trying to capture the beautiful incongruity of the cardinal’s red against the grey skies, against the white snow fall. But as I lifted my phone, the bird, for no reason, suddenly took flight, leaving a shower of snow as it flew into the wintry sky.
Am I? Thanks for the credit. Does it involve a game of checkers?
Oh. I wasn’t asking to be forgiven. I was just saying it’s one of my faults, my attachment to California. I figured you’d want to hear about some of my faults after you said your life roughly ends with Missouri. Does the Price Is Right have reruns, or did you DVR them? Please tell me you DVR’d them. Like most women, my dream is to date a man with a DVR full of old game shows.
I walked to the fridge and got yogurt. It was the kind of storm where everyone stocked up on food, as though it was going to be apocalyptic. I had plans to eat yogurt and cereal for days.
Think a bit more bedroom, but the games part is right.
You have faults? Okay. This is never going to work (-: I didn’t say my life ends at Missouri. I merely said the furthest I’ve been west is Missouri. I do plenty of interesting things like grocery shop and mark myself as interested in events on Facebook I later don’t attend. Yeah. My DVR is full of 150 hours of Price Is Right reruns that I watch every evening. It’s kind of amazing how much I know about the cost of detergents, new cars, and washers. Are you impressed? Please tell me you are impressed.
Several friends had cats, cats whose lives were elaborately documented on Instagram. I had been avoiding getting a cat for precisely this reason. I wanted my life to be about more than a cat. But as I stood in my apartment and looked out the window at the flares of streetlights and the purple light of snow, I realised life in this city was never going to feel right or fulfilling. And if I could only wrap my mind around that, perhaps I could carve out my vein of happiness.
I still needed to message my mother. I couldn’t spend all night deciding who I wanted to be. I had to decide, at least for an evening, whether I wanted anything to change. It was dark now, and I was alone. I messaged with Tom for an hour. He kept begging to come over, but I messaged with him until we both got off in the dark.
Later, I sent a text to my mother, telling her I’d be home Christmas Eve. I waited for her to respond, but she must have been sleeping. I deleted all of my matches, then lay my phone down on the pillow and waited for the storm to end.
I bought my first pair of trainers twenty years ago. Reebok Workouts were the latest craze in my part of London, the shoes that graced the soles of popular kids in school. Workouts were over-sized but low-cut, mass-produced but still exclusive, fashionable but affordable, an understatement but still a statement. I bought mine in black with a shining white halo stretching around the most distinctive feature: the H-flap. I wore the H-flap unlaced, quite literally flapping, as a disingenuous mistake, a chord of heterodoxy against the straight-laced.
I wore my Workouts to school on the Monday, risking detention. I remember the feeling of angst, the fear of potential ridicule that accompanied the risky choice of clothing. I walked into the playground, H-flaps hanging over grey school trousers, and my target audience reacted compassionately. Some of my mates praised the shoes, demonstrating their own social awareness, and others asked where I bought them, hoping to land a pair of their own. It was a strangely rewarding experience built on the shared sense of belonging.
Two months ago, I bought the same pair of trainers in white. Workouts were back in fashion, at least according to my interpretation. I wore them differently. Twenty years ago, I wore the Workouts with Nike tracksuits, baggy jeans and brand tees, projecting a simple style defined by cues from street culture. The latest pair came with an entirely new wardrobe, an abundance of choices built in disparate styles. I wore the H-flaps differently, too, laces tied tight, straight-laced, flaps no longer flapping.
I still hang out with the same school friends. I met them in the pub wearing my new pair of trainers. The social angst still lingered, albeit less pronounced. I walked into the smoking area and my friends reacted as they reacted twenty years ago. Some acknowledged the retro statement, others laughed at the sentimentality, the hark back to youth. One friend asked how much they set me back and had his own pair two weeks later. One of my closest friends asked why I’d bought Workouts. I shrugged. I shrugged because I wasn’t sure.
Our clothing choices are a form of communication, a projection of identity. Identity is a reflexive project that largely begins in our early teenage years, as we develop an understanding of ourselves in a social context. We start to realise, consciously or unconsciously, that our identities are constructed within that context. We construct identities through the narratives we tell ourselves and the narratives we tell other people. Clothing is part of that narrative.
Semiotic analysis can show how clothes communicate identity. Clothes, as Umberto Eco and others suggest, have a semiotic association with language, both offering readings based on relatively standard projections. As with language, the interpretation of clothing is based on the signifier/signified relationship, but the semiotic meaning of clothes is more unstable that that of language. The instability stems from the absence of broadly accepted codes, a disruption between the intention of the wearer and the interpretation of the audience. In simple semiotic terms: the visual image (signifier) of the item of clothing (sign) draws myriad reactions (based on the signified) depending on the viewer’s social understanding (code).
The interpretation of clothing is based on two elements of signification: denotation and connotation. Denotation is the precise reading of visual signifiers (black trainers, blue shorts, and so on), which is largely agreed upon by code consensus. Connotation depends on complex cultural meanings associated with the signifier, dependent on the viewer’s social knowledge. Take Doc Martens, for example. In terms of denotation, Docs are simply black boots. In connotative terms, however, viewers can interpret Docs as German Army boots, skinhead ‘bovva’ boots, old-school grunge attire, hipster sincere or hipster ironic, and so on. The same item can draw respect, fear, anger, love, all based on the connotative interpretation.
The meaning of clothes thus depends on the collective viewer’s social knowledge, which is largely based on an awareness (or lack of awareness) of popular fashions. But what dictates such fashions? Why was I attracted to Workouts, twenty years after the initial attraction? Why are certain items of clothing, such as Workouts, popular at certain times while other items, such as Classics, fall from grace? Fashion academics have sought to explain popular fashions using various theories, all of which have merit, none of which offer a complete explanation.
Arguably the most popular theory suggests Workouts are aspirational. The trickle-down theory stems from Thorstein Veblen’s The Theory of the Leisure Class, which examines consumption models based on social stratification. Veblen coined the term ‘conspicuous consumption’ to describe affluent people’s desire to consume luxury goods to parade affluence. Theorists, such as philosopher Georg Simmel and sociologist Pierre Bourdieu, have built on Veblen’s model to demonstrate how fashion trickles down from the upper-class to the lower-and-middle-classes. The lower-and-middle-classes, according to the theory, emulate the rich by wearing similar items, exhibiting aspirational desires. The upper-class notice that their dress has been ‘vulgarised’ and seek to distance themselves by adopting new fashions. Their supposed lessers emulate the new fashions and the cycle continues.
The trickle-down theory has a certain logic, but it relies on outdated forms of class analysis that overestimate the cultural influence of the rich. The rich are no longer influential in the wider cultural arena. As Susan Sontag wrote in ‘Notes on Camp’: ‘Since no authentic aristocrats in the old sense exist today to sponsor special tastes, who is the bearer of this taste?’ The modern rich are more often mocked than mimicked. Clothes do trickle-down from fashion houses, but only in selective forms, such as colour palettes, stylistic motifs, and so on. It is rare to see a person on the street wearing the latest designs from Paris Fashion Week, for example.
Clothes do trickle-down from a small subsection of the modern elite – celebrities, namely – but their styles are often appropriated from or amalgamated with street style. Growing up, for example, I had friends who wore Prada shoes with Nike tracksuits, Gucci bags with Adidas hoodies, Versace t-shirts with Workouts – copying styles from musicians who moulded street fashion with expressions of wealth. Certain expensive fashions trickle-down from celebrities to the street, projecting an ideal of aspiration and success, but street styles more often bubble-up to celebrities who aim to demonstrate authenticity. Fashion today relies on cross-pollination, trickling-down as well as bubbling-up, shifting from pavement to catwalk, rubble to runway, terraces to places, and back again.
The zeitgeist, as expressed by Georg Hegel, depicts the trajectory of the Spirit, the historical and social currents of the time. Fashion, according to the zeitgeist theory, mirrors the social forces of history. Theorists regularly use the example of hemlines, suggesting women wear shorter skirts in times of consumer confidence. Hemlines drop during economic crises, as in the 1930s, and rise during booms, as in the 1960s. World Wars are the other oft-invoked example, with theorists suggesting employment for women led to the disrobing of oppressive garments.
The zeitgeist theory depends on too many presumptions. It presumes consensus regarding the meaning of historical events and presumes consensus around the meaning of clothes. In The Corset: A Social History, for example, Valerie Steele notes that many critics consider the corset a sartorial form of oppression, but others critics and wearers have argued that it represents liberation. No item of clothing can be reduced to a single interpretation. And the same is true of historical events: one critic’s liberation is another’s oppression. The zeitgeist theory makes symbolic connections between garments and the historical context, both of which can be contested, both of which have no inherent or predisposed meaning.
There is some merit to the broad application of the zeitgeist theory. Social liberalisation has led to more revealing clothes, for example, simply because of social acceptance. Challenges to gender norms have led to the wearing of androgynous items, as people trial clothes once deemed objectionable by binary stereotypes. Some of my friends and I went through a pink period at school, for example, which seemed unthinkable to men of the older generation. We wore pink faux-diamond earrings, pink Nike swooshes on trainers, pink Ralph polos. The pink demonstrated an open contradiction of gender norms. My dad once caught me wearing pink earrings, laughed in my general direction, and said I looked ‘pretty’. The shifts in gender norms, even within one generation, changed what wider society considers acceptable. In that broad sense, zeitgeist theory goes some distance to explaining fashion shifts on the macro level.
Are my Workouts meant to be sexy? Items of clothing, according to the seduction theory, are dependent on increasing desirability. Fashion historian James Laver emphasises the seduction principle in gendered terms, claiming that women dress to enhance sexual attraction towards men and men dress to enhance status around women. The choice of women’s garments, according to Laver, depends on the notion of ‘shifting erogenous zones’ – an idea originally attributed to psychologist J. C. Flugel. The argument suggests that men find particular areas of women’s bodies attractive at different times, which women supposedly accentuate through dress, and fashions thus follow that essential logic.
The seduction principle, as presented above, is reductive, sexist, and heterosexist. It presumes women make clothing choices only to seduce men. It presumes fashion is dictated by men’s desires. It depends on a basic and binary understanding of gender. And both genders are presumed heterosexual, with little attention given to same-gender attraction or other sexualities.
In its basic form, however, the seduction principle does have merit. Individuals do dress to enhance sexual attraction to varying degrees, whether to boost self-esteem or to impress an audience. Clothes reveal and conceal mystery underneath, which forms the basis of seduction, as Steele notes in Fashion and Eroticism: ‘Because clothing is intimately associated with the physical body, at the deepest level all clothing is erotic.’ I once bought a thin jumper covered in holes, for example, which was meant to be provocative. I was newly single. The holes showed an inordinate amount of skin, way outside of my usual comfort zone. I remember the first and last time I wore that jumper. It was a trial run of sorts, meeting my brother in a safe space – the pub near his flat in West London. I turned up, walked through the pub, and saw my brother. He started to laugh. He said, lovingly, that I looked like a sieve.
The explanation of popular fashion seems to depend on a mixture of the above theories, in various forms. Fashions trickle-down and bubble-up, retaining a broad connection to the social forces of the moment or the age, and always have some allegiance to seduction. Our clothing choices project and communicate identity based on the code consensus that exists within that framework. We make choices and communicate, with reference to the fashions of the day.
Secondary school was my first experience of conscious consumption, the first years when I understood the construct of identity. It was simple back then. I just had to decide on a brand. I usually played safe. I wore brands that projected a conventional identity that conformed to my social status and I avoided brands that people would have considered unacceptable. I could get away with Workouts, Nike tracksuits, baggy jeans, and Adidas hoodies, but I would have been ridiculed or worse for audacious attempts – clothes that I wanted to wear, but could not quite pull off. The ridicule would stem from the conflict of projected identity – the person I wanted to be – and authentic identity – the person I really was, my so-called true self.
Logos were relatively stable signifiers. They provided a sense of belonging, one understood by the various crowds. The logo demarcated the social group. Kids could broadly understand another kid’s projected identity through logo choices. I was Nike, Adidas, and Reebok, as opposed to Converse and Vans, Billabong and Quicksilver, Fubu and Ecko, all of which had connotations based on popular fashions. My style was tenuously associated with street fashion. I refrained from more outlandish projections. I did not indulge certain disingenuous mistakes, for example, such as low jeans revealing designer boxers, caps covering eyes, and so on. I was too anxious to wear daring options, such as Schott and Avirex jackets, aware that my status did not conform to the demands of the style.
The anxiety of dress stems from the mediation of performed identity and interpreted identity. I learnt from teenage years to marry my choice of clothes with an acceptable performed identity, always attempting to estimate audience reaction. I owned risky clothes that I found too daunting. I once bought a New Era Cap, for example, and I spent hours looking in the mirror, grasping at a new projected identity. I never wore the cap outside the house. Every choice of clothing, every small or large sartorial decision, comes with various degrees of angst. Some individuals brush away the criticisms, face the potential ridicule head on, while others such as myself dwell until they are forced to wear easier options.
US hip-hop and UK grime defined street style when I was a teenager. Grime was influenced by hip-hop, but regularly sought to differentiate, finding its own feet. The trainers in my part of London differed from mainstream US choices – and mainstream US choices, from our perspective, depended on broad geographical sways, such as east coast, west coast, and the dirty south. The US were obsessed with Jordans, but we preferred Air Maxes and Huaraches. Both adored Air Forces. The US loved Adidas Superstars, popular since Run DMC, but everyone in London wore Stan Smiths. The US did not seem too interested in Reeboks, at least not compared to other brands, but London went for Classics and then Workouts, among others.
Grime took its cues from street style and in turn influenced street style. The most popular grime record of the noughties was Dizzee Rascal’s Boy in Da Corner, which shows Dizzee on the cover, bold and boisterous, dressed in typical London garms: an all-black Nike tracksuit with black and white Air Max 90s, the swoosh laid sideways to entice the audience. Boy in Da Corner had several lyrics referencing popular fashions. One of my favourite lines on the album comes from ‘Fix Up, Look Sharp’: ‘It’s an Air Force One/ Trainers by the truckload, trainers by the ton.’ I bought Air Forces around that time. I wore them on a trip with school mates to Thorpe Park. Everyone dressed to impress. I put on a black Nike tracksuit with red lines running down the sides and matched it with my new Forces, which were all white with a bright yellow swoosh. The yellow did not work with black and red. I met my friends at the Underground Station and a kid from the older year, my brother’s mates, said: ‘Are you really wearing yellow Forces with a black tracksuit?’ I did that thing where you sort of laugh with the crowd to avoid embarrassment. I had to wear the trainers for the whole day, on log flumes and rollercoasters, with mates jumping on the commentary, mocking my sartorial naivety.
My favourite grime artist at the time remains one of my favourite artists. It is a rarity to witness an artist grow as you grow, albums becoming more complex and nuanced, meeting new and demanding expectations. Kano has allusions to trainers throughout his oeuvre, but his standard has always been Stan Smiths, which are my second favourite trainer, largely because of Kano. Stans feature in four songs on Kano’s Made in the Manor, but in his latest album, Hoodies All Summer, Kano reflects on the past in ‘Teardrops’: ‘Shoebox memories/ Reebok Workouts and dungarees/ We used to dream of the most frivolous of things/ Until we bought the most ridiculous of rings.’ Kano regularly uses fashion to project identity, always dependent on an awareness of street style, nostalgically commenting on a simpler time when Workouts were all the rage. Workouts seemed unique to teenage London, unique to that experience, unique to that time and place, a projection of identity built into our environment, our culture, and our sound.
Music has always informed style and in turn style informed music. The proliferation of radio, according to Caroline Young in Style Tribes, led to a sense of shared identity and shared experience. Subcultures used dress to parade heterodoxy, a purposeful form of disassociation from the ruling class, as Dick Hebdige writes in Subculture: The Meaning of Style: ‘The challenge to hegemony which subcultures represent is not issued directly by them. Rather it is expressed obliquely in style.’
Subcultures did not indulge in trickle-down. They occasionally appropriated the clothes of the rich, ascribing new meaning to the garments, which was a reaction against hegemonic culture. Teddy Boys adopted Edwardian suits as a statement against the class system. Skinheads wore Harringtons, braces, ‘bovva’ boots, and other items soon deemed vulgar by the rich. Punks demonstrated a more complete rejection. They repurposed household items as clothing – garbage bag dresses, safety pin earrings, razor blade necklaces – which reinvented meaning, standing against the profligacy and uniformity of the ruling class.
The media often reacted with anger towards subcultures, often aimed at their style, which served to reinforce the subculture’s statement against hegemony. The Daily Mail called Teds deplorable, Melody Maker described skinheads as the ‘cause for sinking feelings in the stomach’, and every mainstream paper condemned the supposed hooliganism and riotousness of the punks. Subcultures were depicted as violent, as dangerous, as scum.
Are Workouts an expression of subcultural entitativity? I don’t think so. Not anymore, at least. Lorrie Moore recently wrote an article in the New York Times that was supposed to be about the TV adaptation of Sally Rooney’s Normal People, but instead constituted a tirade against millennials. It was a purposefully offensive article, intentionally lacking nuance, but it was so brilliantly written the offense seemed enjoyable. There was some truth in Moore’s generalisations, as with most generalisations. One statement caused particular sensation. On millennials, Moore writes: ‘They have no authentic counterculture – Is not their use of social media a version of the old-fashioned Christmas card letter? – and thus secret self-harm such as cutting (unheard of among boomer youth) has rushed to fill the vacuum.’
That line particularly stood out because, devoid of the careless self-harm reference, Moore has a point. There are few authentic subcultures left in the UK and no semblance of a counterculture. The UK does have groups challenging the ruling class, but there is no common cause in style and no uniformity in stylistic distinction. The media are not outraged by subcultural groups because no groups pose a significant threat – they are too small, too unknown, or simply too nice. The media’s outrage these days is primarily concerned with other supposedly threatening groups – immigrants, asylum seekers, refugees, and other marginalised communities – though they still occasionally take aim at style. Consider the hysteria against hoodies in the mid-noughties, largely led by the media, which led to the opposition leader and later Prime Minister David Cameron offering hugs to the so-called troubled youth. (After the ‘hug a hoodie’ campaign, teenagers stopped wearing so many hoodies, not due to fear of arrest but because we were afraid a random Tory might cuddle us.)
It was social groups, not subcultures, when I was younger. But even the social groups (rudeboy, emo, skater, grunge, etc) were ill-defined, with individuals traversing categories. People were associated with groups, but the groups themselves had no common cause or heterodoxy. And dress only became more individualised after secondary school, with people adopting various styles, borrowing from disparate influences. I had friends who wore street clothing, who sometimes wore skater clothing, who later became full-blown moustachioed hipsters, which meant they ironically (and unconsciously) appropriated previous styles.
Why did subcultures largely disappear? The theme of fragmented identity features prominently in post-modern theory, explained by the pervasion of the image, the commodification of everything, and the saturation of mass media. Fashion writers, such as Joanna Entwistle, have suggested that people living in post-modernity exaggerate stylistic individuality to compensate for fragmented identities. Dress has become increasingly important. People parade projected identity to stand out from the crowd, which undermines group entitativity. Hyper-individuality undercuts the attraction of subcultural distinction.
If post-modernity has led to a fragmentation of identity, more reliant on performance than authenticity, then contemporary fashions seem to reflect that trend. Fashions in the modern age emphasise repurposing styles to give new meaning to old clothes. Jennifer Craik writes in The Face of Fashion: ‘Stylistic motifs are…reconstituted in a process of bricolage, the creation of new patterns and modes from the kaleidoscope bits and pieces of cultural debris.’
Clothing as bricolage is an expression of fragmented identity, trickling and bubbling, influenced by all styles from the subcultural to the pop-cultural, dependent on the currents of our time and the hyper-individuality of our age. My Workouts, then, need to be understood in relation to the ensemble. They must be understood as a fragment of the whole. Claude Lévi-Strauss developed the notion of the bricoleur: the person who creates improvised structures by appropriating pre-existing materials. The individual aims to communicate new meaning with old styles by adapting the ensemble, repurposing, layering meaning on top of other meaning.
Here, again, we can turn to semiotics. In The Fashion System, Roland Barthes outlines two forms of semiotic analysis that demonstrate the meaning of dress. The first is the paradigmatic: the individual choices worn on different parts of the body. The second is the syntagmatic: the ensemble of the paradigmatic items, the entirety of an individual’s style. Each paradigmatic item – the choice of t-shirt, for example – communicates something about the individual’s identity and the syntagmatic – the ensemble – projects meaning based on the interplay of choices.
Earlier fashions often worked with syntagmatic consistency. The ensemble communicated clearer forms of identity, each paradigmatic choice demonstrating an overall stable signifier. In the post-modern world, the varying forms of paradigmatic choices based on various styles – in other words, bricolage – affords greater expressions of individuality, which complicates syntagmatic interpretation. The bricoleur mixes items that do not offer consistency, drawing on various paradigmatic styles to present a new syntagmatic ensemble. The individual creates meaning through bricolage, each choice still dependent on the plurality of popular fashions.
My fashion development followed that trend. In younger years, I demonstrated consistency in clothing – each paradigmatic choice worked consistently with the syntagmatic ensemble – which always had some vague allegiance to street style. My wardrobe was simple: Workouts matching jeans and brand tees and hoodies, all relatively stable signifiers. But today I wear the Workouts differently, with Harrington and denim jackets, black chinos and baby blue shirts, Fred Perry double-tips, bright t-shirts and woolly jumpers, wayfarers and watches. Bricolage means an added emphasis on each item of clothing, which creates a complex whole. My Workouts are part of the ensemble, one projected aspect of my total identity.
People are not always conscious of the reasons they buy clothes. But one can look back over fashion choices and recognise trends. I try to dress more attractively when I’m lacking self-esteem, for example, and I often fail. I try more adventurous options in confident moments. I tend to buy bland items when I’m generally pessimistic. But what about my Reebok Workouts? I am speaking through my choice of clothes, but what am I trying to say?
Workouts are fashionable, at least to my circle, at least in my part of London. And I think it all comes down to my circle and the image I hope to project to them. To people outside my circle, Workouts might seem like a random pair of trainers, casual, barely noticeable to the untrained eye. But to my friends, Workouts project a common form of understanding, group solidarity based on the nostalgic projection of cool. And the nostalgia explains the purchase.
My new Workouts represent a hark back to youth, something that has become more pressing as I pass thirty, something that I have realised particularly over the course of writing the present essay, particularly after such a difficult year. They are an expressive form of longing for a simpler time. Workouts are just one part of the ensemble, but they a clear expression of identity, an attack on the currents of the present age and the currents of age.
Highly Commended from the Summer Flash Fiction Competition
As if the water’s blue loose retinue is cause to be alarmed, he curls, clings like froth in your arms. When you lift his chin, tell him to go, tell him the baby pool is only deep to his knees, his face firms up, ice-like, pupils frigid Moomaw glacier. You let the instructor take him away to the far end, and on the embankment of a placid lake of emotions, wait — a pristine ice-sheet. Anxieties lapping the walls of some ancient concrete dam, you watch him slide, descend into the pool, smooth as a drop. He flaps around, wiggles his arms, alike a gentle ripple on soft, yielding fluid. You’re the shimmer on that liquid, the embrace of loch. When he circles one round, then another, returns to you, dripping but beaming, your motherhood is a proud fountain, gurgling-down mountain brook. Your little boy, ecstatic on his little-big achievement, pumps his tiny fist, rises on his toes, higher than vapor, juxtaposed science and art. You pull him close, hug him tight, ensconce him in an abundant love bubble.
Years later, your arthritic lower limbs are aerial props of the banyan, thick and too heavy to move. Your fingers are strangler figs, clutching your boy, now grown-up and busy, like a network of mesh from which he struggles to be free. When you let him go, you die inside first, you rot within, become a hollow column, a central core in which the rodents and squirrels move in, a family of anteaters, and then nature is at play once again — unbound, unfree.
When the woman first met the man, he seemed for the most part ordinary. He had his oddities – he was shy and often had trouble finding words for his thoughts – but nothing about him struck her as suspicious. There were no obvious warning signs or alarm bells.
The two met online through a popular dating app and, after a few weeks of quiet, friendly conversation, agreed to meet for lunch at a quiet bistro by Shinjuku Gyoen Park. Neither was sure of what to say when they finally sat down, face to face. I apologise, the man said eventually, I haven’t been on a date in a very long time, and I don’t remember how this works. The woman replied with a reassuring smile. Let’s start with the weather, she said.
Their conversation was polite and reserved, the way it often is when people in their late 30s meet with the secret hope they are encountering a potential life partner. As they navigated the somewhat rocky path of getting to know one another, the woman began sketching a conversational outline of the man through his questions, answers, expressions, and gestures. There was not yet enough for a detailed portrait, but the woman was pleased with what she saw.
After lunch, the two took a stroll through the park. They passed by young couples, groups of friends, and families indulging in the warmth of early spring. They talked mostly about books. It was a simple, pleasant day that ended with the man walking the woman to the station, where he thanked her politely and said something that would play on her mind for the next few days.
It feels like it has been such a long time since I was happy, he said.
*
The woman and the man went on more dates, and though he was never completely at ease, in time he began to open up. It was a slow process. He did not offer personal information easily, though he seemed genuinely apologetic for it. He was timid in a way that reminded the woman of a small animal, unsure of its new owner after many long years of surviving alone.
Through their dates, at cafés and bistros, on walks and in art museums, a portrait of the man began to take shape in the woman’s mind, coloured with the specks of emotion she felt at the heart of their conversations and the stories he told in them. Little moments when his defences slipped, his eyes shined, and his heart showed.
The woman felt a kindness in the man and a lonely warmth, but underneath it something deep and unknowable, too. It was hidden somewhere beyond his occasional distant gaze and deep silence. He was a simple man with mysteries unique to his life, but this was true of all people, the woman thought, and so she let it go.
In this way, over time, their romance blossomed into something deeper and more heartfelt than either of them had expected, and for this the woman was grateful.
*
Eventually, the depth of their relationship brought with it new uncertainties and questions, the biggest of which regarded the future and whether it could accommodate a place for the two of them to share a life together.
For a time, the conversation around next steps was one that hovered like the ghost of things unsaid or a murky swamp on the map of his psyche. It was a place the woman did not want to visit uninvited, because it always seemed off-limits. She knew he avoided the topic, and she knew he had his reasons. Still, she also knew they could not avoid the swamp forever.
When the woman finally asked the man what he wanted, at a restaurant by the beachside in Kamakura, his long, pointed silence concluded with a warm and apologetic smile. I want to get married, he said. I never meant to make you wait so long, and for that, I am sorry. It was a dull and muted kind of marriage proposal, but it was dull and muted in a way that was genuine, and very much like the man she had grown to love.
It was a moment of joy for the two of them, and yet the woman sensed something else: a nervous uncertainty in the subtle movement of his eyes, and slightly longer silences filled with what felt like worried thoughts. Some part of her wanted to put a hand upon his own. To ask if something was bothering him. To ask if she could help. But the bigger part of her was silent, filled with a worry that giving a voice to doubt and fear would in turn give them shape, and thus bring them to life.
She told herself there was nothing to worry about, and when the moment had passed and their meals arrived at the table, she believed it, too.
*
On a warm summer day, the two visited the woman’s parents to announce their intended marriage. There was not much in the way of fanfare or celebration, only a particular sense of relief, found in the type of people who follow life like a checklist. The woman’s mother made a joke that perhaps now she could die happily and at peace, which was followed by polite, awkward laughter.
Time passed quietly. The woman and the man talked a little about their past dates and future plans. The man did his best to answer questions politely when asked but was noticeably silent when the conversation turned to his own parents and how glad they must be to see their only son finally find a wife. The woman gave her mother a short but knowing look and deftly changed the subject, much to the man’s near invisible relief.
Later, the woman would tell her mother that the man’s parents had both already passed away, his father when he was just a boy and his mother more recently. He had lived with his mother in a small house in Kiyosumi-shirakawa, and the two of them had carved out a quiet life together until the day he found her finally at rest. The man did not talk about his mother often, and the thought of her sometimes brought with it a long, deep silence. In that silence, the woman sometimes thought, were feelings she would never know the true shape or colour of.
*
They went to look at wedding rings in department stores. They toured potential apartments in the Shinagawa neighbourhood. They imagined a life with a cat they did not own but already had a name for. In their own slow and steady manner, they quietly planned for a small wedding.
The days were relaxed and easy, They were filled with a slow-building excitement, but it was laced with the kind of apprehension found only in people who inherently believe happiness is something that happens to other people.
Still, each morning the woman woke up, and their wedding was a day closer. The rings were picked out. They were on a waiting list for an apartment. They knew exactly which animal shelter they would visit to adopt their new pet. Life was moving forward, and the imagined future was becoming the lived-in present.
It’s the start of a new life, the woman once said. A life for just the two of us, the man replied.
*
The woman was not expecting the police when they arrived at her door. She was not expecting them to invite themselves inside. She was also not ready for any of their questions, but she answered them as best she could, given the circumstances.
Yes, I know the man by that name, she said. Yes, we are engaged. Yes, we are planning to get married. No, he has not mentioned his mother recently. No, he did not talk about her often. Yes, I knew they lived together. Yes, I knew she was deceased. No, he told me that she had passed away a few months before we met. No, I did not notice anything strange in the way he acted. No, he didn’t say anything strange. No, we had never been to Zushi or any of the stations by the beach there. No, I don’t think I saw him on August 13th, but I would have to check my diary.
The police were polite but distant. The woman sensed that though they wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, they were not yet ready. She thought back to her first date with the man and the conversational outline she had sketched of him. She sensed the police were doing the same thing, and yet their questions felt deliberately obtuse. It was as though they had a portrait already in their minds, and their questions were meant to confirm the lines that would draw their expected picture.
What is this all about? the woman finally asked.
The police officers exchanged glances, and the senior one nodded. A woman’s body was found in a suitcase inside a coin locker at Zushi station, one of the officers said. We believe it belongs to his mother. Your fiancé has been taken into custody, where he is currently being interrogated.
*
Later, through a mix of police correspondence, television reports, and magazine articles, the woman would learn that the man had strangled his mother to death. He’d done it while she’d slept the night before they’d visited the woman’s parents to announce their marriage. Afterwards, he’d placed the body in a suitcase while he decided what to do with it. He had not wanted to pay for a funeral. He did not have time to clean up an old life while he planned for a new one.
The man had originally planned to chop the body into pieces so it could be easily disposed of, but he discovered that he could not bring himself to open the suitcase again. For the next few weeks, the suitcase had sat in the hallway while the man considered his options. He had gone to work as usual and visited a few apartments with the woman.
When the smell of the suitcase had begun to bother him, the man took an early train to Zushi. He had intended to throw the suitcase into the ocean but was unable to find a place where he could do so without being seen or noticed. He was afraid to use a taxi or a rental vehicle for fear of the smell, so he put the suitcase in a coin locker and planned to come back for after he had devised a new plan.
The suitcase and the body were discovered a week later, when station staff noticed a strange smell coming from the coin lockers. The police were called, and the body was taken for further investigation. That evening, a name was found stitched into the collar of the pyjamas the corpse was dressed in. It was later revealed that the man’s mother had done this to ensure her clothes were not lost on her visits to the hospital. From this name, the police obtained an address, where they discovered the man, who turned himself in without issue.
The man said that he did not hate his mother. He simply did not know what to do with her. I could not find a place for her in my new life, he said. This particular comment was printed in magazines, quoted on the television, and talked about online for approximately a week before the world forgot about the man, his mother, and the suitcase she was found in.
*
The woman did not meet the man again. He was taken to prison, and she made no attempt to visit him before he was eventually hanged. She would later learn that police officers who were interviewed about him said that he seemed for the most part ordinary. He had his oddities – he was shy and often had trouble finding words for his thoughts – but nothing about him struck them as suspicious.
She found it strange and terrifying to think that in the time she had known the man, she might never have known him at all. She thought of their first date, and the slow melting ice of his defences, and the life they had slowly planned together. She thought of the house they wanted to share, and the cat they wanted to raise, and how the hands she held during this time had also squeezed the life out of an elderly woman and placed her body in a suitcase.
When the woman lay down to sleep at the end of each long day, she wondered about the life they would have lived if the body had never been discovered. The rings they would have placed on each other’s fingers, and the apartment they would have shared as they built a quiet life together. She wanted to tell herself she would have found out, but the reality of her late night thoughts told her otherwise. She could see the man as a monster, yes, but she could not ignore the simple fact that for a time she had been in love with him, too.
She often thought about the portrait of the man that she had sketched in her mind. She ran over all the comments, the questions, the expressions and the silences, and she drew the face of the man she had known, over and over, and over and over, until she could no longer tell if it was the face she had known, or merely the face she had always wanted to see.
Highly Commended from the Summer Flash Fiction Competition
A high-pitched scream. We freeze. Put down our cups of tea. Mute the television. Slip on our slippers and tip toe into the dark.
We stand on the veranda. In the moonlight the white-bellied gums rise up like giant ghosts from the humming undergrowth. We listen. Let the cicadas’ thrum merge with the shallow tune of our breaths and the drumming of our startled hearts.
So hot. So still. The kind of night that kills. The kind of night where the sky might whip the earth with hot dry ropes of thunderous light – just for fun, and to remind us who has the final say in this world.
The kind of night, too, where anyone might strike a spark – just for fun, and to remind us what can become of those who feel unseen and unheard by this world.
A boo-book owl calls from far away. Boooo-book?
Seconds stretch. From the other side of the sky, the echoed reply. Boooo-book?
What are they saying? I am here! Where are you?
We listen. We’re here too.
This kind of night can kill in other ways: Summer is the season of widow-makers. We’ve seen branches as big as suburban trees plummet to the dirt at our feet. In this heat, the gums shrug off their limbs as moodily as we tear off our clothes. (We’d rip off our skins, if we could.)
Some risks, we’ve agreed, are intrinsic to a place: Accept them.
Some risks are incalculable: Don’t worry about them.
Another scream jolts us. Blood bursts in our heads: deafening; choking.
This scream? It’s almost verbal, as if words – hurled up from a gut – have been trapped in a mouth gagged shut.
We listen.
Slowly, the cicadas’ song reclaims us. We exhale. The boo-book calls: I’m still here! Are you?
We turn. Go inside. Slip off our slippers. Pick up our cups of tea. Unmute the gentle chatter of the TV and stare into its hypnotising screen.
We accept nothing. We worry about everything. All we know for sure is that we’re still here – still living in the heart of this beautiful, terrible darkness.
They were going to lift the lockdown, but Naomi felt nothing other than an annoyance. Jamal had been sending her one message after another on WhatsApp, with the last one having a furiously beating heart followed by a heart-eyed emoji. One of his messages read, “I m watng to c u 2mrrow.” And she knew he was serious because he was happy. Somewhere, she wanted to be happy, too. But she no longer remembered what happiness meant, or what sadness meant for that matter. She shrugged. Enough with the drama. It might be nice to just get out of the house with its smells of “Indian curries” for more than a few minutes of shopping for essentials – as the Indian government called it all the time. The memory of India dragged her down, and surprisingly, for she had long before stopped associating that word with “home.” Now with this sudden memory, though, she wanted to explore this feeling better, get down to its root, but just then the pressure cooker whistle went off. She covered her ears with a pillow, miserable and more annoyed. She picked up her phone and squinting through the pillow sent a message to Jamal that she was ready to meet him the next day.
The restaurants, including the one she worked for, would continue to take a while to open and so would the Primark stores, movie theatres, and other places she hung out in. So she agreed to meet Jamal in his room in the house that he shared with five men, all from South Asia. She was certain Jamal would have planned something, possibly arranged to have his roommates out at least for a couple of hours, if not the whole night. He had tried that before, too, but she always held more power, the kind of power her mother often told her she wished she held, in at least one of her two marital relationships. This time, though, she gently brushed aside that power at least for the little slab of time she spent in repairing her lockdown-ridden body.
Shaving, scrubbing, moisturising, hair colouring, and then a whole round of makeup like she had been decked up for one of those Canary Wharf investment bankers, the kind of men she had secretly dreamt were in love with her. But Jamal was no Canary Wharf banker. He was one of the cooks in the restaurant where she worked as a maître d’. They had moved to the United Kingdom on the same day, and Jamal told her there was a reason for that. There was also a reason why he decided to move from Glasgow to Southall and how he ended up in the same restaurant when he had in fact planned to join another restaurant in Hounslow.
“I was meant to meet you, Naumee,” he would often tell her. She thought of how his eyes would go soft as he said these words, as she now applied another coat of her red lipstick. The lockdown had clearly added inches to her waist, to her thighs, to her face, too, though she thought that made her cheeks look fuller. She found that funny because she had consciously skipped a meal almost every day since the lockdown started. It probably did not save her much money, but the absence of a paycheck gave her a false hope that she was doing her best to not deplete her savings by taking these kinds of drastic measures. Her housemates sometimes asked her to join them for their respective dinners, but Naomi politely refused. She would never be able to develop a taste for Arul’s sambhar and rasam-laden “ponni” rice. Roshni’s curries and parathas/fulkas were more appealing, but she was jealous of Roshni and so sharing her meal seemed more insulting than going to bed on an almost empty stomach.
Her mother would be shocked to know this, and she would burst into a tirade on how she was foolish to give up her good job in Dubai and move to England and “start all over again.” And deep down she knew her mother was right. She had lived in a much nicer house in Dubai, a neat studio apartment in a relatively safe area, equipped with a functioning kitchen, and furnished with a bed, cooling, and heating. There was even a shared laundry area. The travel agency where she worked was barely a few minutes away, but Joao always insisted on picking up and dropping her off…
*
Jamal offered to pick her up this time, but she had refused, even rather haughtily. Jamal, though, had barely sensed the haughtiness. She could imagine him now, fussing around his house, possibly trying to find some “Goan” songs for her on YouTube just because she had once told him that she had loved to listen to Konkani songs as a child. Or he could be spreading a cleaner bedsheet on his mattress with some scented candles burning alongside it…The pressure cooker whistle went on again, and a few seconds later there was a knock on her door. It was Arul asking her if she would like to have some brinjal sambhar and rice. She almost opened her mouth to say no, but then realised Arul had said brinjal sambhar, which she really liked, especially with that dollop of ghee Arul put on top of her hot rice. There was still time left to drop Jamal a message and tell him that she could not make it after all. But the thought of the time after she would be done eating the rice and the sambhar hovered in front of her eyes. Arul and she had nothing in common, and all the topics of their conversations were exhausted, courtesy all the nights they had spent inside the house. She opened the door and told Arul that she was going out to meet a friend and might possibly stay overnight. Arul stared at her for a couple of seconds longer than needed before nodding and leaving her alone. Guneet, the girl she shared her room, with had gone back to India in one of the first set of Air India flights that arrived to pick up “stranded” Indians from the UK. Naomi had no idea what Guneet did for a living, but she suspected something glamorous given how glamorous Guneet was for the Southall street they lived on, with her gloriously streaked hair and her large earrings and extremely thin heels. But despite the exotic East meets West glamour, Guneet turned out to be a homesick Indian woman.
She wished she had this single-minded relationship with a country, any country. India, whose passport she held and whose identity would always be stamped on her face – even if not her name – had always been a set of years. First, the toddler years spent in Honawar that she remembered nothing of. Then the school days spent in a boarding school for “poor students” that included years with her sister and the rest without her. And then, finally, the years in Goa, the ones that she did not have a particular fondness for but still looked back on from time to time, for this was the period when she finally had a home to call her own, even if it was a one-bedroom house that she shared with her mother and three siblings. It was at that house that she finally saw her mother’s face gradually loosening itself out of the knots that always made it up. It was there that she really enjoyed the taste of a hot roti. And it was the place where she finally gained her independence, her first job, and the second one which eventually led her to Dubai.
She’d met Joao at the second job where he had come by to book air tickets for his sister and her husband. “Their honeymoon tickets,” he had told her with a wink that did not disturb her at all. When he made the payment for the ticket, he asked for her phone number, which she found she could easily give him. The first few months were so lovely, their memory now caused her a physical pain, a sharp sting that rose through her heart and shot up right to the top of her head. Joao now had an Instagram page that he regularly updated with flashy pictures from his gig as a DJ in Goa/Mangalore, pictures he took of his three boys, all clearly looking like a different version of him, and some pictures with his wife and mother. A perfect man!
*
Arul was not in the living room, so she could have quietly snuck out. But Naomi knocked on her door nonetheless and told her she was leaving. Once on the streets, Naomi tried to muster her happiness. There were more people like her around, enjoying their freedom, pretending to show how the open air had changed their lives, as if that was all that was needed to turn the lockdown into a distant reality. A little girl out with her mother smiled at her. She smiled back at the girl. But just then the child’s mother caught her smiling and along with her daughter, pulled far away from Naomi. Naomi was offended, but she then remembered, the child had smiled at her through her transparent mask and her mother had a proper mask on. Naomi on the other hand had forgotten her mask. She imagined the horror of her situation. Dressed in clothes that were a little too revealing for the chilly evening, with no mask on her face and no gloves on her hand. What else was she expecting?
She fought the urge to turn back and pick a mask from her house or at least to stop by at one of the nearby shops. Instead, as if celebrating her defiance, she continued to walk along, unmindful of the occasional stares in her direction.
By the time she got to Jamal’s place, her fingers were stinging with cold. Jamal opened the door for her, clearly smiling and clearly alone. She rubbed her palms together and, with the force of a habit they both shared, took off her sandals right at the door. Jamal’s house looked different. She had been there before with the rest of her restaurant staff, and even though she had a perfectly pleasant evening that day, Jamal’s clear attention towards her had left her inexplicably uncomfortable. Since most of the staff, who were all from some part or other of South Asia, knew who Shah Rukh Khan was, Jamal had played Kabhi Khushi kabhi gham on his newly purchased resale 50-inch TV. And all the time he had told her she looked so much better than the younger actress in that movie, which had oddly left her flattered.
Now Jamal was trying to draw her attention to a little spread on a table in the room. She indulged him and looked at it. There was a bottle of wine, which looked like something far more expensive than what she would have attributed to the currency in Jamal’s wallet. She was oddly touched. Next to it were two brand new wine glasses and next to the glasses were two more glass bowls, one filled with nuts and one filled with chocolate-dipped strawberries.
“Do you like it, Naumee?” Jamal was asking her now, his face pitiful with anticipation.
She nodded, not having the heart to disappoint him, as she let herself sit on the “special” chair Jamal set down for her next to the table.
“I was worried you will not come,” Jamal said, now sitting down next to her.
She said nothing, distracted by the chocolate-dipped strawberries. As if reading her mind, Jamal offered her one. She thought he would dare to bring the strawberry right up to her mouth…but the strawberry respectfully stayed a couple of inches away from it. She picked it up from Jamal’s hand and, looking straight at him, took a bite it from it. It was unexpectedly tasty. In no time, she had chewed on the whole thing and then picked up another one. Jamal smiled, clearly pleased with himself.
“There are more, Naumee, if you finish these. I made them for you,” Jamal said with a wide grin.
“They are tasty, very tasty. Did you make the chocolate, too?” Naomi said with a smile of her own. The sweetness of the chocolate mixed with the tangy sweetness of the strawberries had lightened her mood like it hadn’t been in years. Oh, she would finish every single one of them.
“Of course, I did. What do you think?” Jamal said, sounding slightly offended.
“I was only joking. Of course, I know you made the chocolate, too,” and with that she extended the last strawberry towards him and then even surprising her own self, brushed it against his lips which instantly parted and swallowed the strawberry along with a couple of her fingers. She flinched at that sudden contact and pulled her hand away.
“I am sorry.” Jamal was standing now, his voice defiant but his fingers fidgeting like they had overstepped their limits. “I am sorry,” he said again and looked down at her, like a petulant child waiting to be forgiven by his mummy.
“It’s okay,” she said at last, and realised she possibly meant it because she was fully aware of what she was signalling to him. Jamal had acted on his cue, and she had her turn to act on hers. But she did not want to leave the warmth of the chair she was sitting on, or leave the leftover strawberries, or leave Jamal himself…The thought of going back to her house was as appealing as going anywhere else in that mask-infested city without her own mask on.
Suddenly she felt both defeated and indignant.
She looked up. “It’s okay,” she said again, looking straight into Jamal’s brownish eyes that now glowed in the light of the only lamp in his room.
*
Jamal’s bed was uncomfortable, but more than that it was the smell that bothered her. It was clear Jamal was well prepared and had laid out freshly laundered covers for the bed and pillows. But beneath the fabric softener-laden covers, Naomi could smell the stench that probably no fabric softener would ever take away. As Jamal acted on her, occasionally indulging himself with light nibbles that were almost pleasurable to her, too, she found herself scrunching her nose and opening her mouth to breathe in through it.
Jamal fell asleep almost instantly afterwards, his head half on her outstretched arm. But the smell did not let her sleep. So she imagined Jamal’s dreams for that night. Or probably this one night he’d have no dreams, just the sound sleep of contentment…She was then mildly surprised at her own arrogance. Who did she think she was? An immigrant like millions of others around her, not even one of those white collar “software engineers,” but a restaurant worker who was now struggling to make ends meet, and who even on her best days had never matched up to those IT employees with their laptops and their software. Only men like Jamal would desire her 28-year-old, slightly pudgy in the middle body. But then Jamal did not merely desire her. For some inexplicable reason he “loved” her, wanted to marry her, and as he must have thought it to be, very graciously told her that she did not have to convert to Islam if she did not want to. They could continue to follow their own religions even after marriage. He had it all planned out, and now after finally getting to celebrate his “first night,” there was no doubt in her mind that in Jamal’s head she was already his wife. “So, what if I am from Bangladesh and you are from India. We are all the same people,” he had told her just when she let herself be led to his bed. “I love you, Naumee. You are very nice,” he had said, and she had then let him kiss her.
People often told her she was nice, but deep down she was certain it was only a pretence. Every time she helped people or at least thought she helped people, she did it because she liked the gratitude that a favour generated. Like the time she babysat – fully free of cost – her customer’s twins every two weeks as the customer, a single mother, “went out on a date”; or the times she brought groceries for the middle-aged and diabetic Gujarati couple living in one of the rooms on the first floor of her house. There was no doubt how important these little chores were to her benefactors, and their wholehearted gratitude lent her life more purpose than she let on. So why then was her selfishness any worse than the selfishness of any other person she had known?
“Naumee, aren’t you asleep yet.” Jamal’s head was off her shoulder, and he was peering into her face. She could have pretended to sleep, but her eyes were still open. She did not want to talk. She did not want to tell him she was disgusted, not so much by him as by her own self.
“Naumee, are you not comfortable? Shall I get you something? A thicker blanket?” Jamal was half sitting now. She still did not look at him, but she could feel his gaze on her face, even stronger, even concerned probably.
“Marry her,” she said, finally turning slightly to look at him. “Marry her,” she repeated.
“Marry who? What?”
“The girl your mother asked you to marry.”
“What? What are you saying? You know I will only marry you. I love you, Naumee.”
“But I don’t love you and you don’t love me either. You would not love me if you knew anything about me and you know nothing about me.”
Once she’d said it out loud, she realised how true it was.
Jamal was fully awake now. She could hear his breathing so clearly, for the first time in many days, she was scared.
And as if Jamal had sensed her fear, he was pinning her down now.
“Then why did you sleep with me, you whore,” he said softly, the word whore sounding uncomfortable coming out of his mouth. He had once told her how some of his friends back when they were teenagers had visited “whores” in Sonagachi, but he never accompanied them. And now he had slept with one himself, for that was what she had turned herself into. How else could she tell him why she had decided to visit him and then why she had slept with him when she could just as well not have done either?
“Because I am a whore,” she said looking straight at his face, even if the darkness did not give away any expressions that might have been on it.
Jamal let her go suddenly, like she was a soiled version of the Naomi that he was in love with. He got off the bed and then disappeared. Naomi wanted to feel sorry for him, but she also wanted to sleep, which she did. She slept very well, probably better than she had in years.
*
The lockdowns were back again. They said the new strain of virus is way more dangerous purely because of how fast it can spread. Naomi is almost out of her savings, but her boss has agreed to help her with rent money. She knows she will be charged in some way for this favour, but she doesn’t care. Her mother is very worried about her, but Naomi tells her there is nothing to worry about. Her mother asks her to pray. Naomi wishes she could pray. But her heart was probably not very pure because she is unable to do anything remotely like praying. It was her mother who often told her and her siblings that God will not allow prayer for those children whose hearts are not pure. All she had to do then was purify her heart, pump out the grime, the grease, the disappointments, the uncertainties, and she would be just as she was as a baby. Pure and with a pure heart.
Ozymandias
She introduced herself as “Shelley – spelled with an e – like the poet.” I had no idea who Shelley-the-Poet was, but nodded my head as if I knew. Her hair was red and her eyes were green and her skin was porcelain white. She was arresting, if not quite beautiful. I was a sophomore and she was a freshman at Carleton College, and we sat on the hillside watching the men’s baseball team play our college’s crosstown rival, St. Olaf. I was seeing the third baseman; her love-interest was an outfielder. The baseball season was forever-long – game after game after game, tedious inning after tedious inning after tedious inning. We passed the time together. Cheering. But mostly we talked. And talked and talked. That began a friendship of twenty-plus years that ended. With no explanation. With heartache.
Like in Shelley-the-Poet’s poem, “Ozymandias”: Nothing lasts forever.
Vive La Différence
We cemented our friendship that next year when we lived together on the fourth floor of Davis, a 1920s red-brick dorm with gabled roofs, no elevators and no air conditioning. Our all-women’s floor beckoned others to make the interminable climb with the promise of a payoff. “Come fourth onto Davis! Take the stairway to heaven!” emblazoned our floor T-shirts, the italics emphasising the sexual innuendo – as if it might be missed. We had the best double dorm room on campus, a benny of my being the floor’s resident assistant. We had a laddered loft, a love-sized couch, a big rubber plant, a baby blue portable TV, and a plywood divide that split the room into two. That year Shelley and I learned a lot about each other.
We learned we had different interests: She studied literature, took French, and played the piano beautifully; I studied political and social theory, took German, and played the flute unbeautifully. We learned we had different social needs: She was outgoing and I was introspective. We learned we approached men differently: She with fearlessness and I with reserve. We learned we ate differently: She chose with care and followed Weight Watchers and I ate anything at all or skipped eating altogether. We learned we studied differently: She liked the socialness of the library and I preferred the quiet of the dorm room. We learned we drank differently: She binged and I sipped. We learned we thought differently: She in stories and I in concepts. We learned we liked different types of men: She liked mysterious or boisterous and I liked even-keeled and levelheaded. I learned she loved parties; she learned I hated parties. I learned she was self-assured, adventurous. She learned I was self-conscious, deliberative. I learned that she was funny, fun, smart, articulate, entertaining, engaging. That she liked to drink, dance, laugh, and tell stories. She learned that I listened attentively, delighted in her humour, savoured our animated discussions on anything and nothing, and relished the wrestling and reckoning of perspectives on our lives, our dreams.
We learned that opposites attract.
Why Not Minot?
We came from small towns. Mine was Moorhead, in northwestern Minnesota; hers was Minot in northwestern North Dakota. Despite both Moorhead and Minot being river and railroad towns and despite similar size and similar settings and similar Scandinavian sensibilities, they were much farther apart than the 275 miles would suggest. Moorhead had an agricultural economy. Minot had the air force base and the Minute Men Missiles. The military, with the comings and goings of personnel from all over the place, made for a level of sophistication that seldom flavoured small-town America. At least this was how I explained to myself Shelley’s relative worldliness. She knew things I didn’t. She knew about food and food groups. She counted calories and cut her cuticles and used Clinique cosmetics. She read Vogue and The New Yorker. She loved Guy de Maupassant. She drank wine, preferring red. She appreciated antiques and seed pearls and things made of silk. She had a sense of style. She had opinions. She knew what she liked.
And she liked me!
Bryant and Beyond
The commonality at the core of our friendship moved from negotiating college to navigating careers. When she graduated a year after me, she, too, moved to Minneapolis, and into an apartment one floor above me on Bryant Avenue. I worked in marketing and she got a job in advertising. I had a steady boyfriend and she had an off-and-on boyfriend. We borrowed each other’s clothes; we cheered each other on; we shored each other up; we listened to each other’s stories. We seldom talked about the big five – politics, religion, sex, death, money; rather our conversation focused on the everyday. Subject matter abounded: co-workers, family members, boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, unrequited love-interests, people on the bus, customers, friends, bosses, altercations, stuff we’d seen, stuff we’d done, stuff we wanted to do. In the absence of our mothers to consult, our fathers to consult, our siblings to consult, or any mentors to consult, we had each other.
And we laughed. Her sense of humour was such a joy; nearly anything could be found funny through Shelley’s eyes. It was easy to be swept into the moment with her. We’d laugh at ourselves – our missteps, our mistrials, our misgivings, our mistakes, our misunderstandings, our miscalculations. Armed with humour, we took the struggles and stings of life in stride.
We were like sisters: We lived different lives and we loved each other. Or at least I loved her.
*
Life moved forward; so did we. I left for Chicago and graduate school in business. We kept connected by phone. I moved back to Minneapolis. She lived with a guy and then she didn’t. I got married. She left for New York and a Madison Avenue advertising job. The years rolled by. She stayed in New York and summered at Fire Island. I got divorced. I remarried. She was in my wedding again. She dated, here and there, on and off, but no one stuck. My husband and I had a child. We moved to Los Angeles and I had a crazy job drumming up marketing consulting work for an advertising agency. I quit my crazy job. His Hollywood job in programming for network television found us flirting with the fringes of pop culture. She worked with her advertising agency’s sexy blue-chip clients and her career grew. She moved out of New York and back to Minneapolis. My husband and I had another child. I focused on raising kids in Los Angeles through the freakish maelstrom: riots, earthquakes, O.J. Throughout, Shelley and I kept in touch; the telephone was our lifeline. The rare times we were together, we were reminded of the pleasure of each other’s company. But our lives no longer resembled each other’s lives.
Stress fractures began to develop.
Yearning to Discern
I’d always admired her sense of certainty. She knew what she wanted. She was discerning. I longed to develop this skill and broke it down into its parts: To discern is to evaluate, and then make a judgment. Droste chocolate trumps all other chocolate. The Limited has cooler clothes than Casual Corner. The New Yorker has better short stories than The Atlantic. He/she/it is smarter/cooler/niftier/nicer. A beats B, and C is better than D. F outshines them all. She was wired to evaluate and judge the world as she went. And that included a comfort in judging people. Her analysis wasn’t openly shared, but there was evidence: She had strained relationships in her past and present – a younger brother she wasn’t in touch with. Then a younger sister. Sometimes she would ice her parents. And then her best friend from high school went. Explanations were vague. And when new friends entered her life I’d hear of them without reserve and with bullish enthusiasm. I sometimes felt tinges of jealously and wondered if that wasn’t the intent. She spoke of new friends in tones that I reserved for her. Was she insensitive? Was I oversensitive? Through all the years, though, it never once crossed my mind that her predilection to discern would apply to me. Until it did. Over some period of time, she measured, assessed, appraised, then one day she judged.
I came up short.
The Long Goodbye
Cracks became crevasses. Like tectonic plates, the movement was slow, but unstoppable and over time, catastrophic. Looking back, it likely began with the birth of my first child. Her lack of even slight interest was remarkable. This was when I most could have used the ear, the advice, the reassurance of a good friend – these years of adjusting to the triple shocks of marriage, pregnancy, parenthood. Not to mention a move across country to a foreign land – Los Angeles.
Even though she and I struggled to stay connected, to find topics of mutual interest, we were on different trajectories, different timetables. After the birth of my second child, her father, John, died. She had a complicated relationship with her father and I feared his death might unleash an emotional tsunami. I called and called and called to check in, see how she was doing. She was always busy. Unavailable. I left messages on the machine, but they went unacknowledged. Then one time she answered. She told me she was lying on the couch with Steve, her new man. Crying. She’d been drinking as her words slopped and slurred. She said she’d call me when she could. I waited. And waited. And waited. She never did. As her relationship with Steve flourished, our friendship died.
We saw each other once more. I was visiting family in Minneapolis. I met her at their apartment. She introduced Steve. Then the two of us went off to dinner alone. It was strained. Painful. Whatever she had to say, she left unsaid. Her intractable coolness alarmed; I left feeling sick. What could I have possibly done that was of such gravity and yet been unaware I had done it? There was no event, altercation, exchange, nothing that might be grounds for discarding our relationship. I wrote a letter. I preemptively apologised for whatever I might have done, whatever she thought I might have done; I pleaded with her to take the time to help me understand, make amends. Nothing. I consulted my husband; I solicited help from a mutual friend. No one had ideas, advice, answers. Short of begging, there appeared no redress. Months moved into a year, then two.
Simply: Shelley shut me out.
*
The summer of 1997, three years after we’d last had contact, I heard she was getting married. Barely a month before the wedding, a typed, one-page, single-spaced letter along with an invitation to their wedding reception arrived in my Los Angeles mailbox. The wedding, she explained, was a small, private affair being held in St. Paul. She apologised for the lack of communication and in one brief paragraph, as if it were merely the last few months that we’d been out of touch, blamed it on a broken ankle, subsequent medical issues, followed by a series of mishaps. She apologised for not inviting me earlier, and justified the short notice by blaming it on the very letter she was writing – how it was “awkward” to write it. Then, by way of explanation for the last several years, she simply said she was “unhappy with our last visit. But uncertain why.” That was it. She added that she would understand if I did not come to the wedding reception, but either way she would call me within a few weeks of returning from her honeymoon. I sent a gift. Wrote a card with a heartfelt note.
She never made that call.
Digging through the Dust Long after It Has Settled
It’s been over twenty years since we’ve known each other. I’ve never understood what happened between us, which might seem improbable. Who abandons a friendship without an explanation? About the only thing I know for certain is that she judged me harshly. I’ve formed plenty of theories; I feel the explanation lies amidst and across them. I wasn’t the person she thought I was. My true colours: I was a faux feminist – forgoing my got-an-MBA, gonna’-break-the-glass-ceiling corporate career; I was a traditionalist – marrying, having two children, raising my children, moving for my husband’s job; I was now a rich girl – living off the ample fruits of my husband’s successes instead of succeeding in my own right. Or maybe there just wasn’t a need for me: She had Steve – one intimate relationship was enough. Or maybe she came to see me as merely ordinary, living an ordinary life. Or then again, maybe it was the erosive process of time.
My hurt was palpable. Years passed before I could even think about her without tearing up. Losing a friendship of value and meaning and importance is painful enough; not knowing why made it excruciating. I couldn’t help it; I judged her. It occurred to me that there was an elemental flaw in her and the way she valued friendship. It occurred to me that the friendship had always been on her terms, yet since our terms had been so similar for so long, I had not realised it. It occurred to me that it was complicated and she was complicated. I looked for contradictions and found them. For all her joie de vivre, she was a private person, meting out information as if it were currency, doling out her inner thoughts here and there or not at all; it was me that was more open. She knew me, but maybe I never knew her. Further, for all her feistiness, her pluck, she had no courage. Or she would have put up a fight for our friendship.
That presupposes that it mattered to her.
Forgiveness as an Act of Friendship
Now into my seventh decade, I know a lot more about friendship. I know that friendship can form in peculiar places and unforeseen ways. I know that friendships ebb and flow. I know that friendships have a lifespan, that they can limp along, explode, fade away, die on the vine, or if you are lucky, die with you. I know that different friends serve different needs. I know that friendship is essential to my well-being. I know that love and heartache are tightly bound cousins. I’m grateful for the sustained friendships I have, as I’m grateful for the friends that have come and gone. In that way, I’m grateful to Shelley. For many years, I was the better for her friendship. She helped me grow up. She taught me about myself. She taught me about the power and value of storytelling. She taught me about love and how not to take it for granted. She taught me the importance of forgiveness.
Perhaps the ultimate expression of friendship is to forgive.
We’ve been searching for the gold crayon for an hour, and I really want a glass of wine.
I’ve emptied the entire contents of the toybox onto the floor and pulled out the sofa, leaving a line of fluff which my own mum used to call dust bunnies trailing across the laminate. Finn sits on the floor and stares discontentedly at me as I grit my teeth and suggest using another colour instead.
Of course no other colour is acceptable and only gold will do for the stars. I want to scream, to tell him that the sky does not need to be black and the stars do not need to be etched with the luridly bright yellow crayon which he calls gold, but colours are fixed for Finn. In a world in crisis where everything is uncertain, unstable, the night sky is reassuringly constant. Each night we tumble outside onto the pavement, me carrying Finn in his pyjamas to say goodnight to the stars and blow kisses to the moon with the small, sticky hands which still reach for mine at every opportunity. On cloudy nights he cries, real sobs which shake his body until I lie next to him in his tiny cot bed, scrolling through photos of the stars taken on nights when there was nothing to obscure our view. Sometimes he falls asleep clutching my phone, pressing the stars to his face. On these nights I have to wait until his breathing is steady and then prise my phone away, holding my breath as I try to work it free from its position under his damp cheek
I take deep breaths. Count to ten, the way they tell you to in the leaflets pressed into my hands at the end of each appointment. Appointments where the consultant used a rainbow-coloured spiral diagram to explain what I already knew, that Finn would always see the world differently to me. Arranging a bright smile on my face, I continue my search, promising that we will find the crayon, so that my child can draw the stars as they shine for him.
The Map Is Not the Terroir
While most people instantly recognise the outline of their own country’s map, the same cannot be said for their grasp of the shape of other countries (Is there anyone out there who could tell apart, just from their silhouette, Portugal and Benin? I think not.) One of the few countries that many will recognise besides their own is France’s distinctive hexagonal contour, its stretched hide form neatly framed by the natural borders of the Pyrenees, the Alps, the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea. Much like the wines of the country’s terroirs (“a unique link to the land and place of production, which can be detected in the intrinsic essence of the produce”), France, à l’aise dans sa peau (at ease in its own skin), is at once a geographical objet trouvé and a painstakingly contrived concoction – the map is not the territory, the map is the terroirs. (Disclaimer: I should point out early on that, although a British subject, I was raised on the right side of the channel. This means that I may sometimes err in being more of a royalist than the king.)
Jeremy Black, in his pleasingly taut France: A Short History, is himself at pains to dispel this notion from the get-go, pointing out in his introduction that “it is all too easy to assume that expansion to France’s subsequent frontiers was inevitable.” And Black ends his introduction: “…the boundaries and governmental patterns of modern France are a misleading guide to the history of the lands that became France.” But while this is an obvious truth (multiple outcomes having always been possible), it remains true that both the historian and the layman are compelled to read history backwards, so that Black’s distinction between “determinism” and “possibilism” and his view that the French state has been fundamentally of an “accretional character” come across as little more than lip service to current moods, as the book unfolds conventionally enough, dividing France’s history into the standard epochs and featuring the usual roll call of suspects – the big men, and the few big women, that made French history. Black’s writing and his exposition of the facts is clear and to the point, and he invariably takes an evenhanded approach to events and historical actors, without passing modern judgment on past times or attempting to bend the narrative to suit contemporary mores.
The only times Black does seem to throw a sop to current conventions, it is in a lighthearted manner that suggests he does not take the point very seriously himself. A – wilfully? – amusing example of this can be found in the captions to the two photographs on page 65, the first of a series of rough-hewn dolmens (“a reminder…[of a]…sophisticated society falling victim to Roman conquest”), while the second picture, showcasing the Pont du Gard, is “an impressive instance…[of]…more widespread development of public infrastructure in the Roman centuries.” What indeed did the Romans ever do for the hidebound and hut-living natives of Gaul, one may wonder? But apart from a few glancing remarks such as these, which may well be tongue-in-cheek, Jeremy Black’s France is a conventional one (This is meant as a compliment.) It is short enough to not turn off the curious reader and yet sufficiently complete, at 224 pages, for the more serious history buff, as the author has provided sufficient legroom to sketch out the background of main events and analyse the character of historical actors with some depth. But making so much of so little requires great mastery, and if condensing “all” of France’s history into such a short format must have been challenging, accomplishing it is a coup de maître.
The author’s able command of his subject is on full display in the central chapter of the book, “The Ancien Régime, 1715–1789,” which Black starts with a query as old as the study of history itself: “Was the Revolution inevitable?” (In other words, could events have transpired differently?) We learn here of the impact of new agricultural produce (maize, potatoes) from the Columbine exchange, of epidemics and the different death rates of the urban poor and the bourgeoisie, as well as of the cultural impact of the ideas of the Enlightenment writers (Voltaire, Montesquieu), or of science, with the Encyclopédie, the Physiocrats (the first “economists,” who still thought that the laws of physics applied, even in their discipline), and early scientists such as Lavoisier and Condillac. We learn as well about the introduction of private banking, of changing animal husbandry as well as about politics proper (the Seven Year War), and the prevailing attitudes of public opinion toward the monarchy. Even the Beast of Gévaudan (“possibly a large wolf”) that once terrorised the Gévaudan region of central France and Restif de la Bretonne’s obscure Vie de mon père get a mention (Also to be recommended is Monsieur Nicolas, or The Human Heart Laid Bare, de la Bretonne’s extraordinary autobiography.) Did French history, always a movable feast, reach a climax in 1789? Black, having enticed us with a vivid bill of fare of the era’s ferment, returns to his “possibilist” theme, concluding that “there was nothing inevitable about these ideas leading to revolution by the end of the century.”
What then is the study of history for, one may well ask? Although Black later on (apparently) chides “revisionist history” for, among other things, giving too much room to “narrative” as well as to “chance” over “theoretical approach,” and even makes a possible swipe at questions of “representation, symbolism and violence,” he mostly steers clear of these contentious topics to concentrate on the facts themselves. But if events cannot be predicted, trends may certainly be followed to their (near inevitable?) conclusions. A comparison between societies, and between countries, self-evidently shows that, for much of the times and in most places, similar happenings do indeed create vastly similar outcomes. So that if it is of course a truism that “there is nothing unavoidable” in the course of events, once a direction is taken, it will gather steam. So that there was, in fact, an inescapable character to the French Revolution (although it could have taken a thousand different forms, one of them, for instance, resulting in a constitutional monarchy, a hypothesis that Black evokes in passing). Just as the national revolutions that swept Europe in the 19th century were, in a sense, “inevitable.” Or, to pick a more geographically remote but temporally closer parallel, just as the Ethiopian Revolution of 1974, which also resulted in a regicide, was predestined, if not in its actual outcome, then certainly in its general thrust (If there is, in a parallel universe, a constitutional negus dutifully cutting ribbons, there is no alternative history in which a king rules Ethiopia with an iron fist in the 21st century – contemporary trends did not allow for this outcome.)
“People more resemble their times than their parents” (or something analogous) runs the epigraph in Frison-Roche’s account of the French explorer René Caillé, the first Westerner to reach the “forbidden” city of Timbuktu (Frison-Roche, L’esclave de Dieu). Et oui! Even though Black underlines that relatively fewer people in France were literate in 1789 than is often believed (contra the thesis that it is the ability to read that inexorably led to the Revolution), it very probably remains this phenomenon that altered the consciousness of the people at large. When Black correctly points to the impact of the rise of statistics, the newfound spirit of rationalism, and even to the corruption laid bare in the Affaire du collier de la reine (the Affair of the Queen’s Necklace), it rests that for all this to spread – rapidly changing received opinion, and therefore consciousness – all you need is a small minority of literate people. Likewise, in the Ethiopian Revolution, it was a minuscule proportion of the population that, once given access to education, went on to swiftly overturn a “millennia-old” dynasty.
In 1693–1694, Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie estimated that a famine took more than a million lives in France (out of a population of 20 million). But no one thought to lay the fault at the feet of Louis XIV – and this famine is today completely forgotten by the French (Black himself notes the date of this particular famine, tersely commenting that it had a “savage and prolonged local impact”). But something changed in the “consciousness” of the French in the course of the 18th century, then in Europe at large and finally, in the rest of the world. (Likewise, the 1973 famine in Ethiopia played no small part in the demise of Hailé Selassié, then the famine of 1984–1985 in precipitating the end of his successor, Mengistu Hailé Maryam – those devastating televised images with the BBC’s Michael Buerk did the job. Meanwhile, the Ethiopian famine of 1888–1892, the ክፉ ቀን or ‘evil days,’ which killed up to a third of the population and didn’t cause a single political remonstrance of the monarch, is now largely forgotten as well.) Besides the transformation of people’s minds brought about by literacy and rationalism, there is simply the question of infrastructure: new roads and granaries first made relief a possibility, then an expected measure. So that in short order acts of God became the responsibility of the ruler.
Black’s illuminating point-to-point history, in its last chapter “France Today, 2001–” and in its “Conclusion,” gives a brief and characteristically well rounded appraisal of recent events and trends such as the Yellow Vests movement and the plummeting popularity of Emmanuel Macron (underscored by the presidential party’s poor results in the June regional elections). Today, the French live with COVID-19 and the weekly confinement measures broadcast through tweets and Facebook postings (a period that France: A Short History does not cover, ending as it does in 2020). But Black does, fleetingly, touch upon the current change of mood: the deep dechristianization of French society, the death of small holding farmsteads, the increase in the number of Muslim immigrants and, behind the French’s kneejerk anti-Americanism, the continued appeal of globalisation (The more the French fervently speak of terroir, the more McDonald’s hamburgers they indulge in.) If the French often like to think they have an abiding sense of their own history, they have made Disneyland Paris a resounding success through their enthusiastic patronage.
The French are famously complex(ed) and difficult to pin down, and the only criticism one could make is that Black’s account is strangely devoid of Frenchmen – although he does alight on the question when he alludes to “consciousness” and details in a illuminating manner the changing ways of being and the rising literacy rates that made the scientific and rationalist mindset come to the fore. Black writes, in a small aside, of the importance of La Gloire in French history and of how the demise of Louis the XVI may well have been precipitated by his lack of this mysterious ingredient…(The English tend to use French words when trying to make simple things more complicated than they really are, but Black does make a good case that gloire does not readily transpose as glory.) But the question of what makes a Frenchman is left unresolved. Yes, glory (or panache, such as the Italian sprezzatura), but what else makes a people? This fundamental inquiry is left largely untouched, no doubt for sake of brevity. Differences in regional approaches to national questions are evoked in passing, as are the differing politics of Catholic and Protestant areas; but they are not explored in depth. Another fascinating aspect of France which goes unmentioned here, is the wildly contrasting variance in family makeup (patriarchal, nuclear, etc.) inside the country, which the historian Emmanuel Todd has, more or less conclusively (to my mind), shown to have been of immense importance in the history of the country, in works such as The Invention of France.
Black has probably given these questions much thought elsewhere, in his numerous volumes, and the book is, after all, titled France: A Short History (and not, say, The French: An Overview). But a country is made up of people, so that if you leave out the people you have also lost the country (or, at least, you now have something very different from what you started off with). This is not a nod to the essayist Renaud Camus’ Grand Remplacement (Black cautiously ventures that the high number of Muslims may have played a role in decreasing Christianity’s role in French society – but this is not so.) Rather, to follow the historian Patrick Buisson in his recent work (La Fin d’un Monde, 2021), if we have indeed seen a Great Replacement since the 1960s, it is in the wholesale substitution of a millennia-old culture (Christian, largely agrarian, and based on the family with semi-autarchy and high regional individuality) by atomized modernity (which is not to deny the importance of the changes in population underway; human beings are not interchangeable building blocks.) The French of yesterday have been replaced by the French of today. These sea changes, to which there are, of course, close parallels everywhere in a globalised world, have eviscerated France while retaining some rather pretty backdrops (To paraphrase Pier Paolo Pasolini in his Corsair Writings regarding Italy’s own boom economico: What fascism did not succeed in doing will be accomplished by the consumer society.) President Macron’s grand plan for his presidency (even before the French iteration of Build Back Better), was to make of France a “Start-up Nation.” Not much glory to be found there, certainly, and gone, quite obviously, are the days of the quixotic attempts to preserve the French language from foreign influence.
Jeremy Black’s book is a good roadmap to the France that was, from Carnac to the inferno that engulfed the Notre Dame Cathedral on April 15, 2019 – and perhaps even provides a few clues to the France that will be. But if we can only concur with Black when he states that a revolution only ever appears to be inevitable in retrospect, it is evident that change is afoot in the land of France again. Consciousness is morphing once more into some other as yet inchoate form, slouching towards Paris. We live in the time of global warming and of global pandemics; borders are shut tight while information engulfs the world in ever more alarming waves (Without the infrastructure of the Internet, there would be no lockdowns possible in the West. Without the media, there would be no exacerbated awareness of public health issues – there is a close parallel between those now-forgotten early famines and recent epidemics, which are not only forgotten but barely registered, even at the time. Who remembers the Asian Flu of 1957–1958 or the Hong Kong Flu of 1968–1969 that killed millions throughout the world?) Public statues, last seen being toppled during the Revolution, are again the object of ire, in France as well (although President Macron has said that there would be no dismantling). Perhaps now will come the time to remember the Physiocrats, the early French economists who claimed, Black tells us, “that the land was the sole source of real wealth, that manufacturing simply changed the form of its products, and that trade only moved them on.” If the end can never be foretold (le pire n’est jamais certain – the worst is never certain), I will wager that we shall soon find out if the French still have skin in the game and if the “hexagon” is the territory of the French – or if it is indeed a blank canvas.
France: A Short History
By Jeremy Black
256 pages, Thames & Hudson
Johnny Appleseed had a dream to plant enough apple trees in America so that no one would ever go hungry. Matt Bell’s ambitious Appleseed takes that folk legend and grows it into an epic climate-apocalypse novel. With three distinct and interrelated narratives, the work is scattered with characters battling deep environmental and moral complexities.
In the 1700s, half-faun and half-human Chapman is planting apple orchards with his brother Nathaniel, who is driven by manifest destiny and financial opportunity. Centuries later we meet John, a surviving rebel in America, where climate breakdown has enabled EarthTrust to own vast swathes of land across the globe. For a humanoid named C-432, all that’s left of the American subcontinent is an ice sheet. Reaching a place named Black Mountain becomes his mission, without knowing why or who or what he will meet there.
Though Bell does a slow setup, building details of each world and their character’s mission over the distinct chapters, it is infinitely rewarding to stick with the novel. The book weighs heavy with symbolism, which works well to link the narratives. Chapman assists his brother planting trees, but his motivation is different from his brother’s fortune-seeking. All Chapman wants is to bite the apple from one tree that promises to free him from existing halfway between two worlds – animal and human. Chapman’s sense of selfhood is confused; outcast from the human world for being responsible for his mother’s death during his birth, he is not animal enough to live in the wild and not human enough to settle in a homestead. But when he encounters three witches – hags from a half-world – he can mutate magically from animal to human. But at what cost? Here history and myth are entwined not quite in harmony but in tolerable unity.
John’s life in the near future faces similar challenges, with the human population desperate after climate change has ravaged the lands, leaving the government held to ransom by EarthTrust’s advancing technological solutions. The language of place and survival becomes one of sacrifice, as choices are eroded as easily as the soil which once sustained life. We find John scavenging in the Western Sacrifice Zone, a place where nothing grows in the ruins of pipelines and human-made industrial decay. His once friend and ex-boss Eury Mirov runs EarthTrust and encourages climate refugees to relinquish their citizenship to work as volunteers on farming communities in exchange for food and a safe place to live. John has a mission to get to Eury and will do what he can to reach her. He might be circling the same routes trodden centuries earlier by Chapman, but the land is unrecognisable. As Bell writes, “One old myth of the West was that much of it was empty, barren, lifeless; a useful story, because one way to convince yourself to spread suburbs to the horizon was to tell yourself there was nothing there. It wasn’t true then, but almost is now.”
With nothing more than a song accompanying him across inhospitable ice, humanoid C433 has little use for language. He knows few names of animals and insects – to him language is factual, directional, programmed each time his software is updated. If he did come across an animal, he would not know how to name it. At one point he finds a list of extinct species. Without memory to grasp the scale of extinction, the humanoid has no emotional connection to loss. Bell’s work muses on such limits of language when everything is at risk. Nathaniel “speaks in the language of the settler, proud of stewarding the land, of improving the country.” Chapman struggles with his human side and the freedom animals have without language. Yet when he hears of the story of Johnny Appleseed, he is shocked by how the fable has become a lesser version of himself, each time moving further away from a recognisable truth.
Over the years of planting apple trees, the brothers’ disappointment grows, with Nathaniel realising the hard and futile graft of collecting dues for the apple orchards. Chapman, on the other hand, is disillusioned by irreversible change to the land, now tamed, farmed, and lost. He’s horrified and sees a parallel in the mutation of his body from animal to human form, “as if his hooves and fur were on the inside.”
Blame is considered universal under EarthTrust’s control; Eury believes “the problem belongs to every last person; until it’s solved everyone remains complicit, even if they resist.” Her politics may seem neoliberal, but Eury’s polished perfection hides sinister intentions: offering the world its last hope as she negotiates with the remaining political powers. John, having known Eury since childhood, is able to see her genius and her failings. But the tension is a moral one; what needs to be exploited to save the few?
The undercurrent running through Bell’s work is the swift erosion of democracy and government power. It owes much to contemporaries like Naomi Klein, whose analysis of the relationships between global powers and corporations is laid bare in This Changes Everything. That EarthTrust manages to take charge of America’s natural resources in under two decades is perhaps an idea not too far-fetched after all.
Conversations between John and Eury that take this standpoint are haunting. Eury’s desire to create a new world battles with John’s belief that she is selfishly driven to own the last living things of the world. Eury sources her ark-like collection of endangered animals, playing God with genome sequencing. John expresses horror at the sad face of the last Galapagos turtle trapped behind glass and the last grey furred wolf following without a mate. Bell vividly takes us to a place of poignant human blame, presenting the moral conflict of saving versus restoring. Both require sacrifice and complicity. Appleseed is not subtle in dealing with cause and effect; it is an ultra-modern meditation on what it means to be human and animal as the characters battle with what it means to save a world without a God: “Eury wanted to save the world too, but she never wanted to return to the Garden. Eury wanted to save the world only if she could also choose the future that came after, if she could be the one to decide what the human future should be.”
For a novel this vast in scope and ambition, Bell tries and succeeds in balancing storytelling with the posing of difficult questions about the morality of whose world it is to save, what is right and wrong. He certainly gives us much to consider as loss happens over and again, as things are rebuilt and changed, each time made new again. The characters’ names evolve and the use of names in the chapter titles shows the changes subtly, as when C-432 is rebooted as C-433, while giving a clear way of delineating the three timelines.
Bell weaves together real and speculative subjects with action-packed scenes and quandaries that will be sure to appeal to lovers of climate fiction. The landscape of opposing forces is a familiar one: the tension between human and animal, good and evil, hope and abandonment, myth and reality. Ultimately, it is a world almost too horrifically recognisable as our own, and we’re left with some powerful questions about our past and future: “Did you act while you could? This close to the end, you might not get to know if you did the right thing. A moment passes, a moment passes, a moment passes. In how many of these fleeting moments did you do nothing?”
Appleseed
By Matt Bell
Custom House, 480 pages
You were chopping onions when the lights went off. They did not flicker; they shut firmly – like someone slamming a door. You and Rachel were in the midst of making falafel wraps. She was blending chickpeas. You stood in the kitchen for a few minutes, hovering over the sleeping appliances. But the storm had toppled a power line a block from your apartment. You put the ingredients in the refrigerator, feeling incomplete, hoping the power would reemerge. You didn’t know then – if you had known then, it would have crushed you – none of your ingredients would survive.
Life without electricity is a strange experience. You forget. You walk into a room and reach for the light switch. As the daylight fades, you forget. Why are you sitting in the dark? You realise you own neither candles or flashlights. Your only flashlight is on your phone, and your phone battery is at 13 percent.
It’s kind of a rush. You unearth the external battery charger that you won in a white elephant Christmas exchange two years ago, the one you bring on trips in case you get stuck in an airport but that you’ve never used because there are always power outlets in the airport. But now you and Rachel take turns charging your phones and watch the red numbers count down from 100.
You eat strange meals. Sandwiches with honey, banana, and peanut butter. Your skin looks better; without artificial light, you can’t see the imperfections. You have no Wi-Fi, so you finally organize your closet and set aside clothes for donation. The daylight becomes a motivator. As darkness falls, you cannot stay awake and you go to bed earlier than you have in weeks and sleep better than you have in months.
You tell people about the power outage and they are stunned. Still? Two days without power? You throw away coffee creamer, feta cheese, two containers of tofu, spaghetti sauce, and the ingredients for the falafel wraps. Throwing the bag in the dumpster, you are surprised; you thought it would bother you more. But when the pendulum swings so far in the direction out of your control, it gives you a strange sense of calm. You are absolved from responsibility.
And really, things could be much worse. Six years ago, the power went out at your grandma’s house in New York. It was the day after Christmas and there was no heat, electricity, or water. You tried to build a fire in the basement, but there was a problem with the chimney and the room filled with black smoke.
But this is summer; you’re with your best friend; you’re surrounded by coffee shops and restaurants and civilisation. The situation is temporary, like everything is temporary. You will move in less than a month. You try not to think about this. It forces you to categorise belongings, goodbyes, and “last times” that are as depressing as they are mundane. The last time you’ll buy an iced vanilla latte from Dunn Bros. The last time you’ll walk down Grand Avenue. The last time you’ll roll the olive oil around the pan to compensate for your apartment’s slanted floors.
The night the power went off, you sat at the kitchen table in the dark with Rachel, getting tipsy off beer you saved from the dysfunctional refrigerator, eating pretzels and carrots and watching pink lightning fill the sky. Even in the midst of it, you sensed the formation of a memory that time would not erode; the strangeness of the situation would make you remember, and for that, you are grateful.
Gerrit ordered for both of us. “Twee bollekes, asjeblief.”
The waiter walked away.
“En als ik iets anders wil?” I said.
“Drop the Flemish,” said Gerrit. “My English is fine.”
“We’re not kids anymore. I can make my own deci – ”
“You love De Koninck.”
I crossed my arms and glanced at the next table where a man was sipping from a glass chalice of burgundy Grimbergen beer with a red-marbled head.
I turned back to Gerrit. “When does she get here?”
“The bus comes on at quarter ’til,” he said.
“Arrives.”
“Eh?” said Gerrit.
“Comes on doesn’t make sense in English. Arrives is better.” I took out my pack of cigarettes and smacked the end into my palm.
“You can’t smoke.”
“I don’t need your health speech.”
“It’s a new Antwerp law. No more restaurant smoking.”
“You’ve got to be – ”
“Nope.”
I rolled my eyes and slid the cigarettes back into my coat pocket. “This isn’t a real café anyway.” We were seated at the front window of the Hans Christian Andersen tavern on the cobblestoned Keyserlei, a couple hundred metres from Central Station. A breeze rippled the orange leaves of the linden trees. “You should have ordered us a couple of Carlsbergs.”
We both laughed.
The waiter returned with a tray and set down two foam-topped glasses of amber beer and a dish of nuts. Gerrit nodded, and the waiter turned away.
I raised my beer. “Schol.”
“Schol.” Gerrit held up his glass.
We clinked.
“To a good visit,” I said.
“Well,” said Gerrit, “we’re going to see about that.”
Our family was convening in Antwerp because of Gerrit’s daughter Clara, whose pregnancy and hastily planned wedding had cut short her studies at the university. I’d flown in from New York the day before, and now Gerrit and I were waiting for our mother to arrive on the shuttle bus from the Brussels airport. After Dad’s death ten years earlier, Mom had sold the house and hightailed it out of Flanders so quickly we all wondered how long she’d been planning her escape to Tuscany. In this moment, I was thankful that Gerrit’s wife Lillian had left him because Mom and I would be spending two weeks in his apartment on Spoorstraat, and we would need space.
Gerrit gulped his beer and wiped his lips. “When Mom steps from the bus, I thought we could take her luggage back to the apartment and then maybe go have some lunch.”
“No, she’ll want to go to the cemetery first thing.”
Gerrit stared into his beer and started flicking his thumb and fingernail.
“That’s usually what she wants to do,” I said. He only flicked like that when something was wrong. “That should be okay, right?”
“No,” said Gerrit.
“Why not?”
“We can’t.”
“It’s a short drive.” The cemetery wasn’t far, just out on Driehoekstraat in Ekeren.
Gerrit’s jaw muscles clenched.
I set my glass on the table. “What’s going on?”
“It’s gone,” he said.
“What’s gone?”
“The grave.”
“What?” I laughed. “How can – ”
“I let it expire. I didn’t renew the lease, so they emptied it. Dad’s not in his grave anymore. They rented it to someone else.”
“They rented – . What do you mean they emptied it? Where’s Dad?”
“After ten years, probably there wasn’t much left of him.”
“But there had to be something. At least bones.”
“Yes, maybe,” said Gerrit.
“So where the hell are the remains?”
“I don’t know, perhaps somewhere in a bone yard.”
“You don’t know?”
“Does it matter? He’s gone. Who cares?”
“I can tell you who’s going to care.”
Gerrit leaned in. “And who cared when Dad was still alive?”
“Oh, hell.” I sat back and looked out the window down the street. Dry leaves rustled, paces quickened, coat collars turned up.
“Who took care of Dad for two years?” said Gerrit. “Not you, with your New York life and your acting career and your shiny new American citizenship.”
“I had commitments.”
“We all had commitments.”
I stared at him. “You think Dad even wanted me around?”
Gerrit drained his glass and signalled the waiter.
“Do you?” I said.
“It didn’t help when you left.”
“Why would I stay in Antwerp when no one wanted me here?” I said.
“Lillian wanted you to stay.”
I bit my lower lip. I looked up at the seated bronze statue of Hans Christian Andersen, his book in one hand and the palm of the other outstretched toward the ceiling. Lillian.
“And do you think it was all a bed of tulips around here?” Gerrit said. “Dad never forgave me for not taking over his cafés when he got sick.”
The waiter stood at our table.
“Nog twee bollekes,” said Gerrit.
“Stop ordering for me,” I said. I looked at the waiter. “Ver mij ne Grimbergen, zonder groseille.”
The waiter nodded and stepped away.
My chest ached when I thought of Lillian and our time in high school on the Brialmontlei and how she had cried when I’d told her I was leaving to study acting at New York University. Two years later, she and Gerrit were married.
“And if I had stayed in Antwerp, you think Lillian would still be with me?”
“She loved you,” said Gerrit.
“Would you have stolen her anyway?”
“Stolen? You were gone! You left all of us. Me, Dad, Mom. And what was Lillian supposed to do?”
“She should have come to the states with me.”
“For two years she was angry,” said Gerrit. “She couldn’t believe you expected her to drop everything to follow you.”
“She should have come. I was better for her.”
“You were better.” Gerrit snorted and then shook his head. “Well, she always thought so. And it doesn’t matter, because she left, too.”
“Maybe she’d have stayed if you hadn’t screwed around in Thailand.”
“You have no idea what was going on here,” said Gerrit. “No idea.”
“Then tell me.”
Gerrit’s shoulders slumped. He flicked his thumb and fingers again. He shook his head and groaned and then quietly mumbled, “How is that now possible.”
And while that colloquial phrase doesn’t quite translate into English, I had the good sense not to correct him. When he was fourteen, Gerrit had come up with the idea to become fluent in English and to speak it without an accent. I was twelve and had told him I would do that, too. He’d laughed and said, “Go ahead, we’ll see how far you get.” Four years later, he started his undergraduate study in Flemish at Leuven, and I headed to New York after high school. Even now as adults, he insisted we speak English together to “maintain our fluency.”
“She used to get mad at me for wiping Dad’s ass,” said Gerrit.
“What?”
“Lillian said that was Mom’s job – wiping Dad’s ass when he couldn’t do it any longer.”
“Jesus. But eldercare assistance should have – ”
“Mom refused help. She said strangers should never do that. We had to take shifts and share the job. It was the only way.”
A group of teenagers walked into the Andersen, giggling and slapping each other and hunched over their smartphones. A waiter told them to put away their cigarettes and then seated them at the back of the café, thank God.
“How are you going to tell her about Dad’s grave?” I said.
“I’m not going to,” said Gerrit. “You are.”
“There is no way – ”
“You have to do something hard for once.”
“You didn’t renew the lease!”
“And you weren’t even here. I was with him every day, and I helped Mom afterwards, and then she left, too. Fucking Tuscany. Now it’s your turn to help. I can’t do it.”
I straightened my napkin. I stacked coasters on the table.
“She’s going to collapse in the street,” I said.
“God.” His thumb flicked and flicked.
There was laughter from the table of teenagers.
Gerrit stood up. “I’ll be in the WC.”
I checked my watch. 11:40 a.m. The airport express bus was due in five minutes. I gazed out the window at the Keyserlei. Cars crawled past. There was a waffle stand across the street under a web of scaffolding and construction machinery. Standaard Boekhandel had just opened a branch in the Century Centre. The street had been different thirty years ago, during my childhood. The Van Den Hende candy shop had long since disappeared. I snorted when I saw that McDonald’s was still going strong.
The waiter arrived and deposited our beers.
“Bedankt,” I said.
He nodded. “Nog iets?”
“Nie-eh, das al.”
Hordes of people streamed along the sidewalk under the bright orange leaves of the linden trees, whose autumn colours had been mesmerising me since childhood. I was lost. For me, this was Antwerp, not the cathedral or the Grand Market or the Rubens House, but this long row of sturdy lindens, shimmering in the cool snap of October.
Gerrit returned from the restroom and sat down. “They won’t be here much longer.”
“Who?”
“The trees.” He pointed a thumb sideways toward the street. “They’re cutting down all the trees next month, all ninety-six of them.”
“My God.” I looked at Gerrit. Then out the window. Then back at Gerrit. My mouth hung open.
“Apparently they’re in such poor health, the city’s going to remove them,” he said. “I guess it’s good that euthanasia is legal in Belgium, eh?” He laughed. Then he stopped when he saw my wide eyes. “Yes, well. Anyway, let’s not tell M – ”
“Hell no, we’re not telling her. Jesus.” I grabbed a handful of nuts from the glass dish and shoved them into my mouth. I drummed my fingers on the table while I crunched.
Gerrit picked up his glass and sucked in a long draw. Foam simmered on his upper lip. He sighed. “Lillian left me because of Dad.”
“What?” I said through a mouthful of nuts.
“It was Dad. Not because of Thailand.”
I stopped chewing.
“She got angry during those last two years. Clara was seven years old. Lillian said I was helping Dad too much.”
“But you told me it was Thailand.”
“No, no, I was protecting Lillian, trying to make it look like it was my fault,” said Gerrit. “She said she and Clara needed me more than Dad did, and if I didn’t stop helping him and Mom so much, she was going out the door.”
Gerrit stared down at the table. “I haven’t seen her since Clara turned eighteen and moved to Ghent.”
“Will she be at the wed – ”
“Yep.”
I watched my brother flick his thumbs.
“I’m sorry.” Gerrit looked up at me. “But you were better off without her.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” said Gerrit. “She left when things became difficult. What sort of wife does that?”
I pulled out my cigarettes, then tucked them back away.
“I thought she would change from her mind after Dad died, and then come back,” said Gerrit.
“It’s just ‘change her mind.’”
“Okay okay, change her mind.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
Gerrit smiled. “That’s alright.”
“No, I mean I’m sorry for leaving.”
Gerrit’s lips tightened. “It’s okay. New York is the place for acting – we all knew that. Mom knew it, too.” He wiped his eyes with a napkin and then peered sideways out the window. “There’s the bus.”
He dropped some cash onto the table.
“Here, let me help.” I pulled out a five-Euro note.
“No, I’ve got it,” he said.
We walked out the door and headed down the sidewalk.
“I’ll tell her,” said Gerrit.
“But I thought – ”
“No, no, I’ll do it. Mom doesn’t speak English, so it should be me anyway.”
I left that one alone.
He stopped walking. “I did it on purpose.”
“Did what?”
“Cancelled the lease on Dad’s grave,” he said. “I was angry. At you. At all of you.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. His eyes were wet. He sniffled and then we walked.
Even from twenty meters away I could see the wrinkled hose on her thick ankle as one foot descended gently from the bottom step of the bus door to the cobblestones. She held the handrail and shuffled to the kerb. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, lifted her head, and gazed up at the leaves of the linden trees. Then she turned in our direction. As we approached, she glanced from Gerrit to me and back again, and when her squinting eyes landed on my arm around his shoulder, she smiled as if finally convinced all would be well.
A close up of Peter O’Toole squinting down a rifle barrel looms before me. His actorly face becoming a mask of concentration as he seeks out the requisite alignment of the crosshairs. You only get one shot to change the course of history.
I saw the film once before, but so long ago that I’ve forgotten its opening scene – where Hunter attempts to take out Hitler – before the injured pheasant raises the alarm, so turning Hunter into prey. I recall only an image of the pursued figure who goes to ground; who vanishes into a burrow, into his dark pit of safety. There he is joined by a feral cat who he tags Asmodeus. When Asmodeus is executed as a warning to his host, the latter dissects him and, using his guts to string together a catapult, manages to escape from the pit.
Seeing it again, some four decades on, it becomes clear that I’ve retained no memory of the cat’s crucial role, nor that of the pheasant. As if, in the interim, the entire plot had been folded into a single scene of Hunter’s disappearance into the terrain; itself remembered in the continuous, viscous surface of the film.
He adjusts the rifle-butt against the hollow of his shoulder, scowling the while at the radical indeterminacy of the mark.
Just home from dinner with Manda and had to write you. I couldn’t stand the uncertainty anymore – I finally told her how I felt.
I took her to that Italian place on Prince St. that I love. We ordered wine and were just about to ready to order dinner.
I decided to say something before the waiter arrived. So I told her that I thought there could be something between us – that I was open to exploring whatever it was, and that, regardless of how she felt, I considered her someone very special in my life.
She didn’t say anything. I think at first she was flattered.
Then she was angry.
She said the whole thing was in my head.
The waiter came over, and we had to order. It would have made more sense at that point to get up and leave. I didn’t particularly want to eat dinner directly after being rejected.
I’m sure it wasn’t any less awkward for her. I’m sure she didn’t want to be having dinner with someone who’d just revealed his feelings for her – especially feelings she didn’t share.
But it would have been too dramatic to get up and leave. What would we have done? Told the waiter we weren’t hungry, put on our coats, walked out into the freezing cold, and stood awkwardly on the sidewalk looking for a way to say goodbye forever? It sounds like some scene from a stupid show – and you’d think that, as people, we could be intelligent and respectful enough to find a better way out.
I know the real question is actually how we got into the situation. I mean – why were we sitting there at a tiny table drinking wine and discussing whether we should order a cheese plate or antipasti to share? And why did I feel like this meant so much to me – like it was meaning so much to me – while she just thought we were on some casual outing?
Let me be clear: We’ve been doing this for nearly a year. That’s plenty of time to stop answering my phone calls or ignore my texts. Plenty of time to say she didn’t think this was something that really worked for her. Plenty of time to say anything. But never – not a single word – about us, and so I felt I had no choice but to finally bring it up. I mean, someonehad to say something.
And I’m not saying she had to feel as deeply as I did. I’m not even saying she had to like me. I’m just saying that the complete denial of the possibility that anything could have been happening between us – that the time we spent together was something more than just “time we spent together” – that some deeper thing was happening the whole time, that’s what drove me crazy. You can certainly say you don’t think there’s a romantic connection with someone. But can you say that there’s no connection with them at all? Isn’t that a little much?
It’s true: She’s younger. But young people aren’t inhuman. And this is a question of human feelings. You simply don’t spend a year seeing someone regularly and then, when they bring up their feelings, tell him it’s all in his head. You can’t.
*
So there we were: The waiter comes, we order the antipasti to share, I order my usual pasta, she orders a salad, and now we’re back to our conversation with our two glasses of red wine.
Now here’s the thing. I just told her that I think there can be something between us, and she just denied that this was even a possibility. So there’s this impasse where I feel like I don’t even understand why we’re at the restaurant together anymore.
And she still says nothing.
She just sits there staring at me, her body leaning back onto her seat, her head tilted down, her eyes looking over her glasses straight into mine. She just stares. Like I’m the one who’s supposed to say something.
So I said something. I asked her what she thought all these dinners were about.
And what did she say? She said that dinner was about dinner.
I almost lost it. She couldn’t have actually meant that. I mean: What does that even mean?
But what are you supposed to do when someone says something like that? Are you supposed to insist that dinner means more than dinner? Meals with others is about as basic as it gets when it comes to human relations, to culture – maybe even to civilisation. How can someone with a minimal degree of sensitivity say something like that?
Unless the whole point is to say something that will make any feelings or emotions impossible. Which I guess is what it might have been about.
I looked at her as intently as she looked at me – and decided I wouldn’t say anything else until she did.
The antipasti came. I’m sure the waiter noticed the silence between us as he set the plate down. He made an effort to smile. He’s a nice guy, and he’s worked at this place for all seventeen years that I’ve been going there. I don’t know why – but he seems to never age. Anyway, he knows his business and he left quickly.
As he did, Manda called him back and asked for some bread and olive oil. She couldn’t say a word to me – but she could ask him for bread! She hadn’t lost her voice. That’s for sure.
He brought the bread and left, and she took a slice from the basket and put a sliver of roasted zucchini on top. She bit down with all her strength and then put the remains of the slice down on her plate.
She chewed slowly, and after she swallowed she said, “The food’s good.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve been eating here since I’m sixteen.”
“We never came here before,” she said.
I looked at her and simply couldn’t believe her words. She referred to the two of us as we. We never came here before. That’s what she said. It was like she couldn’t even hear herself.
“I come here all the time,” I said, emphasising the I.
I don’t know whether she even understood what I was trying to say. When I think about it, I’m not sure she understood anything I told her. But I have to believe, deep down, that she did. I have to believe that the person I felt so much for – the person I feel so much for – is someone with a minimal amount of emotion.
I’d decided not to say anything about the situation itself until she did – but now I saw that she couldn’t even get into talking about anything. I felt like I had no choice but to try and give her another chance.
“Let me ask you something,” I said taking a piece of roasted sweet potato from the antipasti plate. “Why did you send me all those late-night text messages with all those hearts and smileys? Don’t you think that when you wish someone good night that way it means something?”
She’d finished her zucchini but still had some bread left, so she took some roasted bell peppers from the plate and took another bite.
Guess what she told me when she stopped chewing.
“I’m a nice person,” she said. “I like to wish my friends good night.”
A “nice person” – that’s what she had to say. A “nice” person.
“I’m a nice person too,” I said, “that doesn’t mean I send everyone I know late-night messages. That’s not nice. It’s confusing.”
“I send messages to all my girlfriends,” she said. “No one else seems to find it confusing.”
And that’s how I was told that I existed under the status of “girlfriend.” Never mind that I’m a man – or that I’m ten years older. The simple fact that I am the only human being who is not like any of the others in her category of “girlfriends” should have stopped her from making that comment.
She’s young. But she’s plenty of other things. She’s sharp. She’s extremely accomplished. She’s come to me whenever she’s needed help with any dilemma. She’s heard out some of my own dilemmas and made some solid suggestions. She’s observant and perceptive when it comes to evaluating people’s personalities. She’s quick and sensitive to her surroundings. She’s ambitious, she works hard. This is not someone who should be calling me one of her girlfriends.
Our food came. I wasn’t even hungry – I’d barely touched the antipasti – and now I had a big plate of hot pasta in front of my face. I always order the puttanesca. It’s my favourite pasta. But suddenly it seemed disgusting. All the salted fish and pickled capers and dark olives. And it smelled. I looked over at her salad – it was fresh and clean and healthy – and I wondered what had happened to me that I suddenly couldn’t enjoy my favourite dish.
I think that was my first clue that something had gone deeply wrong. Not that I didn’t have a reason for feeling how I felt. But that how I felt was disconnected from what was in front of me. Why did it take me so long to realise that this was an extremely unappetising dish when considered from someone else’s perspective? Not that I had any intention of changing it for another dish. But I’d never seen myself as someone who ordered stinky food.
I looked at Manda. She had her eyes set straight on her plate. I could tell that my food was outside the limited tastes that she could ever enjoy. And then I understood: I hadn’t seen her limits. Suddenly the young woman in front of me turned into a different person. A separate person.
I looked down at my food and somehow felt like a child – one who hated anything dark and stinky. When had I become a person who liked grown-up pasta? And why hadn’t I noticed it while it was happening?
I looked at Manda again. She ate her salad carefully. I would almost say considerately. She seemed very conscientious when it came to her salad.
“What about those emails I sent you?” I asked, less to provoke her than to understand. “They were very personal. You never told me not to send them. You never said anything. I waited for some response – something that would tell me whether you welcomed them or not – but there was never any response. It was very confusing.”
She put her fork down and took a sip from her wine. Then she picked up her fork again.
“I never understood those,” she said digging into the leaves on her plate. “I just ignored them.”
I sat back in my chair, and only then did I realise how tense my body had been.
“You ignored them?” I said. “Is that what a friend does?”
She squinted her eyes and squeezed her fork until the tips of her fingers went bright white.
“You’re putting something on me that isn’t there,” she hissed. “And it’s really not fair.”
It was the first thing she’d said about anything I’d told her. And it was a reprimand.
I looked at this young woman and realised I’d hurt her. I wasn’t sure how. It certainly hadn’t been my intention. You tell someone you have feelings for them – and somehow you’ve betrayed them. You cross a line that words aren’t supposed to cross. It felt very selfish.
I hadn’t intended to be selfish. And I hadn’t intended to impose myself. It’s just that I’d reached my own limit. She’d hurt me, too. She’d ignored an entire side of me. The male side. The lonely side. The man who was interested in her as a woman. She hadn’t done it on purpose: She simply hadn’t seen. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
*
It’s hard when someone you care about doesn’t see you. But you can’t really blame them for something they’re not capable of doing. You can recognise it and distance yourself. But you can’t really hold them responsible.
I realised all this as I ate my pasta and she ate her salad. It was the kind of realisation I wished I’d had at home, alone, before going out of my way to arrange a dinner at my favourite Italian restaurant. It was the kind of realisation you want to reach on your own without having to involve a whole other human being. The kind of realisation I wished I could have had without having to hurt her.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She took a sip from her wine and put the glass down.
“For what?” she asked, digging into the remains of her salad. “You didn’t do anything.”
It seemed she preferred to ignore the whole situation. That was hard for me. I wanted her to acknowledge what had happened. After realising what I’d done, I wanted her to forgive me. But I didn’t insist.
Manda finished her salad. I’d barely touched my pasta. Not that it wasn’t good. I just wished I could’ve enjoyed it with someone who could relate.
Then she asked: “Should we order dessert?”
I was floored. The whole thing had been so slow, so painstaking, there’d been so much distance between us. And now she wanted to order dessert.
“I can skip it,” I said.
She hesitated, and I got the sense that she was trying to prolong whatever was happening. I think it was pretty clear to us both that this was going to be our last meal together for a while. I wondered whether I’d been right – whether things hadn’t been as simple as she’d led me to believe. Whether she had more feelings than she was willing to admit.
But then I told myself that it didn’t matter. I didn’t want to spend time with her feelings. I wanted to spend time with her.
“I’ll ask for the check,” she said. “It’s my treat.”
I insisted that we split the bill, but she refused. In the end, I decided to let it go and accept what felt like a peace offering.
She paid the bill and then we got up and put on our coats. The restaurant was full, and we had to squeeze our way past people waiting for a table. We walked outside into the freezing cold and stood on the sidewalk. We were looking for a way to say goodbye. But we didn’t find one.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said. “I’ll get the next one.”
She pursed her lips into a half smile.
“Sure thing,” she said. And then she left.
I walked home alone thinking about everything that had just happened – and decided to write you as soon as I got back. I just couldn’t help but keep thinking about how sad it was to lose a friend. Not the one I thought I had. The one who was actually there.
Carlene Fraser-Harris: This is your first book, congratulations! What was the hardest part about writing this debut?
Natalie Morris: The logistics of it was the toughest. Working full-time and writing a book was deeply exhausting. A lot of the time I really loved it, and I was flying through it. I could feel the sense of achievement, and I could feel myself developing as a writer and developing new skills, and that in itself was amazing. But it’s no joke, writing a book. It’s a lot of thought and a lot of planning. And it wasn’t just the physical writing of 70,000 words or whatever, it was all the research and citations, making time for the interviews and transcribing them, finding the best bits of the interviews and just the wider research around it. And I haven’t read everything in this area, you just can’t.
CFH: You open with a warm dedication to your dad – “For dad, always, always.” Was it because of his culture – a legacy you now have – or his struggle as a Black man in the UK?
NM: Well, it was largely because we lost him so recently; he passed away last summer. And it was really unexpected. He was my biggest inspiration in everything that I did. My motivation was very much to impress him. He read most of it before he got sick, so I know he was buzzing about it. It was my way of recognizing how important he was in this journey and for me to have a better understanding of who I am as his daughter.
CFH: Your dad was Jamaican. Have you ever been back to Jamaica? What sticks out to you the most about that culture having been born and raised in the UK?
NM: My dad was raised by a white woman. His biological parents were on the peripheries of his life until much later on, so he came into all of that [Jamaican] culture recently. And I don’t know if it was something that he actively sought out himself, if growing up in a very white space as a Caribbean man is what influenced him to find it. Or if it was because communication with his biological parents was something he longed for, so he found it through their shared culture.
As a result of that, my sister and I have had to find a lot of those connections to the culture ourselves while growing up. The food and the music stick out…more the music. The reggae and the hip-hop… and I’ve learned to cook a few things…and I’m still learning.
CFH: What was the deciding factor to write this book? You’re a journalist and you write about this stuff, anyway. So, what made you decide, okay, a book?
NM: I was only writing a weekly column about mixed people. And my editors and publishers approached me about it, they enjoyed the writing and thought it was important…really strong stuff. I hadn’t thought about a book before then. I hadn’t thought about how that would look or what that would feel like. And since they said that I thought I at least had to try. I had all this information and content and I thought, Yes, it would be good to have a centralised space for all of it. A handbook for people looking for answers.
CFH: In your book, I read about Meghan Markle’s wedding and you being chosen as the journalist at the forefront of it. How is it being a journalist, knowing that you’re mixed, and being constantly chosen to cover those stories?
NM: It’s an interesting space to kind of inhabit. It’s not something I consciously stepped into. But it’s also not that I’m complaining…I feel compelled to, and I know it’s important.
But it comes with this sort of responsibility that I feel – even with my book I felt this responsibility – to do these stories justice. To not present things wrong…to not only give a limited view or one that’s only my own. Not only one person can tell the mixed story, that’s impossible. And I wouldn’t want to. There are other narratives as well that need to share that space. So, there’s always that kind of conflict that going on in my head.
In a wider sense, as a journalist covering race and racism and social justice, these spaces are difficult spaces to be in, and they are overwhelmingly white. You get a lot of push back and mistrust, and you get a lot of defensiveness. In these spaces you have to have a lot of resilience and thick skin to deal with it. From both sides.
CFH: There is a sense of tokenism there, then, which ties back into your chapter on “The Right Type of Mixed.” Tell me more about that.
NM: Yes, there is. There are conflicts that come specifically from being mixed in those spaces…mixed with white heritage, specifically. Because I have this inherent privilege of being lighter-skinned and having white upbringing, I know how to move in those spaces more than other minorities would. And I’m palatable to look at…and less “other” and less intimidating for certain people. And there’s an awareness of that when I’m invited into these spaces because I’m very often presented as the face of diversity of that organisation or how liberal or how welcoming or open we are as a company. And it’s often difficult when you know that behind the scenes, it’s a very different picture when you’re facing scrutiny and push back and barriers to the real changes you want to make happen. Yet they’re wheeling you out to go do the talks and go be on the panels.
There’s something else to it, I think when you’re mixed there’s navigating what you do with that privilege – the fact that they let you into those spaces – and I feel a responsibility to do something with it. And to open the door up for others.
CFH: Do you see a follow-up to this book?
NM: I don’t know. It was hard. It was hard work. Good hard work.
CFH: Throughout the book, your interviewees share a wealth of feeling and thought – Hannah and Ciarran and Luke, etc. It was Luke who pointed out that back in the day, a lot of people didn’t have the luxury of thinking about their warped identity and how they were perceived. They had work, and they had to fit into these other boxes, with the industrial age and job prosperity and what not. But millennials are making their identity a priority; they want to tackle it because it’s been sitting for so long underattended and been misshapen by the majority, and we’ve recently seen the repercussions of those warped views and more in-depth thoughts like this one.
All of this to ask: How were those interviews? Were there heavy emotional moments when discussing the various struggles and circumstances around them? And how did you feel being the interviewer? Was there a lot of baggage you felt like you took on from these stories?
NM: I loved all the interviews. Doing those talks over the space of a year was the best part of it, talking to all of these people in-depth. These are people who put themselves forward and were willing to talk so already they’ve got thoughts…they’ve got opinions. They’re here wanting to say so many things, so it wasn’t difficult to gather all they had to say. It made my job very easy.
It was very emotional at times, on both sides. There was a lot of deep stuff that came out. A lot of people messaged me afterwards and said that was very cathartic: “I feel like I’ve been in a therapy session.” Some people said that they spoke to me about things they haven’t felt strong enough to share before and hadn’t mentioned to anyone else. And that was really powerful to me to be trusted to carry those stories and to present them. It really shows just how much weight a lot of mixed people carry that isn’t given the space to breathe or to get a voice out there. I think there’s a tendency to minimise these experiences or say look that’s not as bad as being monoracial or being darker-skinned, and in many ways that’s true, but I also don’t think it’s a useful argument to kind of create this hierarchy of whose struggle is more important. They’re just different experiences that should all have the space to breathe and exist.
CFH: Yes. The interviewees in your book are mixed far and wide, from British-Jamaican to Turkish and Philippine to Brazilian and Nigerian. But then you see someone, and the automatic assumption is Black and White when are so many other slices to that ethnic pie.
The research and citations for your book complement the interviews very well. How did you decide what secondary material made it in and what didn’t?
NM: I had to be particularly selective about what I was going to include and what I was going to focus on. Every time I opened a new chapter of another relevant read, I was taken down this other path, and then there were all these other paths branching off from there. And you can get drawn down this…like…web…of all these possibilities. So, keeping yourself focused is hard. I had to sort of contain my research within the focus…always revert to the original focus. And when I think about the book, I think any one of those chapters could be evolved into a book of its own. Easily. There is a wealth of information that never makes it to the daily typical reader that this book can now bring, but not all.
CFH: So, then, onto a second book from here?
NM: Maybe. There’s so much of that that still fascinates me and so much more to say. With the book it was about continually finding the balance to do it justice and not skim the surface of things… I wanted to give everything the depth that it required but at the same time make it really readable and accessible.
CFH: I wanted to circle back to your opening chapters, “Where Are You Really From?” and “Identity.” The first is personally a ticker for me, so I wanted to hear why you opened with that and what your feelings around that are.
NM: Any questions about identity always starts with the logistics of where you are from, where your parents are from, where your grandparents are from, within seconds of meeting people. And, as you mentioned, it’s a ticker for you. I think pretty much everyone I spoke to also mentioned that in some form or the other. And what’s behind it is this inherent discomfort at not being able to place somebody. And not being able to fit them in the boxes and categories in their head where they feel a person is supposed to go. And then it’s your fault that they can’t place you, and they’re annoyed and distrustful and subtly demand that you explain it and tell them. Like: “You need to fix my discomfort now.”
Identity was one of the hardest chapters to write because it’s such a sprawling, abstract kind of vague concept, so it’s different for everyone and completely contextual and subjective and so important.
CFH: In connection to identity, I found it disconcerting that your book presented information on a large portion of the youngest adult generations being very uncomfortable with races outside of their own or with mixed race. Even though, over the past year, I felt like younger people would be the generation to get it and get the urgency of it and especially since they were at the front of the protests and marches. Yet there is still a large percentage that would rather not engage with any of this and just stick to their comfortable whiteness.
NM: It’s scary and, at the same time, less surprising to me. It’s disappointing, but there will always be that contingent. I don’t think it’s the case that this is just a linear thing where the older racist generation will die out, the younger non-racist generation will come of age, and racism will just be gone. It is so deeply embedded in our schools and our societies and the parents at home not teaching their kids about what racism truly is and how they can be more proactive against the little comments and understandings they give and receive.
CFH: Then we must go back and think about where we actually do this work.
NM: I think too often we turn issues of racism into these individual moralistic conversations…“Are you a good person or are you a bad person?” Like it’s that simple. And if we can persuade everyone to be a “good” person and treat people equally then that’s what’s going to do it.
And how it’s presented in the media when it’s reduced to these silly distracting debates that are sensationalised. Like a TV show was racist because they said this or that. And people think that that’s what the fight is about, when it’s more systemic than that.
CFH: You write about feeling displaced at your own grandfather’s 80th birthday party recently because an old friend of his couldn’t compute your biological connection to him. And instead of responding with some sort of positive curiosity she laughed in disbelief. What was that like to feel that her misunderstanding could create that level of distance or disconnection between you and your family?
NM: It was jarring. Constantly, in small ways, being told that you don’t belong…This was one of those moments.
CFH: I’m sorry you’ve had to endure those. From there, let’s lean into your chapter on “Love and Relationships.” You wrote how choosing your [white] partner felt to onlookers like you were choosing the white side of your identity. How often are you confronted with that? Is it ever an internal battle?
NM: It’s not necessarily an internal battle, but sometimes it’s a feeling like have I missed out on something in some way. I grew up in white spaces and knew how to navigate that more than others. So white school and neighbours, etc…I felt like my choice of partner was an organic choice from that exposure. It wasn’t deliberate, but it was where I was.
And the confrontation is mostly on social media when I write about race, and people feel like I’m not qualified to write about it because I’m a traitor, I’m not black enough: My partner is white, so I chose him and therefore chose the white side of me. So, I’m not seen as a legitimate source of primary understanding to any of the struggles.
CFH: Now with your book out and you continuing to write about this topic via work, etc., what other activities or campaigns do you have on the roster to help further combat the problem or sustain some sort of safe space or platform for people with this struggle? Is your workplace championing any of this stuff going forward?
NM: Work…They have been good in terms of allowing me the space to promote the book. I think generally the media in this country is not a great space for black writers – for non-white writers – to thrive. There’s not loads of support for them. There aren’t enough opportunities, and I’ve seen people get demoralised around the chase of it. So, I’m creating my own outlet through non-work stuff.
CFH: when does your book come out in paperback?
NM: Hopefully later this year. I haven’t got a set date, yet.
CFH: So, what’s next?
NM: Creative writing! I want to lean more into this. I’ve got an agent who really wants me to write more, so I’ll take up the opportunities and follow that new dream.
Like all colouring books, it was unfinished. Though looking at it, at the filigreed patterns of jungles and seascapes and rolling hills, I felt my pencils would somehow sully it. This was an adult colouring book, as Mum had stressed, entrusted to me at the age of fourteen, by which time I was an expert at colouring within the lines.
I would clear the bedroom of clutter, of distraction, find a purity of mind I could achieve only when I was alone, when Jilly was out of our room. Under the bunkbeds went all her things, followed by the no-man’s-land of books and toys that Dad had misguidedly gifted “to both of us.” Each one was a reminder of arguments past, and arguments present: Jilly and I still tussled over some of those old toys, even the ones we had both outgrown, items with no value to us now except the brute allure of ownership.
I would sit at our desk and arrange my pencils in a row, parallel and equidistant, select whichever colour sang to me, sharpen it to a fine point, and begin. It was a ritual, a kind of meditation, until one day I found the book half open, an orange squiggle breaking out of a flower petal and unzipping a placid sky.
Jilly said you could barely notice it, that it didn’t matter. She said it nonchalantly, as if blue were orange and petal were sky, the lines between any two things blurred. I told her that wasn’t the point, that the book was mine. As our voices rose, Mum and Dad came rushing in to calm us down. They were always vigilant, ready to keep the peace with hugs and I-love-yous that had a searching, desperate quality.
“She used it,” I protested, pointing to the book. “It’s not hers.”
“Abby,” Mum soothed, “we’ll get you both one.”
This solution infuriated me. It wasn’t just the book; the conflict was mine, too; to solve it was to take away one more of my things. So the words rose in me, and I didn’t stop them: “I saved your life,” I said to Jilly, who started crying before I’d finished the sentence, who felt it in her blood before I opened my mouth.
There was a silence, that moment of shock after a nasty fall, before you register the damage.
“You must never say that,” Dad said. The words came out awkwardly, as if he had drawn one breath too few.
I supposed he meant I must never use it, but I took him literally, never uttering it after that, not once. Locked it away like a family heirloom, too precious and fragile to be held against the light.
*
I was twelve when Jilly started going for tests. I had just started high school, peeking over the parapet of adolescence, too consumed by what was flying at me to pay much attention to my little sister. I remember the day of her diagnosis, though. Languishing in the waiting room of the hospital as time bent and slowed. Turning my back to the clock but measuring seconds by the faint tap of footsteps. Sitting in foam chairs under a cloud of sympathy.
Jilly emerged from her scanning and prodding looking tired and blood-sucked. Dad was conscientious, enfolding us both in his arms, dividing himself fastidiously between us.
The first night Jilly and I didn’t speak. She lay in the upper bunk, and I watched the gentle bulge of her body through the mattress above. We had shared a room since we were little. We used to talk ourselves to sleep, holding secretive Q&As, her asking me all the things she didn’t dare ask Mum and Dad. But now the mattress between us was impenetrable, soundproof. We lay awake in silence, her curled and still on her bunk, me wondering how it was possible to be at war with your own blood.
*
I was alarmed when the doctor sent Mum and Dad out of the room. The way they walked, slowly, reluctantly, leaving me with this stranger, his face lined and solemn and bristling with eyebrows. He told me that no one could force me to do anything and explained how it would work if I chose to do it: I’d be put to sleep, a needle would go into my hip, and the marrow sucked from my bones and suffused into Jilly’s blood. He used the word anaesthesia, a word cavernous enough to hide all manner of terrors in its dark corners. I imagined being smothered by a gloved hand, clamping my mouth, pinching my nose, jamming fingertips into my eyes. That a gap in consciousness was a hole down which anything could tumble.
When I came out of the doctor’s office, Mum was looking at me with a new expression. A kind of pleading, with just a hint of her usual sternness. Dad seemed lost, blinded, like the men I’d seen walking out of betting shops into scowling sunlight.
“I don’t want to do it,” I said.
Mum’s voice wobbled, as if balancing at a great height. “It’s best for both of you.”
“I don’t want to do it.”
I felt dizzy, rattled. I cried again, not at the thought of going unconscious this time but at the sight of Mum at my mercy, at the reversal of that polarity. Suddenly she was the child on the verge of a meltdown, on the verge of saying something she could never take back.
*
The conversation continued into the night. Picked-at dinners hardened on the table. Darkness stalked through the front room, and no one thought to turn on a light. Dad hugged Jilly a lot and stared at her as he might a crystal ball.
“You won’t feel anything, Abigail,” Mum said to me softly. “It will be very quick. And we’ll be so proud of you. We need you to be brave for Jilly, now, for everyone.”
I knewthis was unlike anything she had ever asked, that a new kind of gravity was acting upon me. But not cooperating with Mum was a familiar, almost comforting, pattern. It was too easy to fit into its grooves, so I resisted, wriggled away from the point of that big needle. “I think she’ll get better by herself,” I said. “The doctor said the transplant isn’t the only thing they can do.”
“It’s the best chance,” Dad said. “By far, by far the best chance. I would do it instead of you if I could.”
“She will not just get better by herself,” Mum hissed. Some physical force was coming from those words; they made the muscles on the back of my neck tense up, radiating pain through my head.
“Tomorrow you’ll meet a woman who’ll talk to you about the situation,” Mum continued more calmly. “You must tell her you want to do it, to help your sister.”
“Amy…” Dad began. Mum’s first name, rarely heard amongst all the honeys and darlings, said limply, a failed reproof.
*
Another night of silence. Now Jilly’s shape in the bunk above didn’t seem remote, it seemed heavier, lower, even though I knew she’d lost weight. I watched that imprint for hours, listening to the midnight sounds of scrabbling cats and distant revving engines beyond my bedroom window. It was inconceivable to me that the imprint would disappear, that the mattress would flatten, become featureless.
Inwardly I prayed Jilly would break her silence, if only to curse or cry. I knew she wouldn’t cry shrewd little sister tears anymore, that they would have darkened into something else, but anything was better than listening to Mum and Dad through the wall, to Dad’s low rumbling, Mum’s fraught whispers. I couldn’t make out any words, but the sounds had the icy cadence of an argument, a late-night duel full of quiet cutting.
*
Finally, Jilly broke her silence. Or rather her leukaemia did, emerging from her in the middle of the night in the form of moans and wheezes. The sounds invaded my sleep, leaving me with waking images of her sickened body, frail and trembling.
I stood on my bed and looked over the top bunk. As Jilly breathed, I could see her translucent skin sucking down on her ribcage. Her stomach was scattershot with fiery red marks, her sheets gummy with sweat.
“Are you ok, Jilly?”
She shifted position and took my hand, placed it under her cheek. I felt her breath kiss my palm. I felt fires being fought in her head. I stood there cupping her face until my hand went numb and my arm ached at the elbow. I don’t know how long I balanced precariously on the edge of our bunks, fearing I might fall but unable to pull away, as if her head might plunge through the mattress without my hand to support her.
The next thing I remember is waking up in her bunk. How my pyjamas were drenched with both our sweat, and the feeling of Dad gently peeling them off to put them in the wash.
*
Mum spoke to me in short little sentences, as if I were in trouble, though her tone was lacking any anger or purpose. She took several weeks off work, which she mostly spent in her room. I saw her through a crack in the door, hunched over on her bed and bathed in darkness. Dad made visits to her and Jilly both, moving furtively between them, bearing neatly cut sandwiches and glasses of water.
Meanwhile I was plagued by images of a blue spectre, face a crease of white cloth, pulling out my bones in a single thread like a chain of sausages. Splitting them open, the marrow sluicing out into a jar. I pictured them hooking me up to Jilly with a rubber tube, a kind of umbilical cord, sucking and pulsing at my insides.
I made a promise to myself: For each one of my nightmares I would study some of Jilly’s reality. Pushing food around her plate as if rearranging it would make it more palatable. Rushing to the bathroom and begging me to play music to cover the sounds she made, emerging in a fragile marionette-walk. After a few days of this I couldn’t bear it any longer, seeing her struggle so vividly, the unflinching colour of it.
I slipped into Mum and Dad’s room in the middle of the night, crawled between them, pulled at Mum’s arm. It was a warm, dead weight; I held it close.
“I want to do it,” I whispered into the tangle of her hair.
She shifted, her face raw and glistening, the moonlight illuminating an expression I could not decipher.
*
Before the transplant, Mum and Dad held me close, one on each side with me squeezed between them. Jilly took my hand, her grip loose, clammy, slipping. I was wheeled into the operating theatre and the blue spectres appeared around me, but beneath their masks I heard mumbles and chitchat, human sounds. As one of them looked down at me, two hazel eyes peering over a panel of white, I thought I could see the outline of a smile behind the mask, and it reminded me of Jilly’s shape impressed on her mattress.
The masked face told me to count to ten. One, two, three… and I sank into dreamlessness.
I awoke with a corkscrew jammed in my lower back, my head a ponderous raincloud. The drugs were still wearing off, so I don’t remember crying, or asking Mum and Dad to tell Jilly I was sorry.
“I don’t know why you said that,” Dad told me afterwards. “It must have been the drugs. You did the most wonderful thing.”
But I said it nevertheless, over and over.
*
I made the sky a deep cerulean blue with murmurs of white cloud. I pencilled over Jilly’s squiggle carefully, sinking the orange under layers of new colour, reinstating the line between petal and sky. I went into a kind of trance, my face so still and perched a string of drool almost slipped from my mouth. The scratch of pencil on paper was the only sound, the scene unfolding before me all-consuming.
When I was finished, I had a feeling I find hard to describe. As if the two years that had passed since Jilly’s treatment had disappeared. Something in me became uncentred, spinning and plummeting, knocking the breath out of me. I opened the bedroom door, clawed our things out from under the bunks. I called for Mum and Dad, and they appeared a moment later, grey-eyed and pale. For the first time I had a sense of how Jilly and I consumed them, how they were always there even when they weren’t, ready to rush out of their lives and into ours.
“I’ll never say it again,” I promised Dad.
He took me in his arms. “Say what, sweetheart?”
“That I saved her life. I’ll never say it.”
And it wasn’t just because it was unfair to Jilly, who was entitled to some colouring of her own. It was because I knew its hidden meaning, that it was really a confession. I knew I saved your life was big sister for I almost killed you, that it might reveal how I had dreams of killing her even now. Instead I should have told her how proud I was, though perhaps that’s what I was saying, albeit mistranslated by sibling scorn. So much easier, with sisters, to be guilty than proud. But I was proud, grateful even, for what we shared, for the needle in my side, for the pain afterwards, for my marrow to become her blood, so that if her skin so much as broke it would cut me to the bone.
One of the first things I do is cut my hair with neat, chunky snips over the sink.
This may or may not have been planned.
What I mean by this is that deep down, I knew that I would at some point reach for the scissors and do to myself what little kids do to Barbie dolls – brazenly and easily, like snipping the ends from spring onions for a sandwich.
When I’m done, I stare at hair in the sink and think of Tupperware boxes full of worms. Glow worms, I think, a sudden revelation. I will dye my hair phosphorescent.
I do not even go to the mirror to look before I am out through the front door in slippered feet, towel still hanging from my shoulders. Nobody will question this, but they will whisper. This is good. I am a walking exhibit of grief.
I call at the small convenience store next to the station. Outside, a small boy squats on the warm concrete with his arm hooked around a cocker spaniel, both of them watching with shiny brown eyes as I pass. The boy looks up at me, sucking quietly on an ice lolly. He lets the dog have a lick, then puts it back into his mouth.
“You’ll get germs doing that,” I say. Cold water tracks down my neck.
When the boy sticks his tongue out, it is blue and nasty.
I come to this shop a lot, but today it is not for his six-pack of Fosters or a pint of milk. “Blue top only,” he’d always said. “None of that red top shit.”
Two women in gym clothes stare at me as I pass the sandwich cabinet, a reduced calorie sandwich and a pasta pot weighted in each hand. Their firm buttocks stick out like globes beneath their leggings.
I wonder if maybe they think I am just taking a break at the hairdresser’s to grab lunch, but then I remember the slippers and shuffle along towards the haircare aisle. They stare after me, then whisper. I do not strain to listen.
Platinum blonde is easy to find anywhere you go. I know this from the long afternoons spent scouring the shelves of the local chemist for reddish-brown, as close to my natural colour as I could get for the greys to go undetected. This was part of the process: the bottles of Olay, the smooth legs, and the stinging pluck of my brows daily. I still rub in the Olay as normal. I still inspect my brows for stray hairs, and sweep razorblades along my shins despite them never emerging from my bobbled pyjama bottoms.
The blondes are all lined up on the top shelf, women peering out of the boxes with bleached teeth and pearlescent shoulders exposed. Their hair falls around them with the ease of water. They are nothing like me, but the box still fills me with hope.
I pick the brightest, whitest blonde I can find. The name of the shade is somewhere between porn star and celebrity baby: Champagne Vanilla.
*
“Jesus Christ,” my sister Rhiannon says, staring at me over the worktop of my darkened kitchen. I stare back at her, hair sticking out wildly, the exact shade of the uneaten clementines between us. “What the hell have you done?”
Her voice shatters in her throat. She is about to start sobbing, but I am the one who looks like a fluorescent toilet brush.
I shrug. “It’s just hair.”
If this had happened any time before, I would have dashed straight over to the salon, wailing and wearing a wide-brimmed hat, begging them to fix it. Today, I just looked at myself in the mirror and surveyed the uneven sprigs of bright hair with the calm of somebody choosing which bananas to put in the trolley.
“Oh, Silvia,” she says, and walks over to me, pulling me into a hug. Her arms are dimpled and soft, like knuckled dough, and her perfume is stifling; the same cloying neroli sweetness she’d worn for years. I stiffen then pat her awkwardly as a sign to let go. She holds me tighter and starts rubbing my shoulder, the way Mum used to whenever I fell over or cried after an injection. “It’s okay.”
Bollocks, I think.
She moves her fingers tentatively to my bare neck and brushes it with her fingers. “Why?” And when I don’t answer, she offers tea.
Tea. Tea, it seems, has been the answer to everything. Sweet tea is what is given to crime victims, or grieving people, in TV dramas. I am not a TV character. In reality, tea does little else other than to make my tongue feel warm and heavy and oversweet. It coats my teeth with its thick aftertaste, then sloshes around in my belly with uncomfortable heat. I let her make it anyway. She wants to feel useful.
They all want to feel useful.
“I’ll call Julie,” she says, banging through the cupboards to look for biscuits. She crams an M&S shortbread into her mouth. They’re what Rhiannon would call posh biscuits; she scoffs another while tipping the kettle. “Biscuit?”
“No thanks,” I say. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything. I am a ghost.
“Remember that time I tried cutting my own fringe after a night out ’cos I thought it would look nice? Awful. But Julie sorted it for me straightaway. She should have an appointment.”
“I don’t need an appointment, Rhi.”
“I’ll pay for it. I mean, she’s not cheap, but it’s because she’s so good you end up not minding.”
“No.” I picked the milk carton off the worktop and put it back in the fridge. “I don’t need a sodding hairdresser.”
Rhiannon’s thumb starts to tap away on her phone. She is probably texting Mum to tell her I’ve finally lost my mind.
“Don’t text Mum.”
Rhiannon doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”
“I know you are.”
“I’m texting Julie to see if she can fit you in today.”
“I told you, I don’t want to go.”
“You’ll feel better.”
“For God’s sake.” I bang a cupboard door shut for no reason. The cat bolts from under the table like a meteorite. “What’s she gonna do, bring back my husband with a set of highlights?”
Rhiannon stares at me over the rim of her coffee mug. His coffee mug, with the wrong person attached to it.
The ridiculous thing is I hated him. There, I said it. I hated the man.
Grief slaps me across each cheek and says, “No, no, you loved the man. Now do something with your bloody hair. Just in case he comes home.”
No one knows whose idea it was. A joint venture, stupidity squared. How old were we? Old enough to know better. I can’t even remember how we got there. My memory begins with us walking out onto the frozen lake, and with a voice – maybe mine, maybe someone else’s – saying, “Let’s try to walk across. I bet we can walk all the way across.”
It was covered with snow at first. Our feet made a squeaky, muffled crunch as we walked. Then there was just ice, thick and mottled, like looking through a whole stack of bathroom windows. We tried skidding. After a while, the ice seemed to have had enough of our amateur skating. It started moaning. We were in the middle now. We would have to keep going. I suddenly noticed a small crowd on the opposite bank. It’s funny, I remember distinctly that one man had a white dog on a lead.
It was a shock when we noticed the water moving underneath the now much thinner ice. Fascinating. Treacherously fascinating.
“Perhaps we should spread out a bit,” said someone.
“And hold hands,” said someone else.
So we did: walking all in a line, holding hands, the two on the end with their arms out wide for balance, like a row of paper dolls.
When we reached the other side, the crowd parted to let us through. It was very quiet; no one seemed to have anything to say. Out of sight, we collapsed in terrified giggles and squeals, reliving the fear and excitement. And then, I think, we went home for our tea.
I can no longer pop out the back gate and across the field to Claire’s, or cycle down the lane to meet Sarah at the swings. It’s a long time since we crashed on Madeleine’s living room floor, only to be woken seemingly seconds later by the sound of her younger brothers on their Atari, a cruelty mitigated by endless supplies of tea and toast delivered by her mum, who was as smiley and sparkly eyed as we were hungover.
We branched out. There have been marriages and babies, travel, and career success – more than anyone could have predicted from a bunch of comprehensive school Essex girls; homes made here and abroad; and terrible, shocking bereavements.
But whichever way the winds blow, there we are: reaching out, holding on, the unbroken chain stronger than it appears, like paper dolls.
One black-and-white snapshot shows me smiling slightly, lolling on Fan’s stone step, cowboy hat askew, uncontrolled blonde curls spilling out. The entry porch, thick with winter coats resting for the summer, smelled faintly of manure and hay that followed Uncle Leonard from the barn. The kitchen linoleum cooled my bare feet. Fan showed me how to make butter from the Jersey cow’s cream, churning till yellow bits congealed and we could squeeze them into thick rounds. Her wooden mold impressed the top with a fat cow so pretty I hated spreading her gold onto bread.
Fan’s companion Lucy read us poetry in the family room: Frost, Dickinson, Longfellow. A schoolteacher, she’d had an education in the teens, when country women normally stayed home. She claimed the Boston Herald every morning. The only aunt who drove a car, she carried us all to church each week. One foggy night when we were headed for a rummage sale, she drove us off the road into a ditch. No one was hurt except the car. It was our funny story and great adventure. I remember someone saying once that Lucy wasn’t really my aunt, but I knew she was.
Aunt Sarah’s ten-foot ceilings made even towering Uncle Harry seem small. Her parlor yawned. A pink and green and cream brocade-covered horsehair-stuffed baroque sofa, adorned with massive mahogany grapes and vines, demanded perfect posture. The minister never stayed too long. Against the opposing wall reared an upright piano that no one ever played. The tripartite bow window bore flowers: four dense levels of African violets, purple, pink, lavender, white, frilly blue, skewbald blue and white. The morning sun pulled blooms above their hairy leaves.
All younger than I am now, they seemed forever old. They wore flowery belted dresses, laced-up black oxfords, and opaque cotton stockings, flesh-colored but fooling no one. They all loved to win and lose at bridge. Sarah, who died first, favored lavender toilet water. She was thin and crisp, like her ginger snaps that stung the tongue. Fan, the eldest, had wavy white hair like her mother and wore a floral apron every day. Lucy didn’t know how to cook and moved out after Fan vanished when I was thirteen. My mother never told me where Fan went. The last time I visited, she couldn’t remember my name.
Back in 2015 a friend of mine, a teacher, asked on Facebook: “Can anyone recommend me something to read about the far-right movement? I need to understand why it is so attractive to young men.”
The world has started to turn into a very wrong direction for liberal, tolerant, and empathic people who needed to understand what causes hatred towards coloured people and minorities. And the crazy train has not shown signs of stopping. People in animal costumes attacked the White House, conspiracy theorists speak their truth, and fake news spreads faster than forest fire during hot weather. Mainstream media and formal education are evil for many who believe instead in doing their own research. It’s postmodernism gone wrong – we don’t have one narrative, one truth. One effect has been enduring a madman and his minions who believe they can create “alternative facts” that the rest of us should respect.
Even if you unfollow everyone who makes racist comments and curate your friends carefully, you still have to meet people with different views: family, the uncle who votes for racists, a boyfriend of your relative who thinks he knows the cure for most mental health problems. We cannot argue with them. They pity us, think we are not “there” yet, think we are blinded by science and cannot see the big truth behind it. Trying to change them or educate them can be frustrating and, in many cases, impossible. But what we can do is to try to understand them, try to get to the roots of extreme right-wing thinking and into the mind of conspiracy theorists. Hashtag Good Guy with a Gun by Jeff Chon lifts the curtain and shows us the weird world where these broken souls live.
The book is no easy beach read. Be prepared to be introduced to characters you hope to never have to deal with in real life. Of course, just like in life, you’ll also meet lovely and compassionate people, people who truly want to help, for example the mums of the men who point guns at other people’s heads. The nice people in this book are mostly female. As one woman says: “They didn’t talk about us at all, just Dave and the Asian guy. Isn’t this our story, too? Is anyone even going to remember us in this?” Good people, as often happens, go unnoticed in the shadows of evil and sick minds.
Hashtag Good Guy with a Gun is like an onion. There are many different characters, settings, and a lot of bouncing between past and present. But in the centre, we have a father and his two sons. Father is a religious leader who predicted the end of the world, which didn’t really come. What happened was 9/11, and that worked to his benefit. He gained fame and money as a man who predicted this terrible event. The story concentrates on his sons: Scott and Brian. The main character is Scott, who goes to a shopping mall to reveal a huge paedophilia conspiracy. Scott wants to show the world what he thinks he has found out: that there is a secret organisation in the basement of the mall that robs and abuses children. When he witnesses a guy taking hostages in the mall and kills him, he becomes the titular good guy with a gun.
Through Scott’s story, Chon shows us why and how some people become conspiracy theorists. Taking a closer look, we see how he is just a regular disliked boy who craves peers attention and a somewhat annoying know-it-all. So what does Scott do? He takes urban legends and recounts them as if they are something that happened to him and to people he knows. When he notices that this gets him attention, his stories become wilder and crazier. When discussing the reasons for the United States’ invasion of Iraq, he concludes that it was for oil and says, “Sometimes we have to dig deeper than what media feeds us. The research is out there. We just have to look for it.” In the context, his words sound innocent and smart. But for Scott, it’s just the beginning in his propensity for connecting random things – as, for example, how certain shooters have been fans of The Catcher in the Rye.
In psychology, finding patterns and meanings in otherwise unconnected and meaningless things is called apophenia, and that seems to be what drives conspiracy nuts like Scott, as exemplified by a brilliant scene where he tries to calm himself down and make himself sleepy by watching YouTube videos about conspiracies. “For the next three hours, he watched video after video – new knowledge was gained, and old knowledge was validated – until he finally came to the end of his rabbit hole.”
His little brother Brian, in the meantime, gets involved with a group of teenagers who drugs and rapes girls. Through Brian, we can see two interesting things. First, he doesn’t touch the girls, convincing himself that he, just like his father and brother, is also a good guy. Second, he wants to feel sadness for the girls, but while looking at their naked drugged bodies, all he sees is his own pain and distress.
The other big theme in the book is just as curious as the conspiracy theme – far-right extremism. A pretty classic story rolls out in front of our eyes about a skinny wimpy guy who was bullied all his life. His first friend introduces him to a far-right organisation. After that, he starts to work out, and he learns the secret code and rules between the members of the group. They want to take back the power from RadFem, a collective that that the men blame for making them weaker. They put all the blame on The Catcher in the Rye and the counterculture, believing that Salinger’s novel started the counterculture, which led to children who turned their backs on tradition and their parents. What for some is liberation is for them a disaster that ruined the old order. They want structure and think that women’s rescue centres turn women into radical feminists. Instead, they believe, women should be taught how to find a moral man. It sounds just like another cult with a charismatic leader – only there’s no Jesus or God but a white man who has lost his power and wants to take it back.
It’s curious how all of them – the conspiracy theorist Scott, his brother Brian, and his ex-girlfriend’s far-right son Blake – see violence as a solution. In Scott’s case, he needs a gun to reveal the truth. Brian, an abused youngster, deals with his own pain by looking at someone else getting hurt. And Blake sees violence as his mission and revenge. Except violence causes a destructive chain reaction that begets more violence.
The way the story is told is as fascinating as the topics it covers. The central event – the shooting in the mall – is told multiple times from different point of views and different times. It represents well our post-truth era: Everybody, including Scott as well as a journalist who wrote a book about it and a Korean woman, has his or her own truth and the right to have an opinion. Each time we revisit the story, we have more information. The narrative moves on, and we know more about the characters; but until the end, we cannot be sure what exactly happened because we were not there and can only go by what others have witnessed.
Another masterful stroke is how the author shows us his characters. At first, Scott might seem crazy to the reader. Then we get to know his ex-girlfriend and start to doubt our initial perspective. Maybe his ex-girlfriend is crazier than Scott in that she believes even crazier stories?
As a reader of Hashtag Good Guy with a Gun, you’re tricked into not knowing what to believe or who to like, and that’s the strength of Chon’s writing. He throws the story and characters at us to mull over and make sense of. We have to put the story together by ourselves, find the meaning. The book, as I’ve said, is not an easy read, but it gives you much to reflect on. The situations and characters will linger with you, hopefully helping you to make a bit more sense of the world around us. And I’m happy to now have something to recommend to the teacher who wanted to understand the far-right movement.
Hashtag Good Guy with a Gun
By Jeff Chon
Saggin Meniscus Press, 258 pages
“I don’t want this to change anything with our respective relationships,” he says, minutes after cumming in me. The sheets are still damp with sweat. My heartbeat, which had been slowing, brakes. A shard, heavy and sharp, thuds in the pit of my stomach; my hopes for us vanishing in digestive waters.
“That’s one way to kill the afterglow.” I roll onto my side.
“Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to. I freaked out,” he says, his Italian accent as strong as the cigarettes he smokes, cigarettes I steal when we meet for drinks and fall into bed. “I saw suddenly the absolute worst thing that could happen. Please, no one can know about this. Please, Layla.”
The absolute worst thing that could happen: losing his wife and being stuck with me. Between her and me, I’m not getting the last lifejacket. I’ll be left on the sinking ship, watching sharks circling and corpses bobbing in the water.
I wonder what sinking ship is in Italian. The only thing that comes to mind is affondamento volontario – scuttling, sinking a ship on purpose. I can’t correctly conjugate verbs, I can’t find a job, but I can recall obscure naval terminology.
He turns on his side, wrapping his arms around me. His chest presses against my back as he kisses my neck. I want to be a wall of ice. But at the delicate tension of his arms I melt almost instantly, rotating into the light carpet of hair on his chest. He tells me that he’s worried about me, that he cares about me.
“It’s natural to care about a friend, no?” His arms pull me in closer.
Something else I hadn’t prepared for – friend. A cold blade struck between my shoulders. Go on, drive the dagger in deeper, I think. Let it sever my spinal cord, go right through and break the sternum. If I bleed, would it matter?
“Yes, Checco, it’s normal. Otherwise you’d hardly call them a friend,” I say, with forced nonchalance.
We’ve been friends for nearly 20 years now, ever since he studied abroad at my university. We kept in touch through irregular emails. I’d been in Italy for over a year, following my husband and his work transfer, when Francesco reached out. Messages led to drinks, led to flirting, led to sex.
Nothing says friendship more than fucking the life out of each other.
We are friends. Friends who send erotic photos to each other, which are quickly enjoyed then deleted. Friends who meet for cocktails at discreet hotels that don’t question surnames or cash payments. I’d pour myself into crotchless knickers, garter belts, and stockings for any of my friends. He probably wears silk boxers when he meets his other friends, too. I know he considers me a good friend when his cock is in my mouth. I tell him how good he is when he’s licking my clit like gelato.
The remnants of our pleasure are drying on my skin, soon to crystallise and peel off. I wish I had clenched, held that small dose of him in me longer. Futile; it would have oozed out. Nothing would have come from it anyway.
His hand glides down my back and rests on my bum.
I knew where things were headed: my blush when he said my lacrosse uniform drove him crazy; his bad jokes making me smile during an otherwise shitty day; wearing clothes I had buried in my wardrobe believing I was too old, fat, and frumpy. I knew I’d get in over my head. But I couldn’t resist.
I should have silenced him when he said I looked cute. I should have kept a respectable distance, not leaned in tempting him with my lips. I should have slapped his hand away when it caressed my thigh. But I didn’t.
Affondamento volontario – the shipwreck of my marriage, and of our friendship.
“It does bother me a bit, Layla, to see you not happy,” he says, ignoring my kisses along his bearded jaw. He calls me by my name, another sign of friendship. Lovers say amore, tesoro, luce della mia vita. I am none of those.
I sense a trap. I am fantasy, and fantasies don’t talk about problems. He has his wife for real conversations – who should pick the kids up from school, if they should spend their anniversary in the mountains or at the beach, what pasta machine they should buy.
But me, I’m light entertainment, substitute porn. I’m supposed to giggle and get wet. I should brush off his gentle concern, keep it light and airy. The sincerity in his voice, though, encourages me. So I tell him everything, nearly everything.
“I can’t keep being a PA, and what I’d really love to do I’m too old to start now.” His fingers draw circles on my bum cheek. “I don’t fit in here. It’s true, Checco, don’t shake your head. Waiters can’t understand me, my clothes are too casual, and I’m allergic to gluten.”
I hesitate, scared that I’m leaving myself exposed. But vulnerability creates intimacy, so I’ve read.
“I’m married to a good man but I don’t know if I love him anymore,” I finally say, my tongue feels like an anchor.
Checco untangles himself, climbs out of bed, and pours us each a fresh glass of wine from the room service we ordered earlier.
“Layla, it’s typical for relationships to have highs and lows. It’s with all couples. I don’t want to be the bad influence on your marriage,” he says, not looking at me as he sips his glass of chilled Gavi. Obviously, his marvellous marriage is at an all-time high.
“No, Checco. You’re not the bad influence.”
I am. My husband is always reliable, never lies, universally beloved by friends and family. He’s seen me at my very worst, my most horrible and my most vulnerable, and stayed. But I still can’t make love endure.
Nothing I want lasts. A bottle of wine guzzled in a couple of hours, a tub of ice cream devoured within three days, a new top maybe five months before it’s stained and full of holes. An exciting, imaginative lover? Eight months, if this scenario is anything to go by. I wanted a caring, stable partner to love and cherish until the end of my days. But ten years later and here I am, blowing holes in the hull.
“The appointment with the doctor was OK?” Checco asks, leaning against the wall rather than coming back to bed. Do I tell him?
“I’m infertile.” The words come out flat and cold.
I was always ambivalent about children. It was a decision I never actively made. And now I have no choice.
His expression is difficult to read. Maybe he’s relieved he doesn’t have to worry about all the unprotected sex we’ve had. Or maybe my worth has decreased; I now offer less than his wife. I can’t compete.
“Oh, Layla,” he says, walking over to the bed and offering me a glass of wine. He sits on the side of the mattress, and as I take the glass, he pulls me into a hug.
Maybe my marriage wouldn’t be failing if we’d had kids. Kids seem to be the glue that keeps marriages together. Checco and his wife have kids. That’s why everything is fantastic for him, for them. They are bonded forever, the perfect family unit. Why would he ever disrupt that for me, the unholy mess?
Checco has his flawless wife and beautiful family. I imagine them at Sunday lunch after church: the food expertly spiced, the wine dutifully poured, and the kids practically bouncing after spending over an hour sitting still.
He has me when he’s bored with porn, and I make it very easy for him. I never fail to respond or turn up in stilettos and silk.
Now the air feels sombre, and our embrace is awkward and distant. Previous post-coital conversations were much happier, like when Checco told me his ten-year plan. He wants to move to the Campania countryside to produce olive oil and limoncello. His eyes sparkled when he talked about future dinner parties, candlelit and citrus-perfumed. I’d give anything to be there with him, pressing olives and preserving lemon peel.
I start kissing the top of Checco’s shoulder, working my way up to his lips. I’ll be happy there with you, I promise, I’ll drop everything and run to the countryside with you. My hand creeps from his neck and down his chest. Just tell me you love me. Checco’s hand catches mine, stopping its progress. Before my lips can reach his, he presses his head against mine, blocking my route. It’s a gentle request to stop. He’s never refused me before.
He gets up, heads to the bathroom, and turns on the shower. I’ve gained his pity, not his love. I’ve revealed too much, ruining my only bit of happiness in the last year.
I finish my drink, clamber out of bed, take the bottle from the ice bucket, and pour myself another. Finding my slip, I pull it on and don’t bother with the rest of the lingerie. Without his lusty stare, I feel like a sausage spilling out of its skin. Boobs overflowing their cups, belly bulging against the garter belt, thigh fat slopping over stockings.
He’ll shower and dress, then head home. He never misses taking the boys to soccer practice in the morning.
Staring into my glass of wine I realise that what I know about Checco is merely a splash. There’s an entire ocean of him; an ocean she’s charted and explored. I’m drowning in a puddle.
“I’m such an idiot,” I mutter, just as the water turns off.
When pulling his up trousers, he pauses to kiss me and thank me for a magical evening. When I mention that I’ll have a free weekend soon, he says his parents will visit shortly, for his youngest’s birthday. He has the most adorable expression as he talks about his plans to celebrate his son. I smile, one that’s as sweet as it is bitter, and say it all sounds incredibly fun. He kisses me so intensely that we’re both breathless when we break apart.
As he leaves the hotel room, he gently strokes my cheek and says he’s happy we’ve stayed in touch all these years. I nod and wonder if I’ll ever see him again.
When he’s gone and I’ve closed the door, I curse out loud. He has never made me any promises. He’s never said this was anything more than what it is – just friends. I wish I had his skill. I’m a sucker for someone who says I’m pretty. Say you want me and I’ll scuttle my whole life for you.
But Francesco can compartmentalize – fuck one, love the other. Checco and Chià will grow old together with their children amongst the olive and lemon trees while I’m here, alone in a hotel room. I knew this would all come to naught, I can’t make anything last. Nothing is more tempting than destruction. I’m a human torpedo. I’m my own bad influence.
I knew a man in Radford who had turned his garage into a makeshift museum. It was open for most of the day, Monday through Sunday, and the entrance was always free. The curator was our neighbour, a man in his late forties named Bill Storms.
Bill’s garage-cum-gallery featured all kinds of memorabilia from the United States – baseball figurines, old American candy wrappers, authentic interstate signs, war medals, Eisenhower campaign badges; all kinds of stuff. As children, we had never seen any of these things before, not even on television. Our main objective was to get our hands on one of those flashy baseball cards he had so we could show it off at school. But this was a museum. The things were not for sale. Bill was invariably generous, but he kept a record of his memorabilia and a close eye on everything he owned.
Simon Moussoulides and I spent a lot of time there. It was a big garage, could fit four cars back to back. Simon always sat, legs crossed, across from the baseball and basketball exhibit. I mostly enjoyed looking at the vintage toys section. There was this miniature barn, and the toy animals looked so lifelike. I was morbidly fascinated by the big-eyed Humpty Dumpty sitting on the shingles of the barn roof, which I found a little frightening. I always believed it would one day slide off and fall to the ground, crack, and all kinds of flower bugs and spiders would come crawling out.
Bill didn’t leave us by ourselves, though he had come to trust us. He enjoyed telling us the stories behind the things he had. “That Humpty came from a place called Cincinnati,” he told me. “It’s a big city and people are very stressed there, so the council set up this convention for adults to help them relax. There was a nursery rhyme act that a local toyshop was organising and that’s where I saw it. I had to visit the store and buy one for myself.”
We had never heard his kind of accent in Radford before. It wasn’t British, and it explained how Bill came to own such a large collection of American souvenirs. While he was telling me the story, I saw Simon rise from the corner of my eye.
When we left the museum, Simon revealed what he had stolen. He took it out from his jacket pocket and the card flashed bright in the sunlight like daytime delinquency, which it was.
I wasn’t at all surprised with what Simon proceeded to do. He told the other kids at school that his parents took him to America over the summer and bought him one of the rarest baseball cards in existence. Everyone knew that Simon’s parents were well-off. They owned the Victorian house at St. Columbus Close, so the others believed him.
Nobody knew who Mickey Mantle was, but that was the name on the baseball card. But we had all heard of New York one way or another and we imagined it to be a kind of Shangri-La where the prettiest and most successful people lived. When we saw on the card that Mickey Mantle played for the New York Yankees, we knew he was a big deal. Plus, the card flashed so brightly, it couldn’t have been anything but valuable.
Surrounded by a flock of new admirers, like pigeons necking at crumbs, Simon looked at me and smiled. “I’m getting another one,” he said.
My parents lived in a cheap street house that my dad had won at an auction. It cost him everything he had, which was practically nothing. He couldn’t afford the renovations it desperately needed. When he had saved enough to start rethatching the roof or refurbishing the cladding, something essential always broke – the plumbing, the convector radiator, the water heater – so he had to put off the other, less essential fixing.
In the house, I often felt like I was in the way. While my parents’ hands were busy, mine were at my sides as I watched the two of them work and exhaust themselves. I tried to spend as much time outside the house as I could.
On the other hand, Simon enjoyed spending time at home. He had a golden retriever, a large yard, and an eclectic collection of videotapes. He never invited me over. Most often we encountered each other at Bill’s museum, which is how we became short-lived friends.
My father once saw me in Simon’s company and he later told me to join him in the backyard under the pretence of needing help in the shed. He asked me about him.
“Did he ever spit at you?”
It was a strange question that I kept thinking about for many days and nights. I shook my head.
“I can tell a spitter when I see one,” Dad said. “And don’t you spit back when he does. Kids like him have a way of corrupting kids like you, but he’ll get out of it squeaky clean and you’ll be chin-deep in trouble.”
My father was angry then and he smacked the trowel against the potting table to get the muck off it. He told me to run along, and so I did. I went to Bill’s because I always felt at home at Bill’s.
Bill looked exhausted and his eyes were drooping sad, but he still smiled when he saw us walk in on Sunday. He would never think it was one of us who had stolen the card.
We observed that he had a new exhibit. It had jazz instruments and bar signs, photographs of black people. I was looking at two tin wind-up toys of black men standing on matchbox-sized boxes. Bill came over and wound the toys up, and they started dancing a jig.
“Neat, huh?” Bill said. He pointed at two jars on a top shelf shaped like big black women in red dresses.
“Those are called Mammy jars,” Bill said. “Some people think they’re racist but I think they’re important.”
“What’s racist?” Simon asked.
Bill smiled at him and put a warm, avuncular hand on his shoulder. It was annoyance I felt more than jealousy because Bill was treating someone who had robbed him with tenderness, and I didn’t think it was fair that Bill didn’t know the truth.
“Thinks of it this way,” Bill said. “Your friend here has darker skin than yourself. Wouldn’t it be nasty and awful if you stopped being his friend because he doesn’t look like you?”
Simon stared at me and it seemed as if he were noticing my blackness for the first time. He sized me up and it felt like, in that moment, he had decided whether he would be racist or not for the rest of his life.
The jiggers stopped dancing, and we stood in silence in a patch of sunlight that was coming through the raised roller shutter. I couldn’t look Simon in the eye. I thought that the jiggers behind me were so daft that I wanted to smash them, but they were Bill’s, not mine, and he thought they were important.
“You boys want something to eat? I have Cornish pasties, still warm,” Bill said.
Simon and I both nodded, and Bill turned to the blue door at the far end of the garage. He turned around again, remembering something. His eyes drooped once more. “Mind the stuff if someone comes in. Someone swiped a $15,000 silk card this week.”
I flushed and looked away. I fixed my gaze on the concrete until I heard Bill go through the door.
It hits me now all these years later how much he trusted us. Perhaps he didn’t think kids our age would really appreciate the value of that kind of money. Looking back, I don’t think I really grasped it, but he was wrong about Simon because he kept whispering that he was rich before shuffling to the basketball exhibit and taking a Magic Johnson card off the shelf.
“Put it back,” I said.
I knew Simon’s parents didn’t need the money and I also knew that Bill Storms didn’t need someone robbing him once a week, especially if those cards cost an inordinate amount. Simon didn’t seem to care, and he pretended like he hadn’t heard me. He looked at the flashing card like it was a dead cat on the road, guts out and everything. His eyes were wide in a kind of ghoulish curiosity.
Bill came back with a plate of two steaming Cornish pasties. Simon had already slipped Magic Johnson in the back pocket of his jeans.
The word racist was the only thing that came out of Simon for two straight weeks. I suspected that he just enjoyed saying it and that he had forgotten the true meaning of the word. But he did something awful with it just the same. He started a rumour at school that Bill Storms, the curator of the American museum, was racist.
The kids at school told their parents, brothers, and sisters about the new word they had learned and they even mentioned Bill Storms’ name because Simon had instilled in them the notion that the word and the man were somehow inexorably connected.
I thought the gossip would die out eventually as everything else usually did in a matter of days, but it didn’t. It grew into something uncontrollable like a big fire that wouldn’t be quenched. In fact, it was a fire that consumed Bill’s museum. I was walking home from school one day and I stopped by and saw the charred remains. Bill was pulling soggy cardboard boxes across the front lawn. He saw me and glowered, told me to bugger off.
It hurt to hear him say that, to see him glare at me as if I were responsible. It was my first heartbreak. I felt a lump in my throat, a fat, barbed conch that sang the ocean in my head.
I saw it from the pavement – half of Humpty Dumpty’s face was on the ground just outside the garage door. I ran to it and knelt down on the grass. There weren’t any spiders crawling out from underneath it. It was made of clay and the big eye on the broken piece had run like a fried egg. A chunk of Humpty’s upturned shirt collar was still intact and attached to the face. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand.
“You can fucking have it,” Bill said from behind me.
I put the face back on the ground and stood up. “I’m sorry,” I said, and ran home. That was the last time I saw Bill. His disappearance was followed by another rumour that he had gone back to America.
*
Simon wrapped his cards in sheets of plastic so the clammy fingers of the other kids wouldn’t damage them. Unlike the Bill Storms rumour, the fascination with the American cards died out rather quickly, even though Simon tried to prolong it as much as possible. He brought new lies to school about his trips to New York and the Empire State Building.
I always thought that Simon had everything he wanted and I had always accepted that, but I wouldn’t let him have America. That was Bill’s.
I challenged him in the schoolyard in front of everyone. “He’s lying. He’s never been to America,” I said. The other kids had been cultivated by the intricate and plausible stories that Simon had supplied, so it was hard for them to accept my interjection. They laughed and said I was jealous. They turned their back on me. It was only for a moment that Simon’s lips trembled with insecurity.
I ran off in fury to the empty classroom. The light inside was dim. The afternoon quiet was maddening as if I expected the blackboard and the desks to be rocking and shaking in sympathy. My eyes locked on Simon’s desk. I climbed on top of his chair and scraped my muddy shoes against its surface, hoping that any millipedes or lice that were lodged in the grooves of my shoe soles would fall out and bite Simon in the ass.
Simon’s bag was leaning against the leg of his desk. I picked it up. It was a leather satchel with green piping and a twin buckle strap. It smelled like the flaking steering wheel of my father’s work van. I twiddled with the buckles, and it was some time before I figured out how to open the bag. When I did, I slipped my hand in the front slip pocket where I knew he kept the cards.
I pulled them out and studied them. I had never truly looked at them before. For a moment I thought what it would be like if I had them to myself, but there was nothing I wanted except to spend a whole day in Bill’s museum. Then I thought about taking the cards so I could return them, but Bill was gone. I slipped the cards back into the satchel. I wiped the soil and muck from Simon’s chair with the back of my hand.
*
I spent a lot of time outside Bill’s house after that, the roller shutter twisted out of shape. The glass windows looking into the empty rooms were covered in grime. They looked like liver spots. Already, Bill’s absence had grown old.
Humpty Dumpty’s remains were still there on the lawn. Humpty looked at me with his one, melted eye. I eventually picked it up and took it home. At first, I felt like I shouldn’t have, but Bill did say that I could fucking have it.
It was not a consolation prize because I didn’t think it would bring me any comfort when it would look down at me from a top shelf in my bedroom, but it served as a reminder of the bric-a-brac American. Bill had said that it was used to help stressed adults breathe easy. I offered it to my father, but he threw it aside and said he had no use for it.
One night, before bed, I told him that he was wrong about Simon. He was not a spitter.
“Well, I’m glad, son. I really am,” he said, and he patted my cheek with his rough hand. It smelled like wax and sod and leather. He smiled at me then, and I thought about the flashing cards in terms of dollars for the very first time.
He would definitely have had use for that. I told him everything then, about Bill, the cards, and the fire that had taken everything away.
My dad didn’t speak for a very long time. His lips kept moving as if he were chewing my story, picking out the flavour. He looked at Humpty’s broken face on the shelf.
“How does it go, do you remember? All the king’s horses – ”
“And all the king’s men – ”
“Couldn’t put Humpty together again.”
My father laughed and kissed me goodnight. He turned on my nightlight and left the door ajar. I waited for his shadow to retreat from under the door, and then turned off the nightlight – I always did this after having heard him complain to my mother about the utility bills.
And besides, I wasn’t scared of the dark anymore. I knew Humpty Dumpty was looking out for me with his one big eye.
They often shot boys who were out after curfew. They were usually buried quietly by their mothers. But boys will be boys, after all. Cue laughter.
I met Jake at school, six years ago. There were already the rumblings of change under our feet: My mother whipped me into the safe, stone building, ivy underneath wrought-iron windows. I spoke to Jake on my first day. He was from money, too, but unlike me, hadn’t yet learned to be ashamed of it. He scrunched paper into tiny balls and tossed them into my hair. My hair was so curly that they would get stuck, and I wouldn’t know until lunch, when I shook my head or glanced elsewhere and they’d come falling onto the table. But I always saw him laughing at me, with a spark of light on his white teeth, in his eyes. I think it was an excuse to watch me.
Our families were friends. His dad swapped his allegiance pretty quickly after the women took to the streets, after the coup, after there was a risk to him and his life. His dad saw where the money was going: It wasn’t with the old men with paper crinkled foreheads but with women like my mother. She had spent her life whispering, sneaking into the corners of rooms where important decisions were being made, collecting the stories and traumas of women, until the world was shaken, and she was poised to use it. And use it she did. She was massaging my scalp with oil, our weekly ritual before washing, when she told me what she knew about these old men. How she was protecting the girls they damaged. Secrets as currency, the first time that they mattered. Say it after me, she said, and her fingernails scratched sharp and smooth on my scalp, dug deep. A delicious pleasure pain. Men hurt us. We protect our women. For the greater good.
They burnt the flag when they took the streets: I watched it on video as it descended into flame, tragedy eating tragedy.
When the women held the power, the world stopped turning, peace returning the peace, that’s what my mom always said. There was pride in her voice: For the first time, they were scared of us. They announced the curfew. Men and boys were told to stay at home at night. To the women, you have the streets as yours, and yours alone. There was jubilation. I was too young to go alone, but me and my mother stood in our front yard, watching the women and girls as they cried and ran forward into the setting sun, as my dad stood inside and watched us from the window. There are pictures from that night, famous ones: women dancing, women kissing, women crying. Women holding hands. There’s colour, fireworks, silver stars in the sky. Women wearing nothing at all, women walking, with their fists in the air, finally free. The first night was unfiltered madness and emotion – darkness without fear was unfamiliar territory. Many did not know what to do: Some stayed at home with their husbands. As is their choice, my mother said. But many saw it as a betrayal.
One time I asked Jake what he did on that night. He had two brothers and one older sister. He said his sister returned tear-stained and shaken, and wouldn’t speak to anyone. He remembered clinging to his mother, begging her not to go. If she left, he said, I thought she wouldn’t come back at all.
Some men lost their jobs and stayed at home, looking after small children, waiting for wives to come home from work, or partying. Bars were visited in an exited flurry, stocked by female bouncers, female bartenders, the wives of club owners in long coats. We were free to dance, without men lurking at the edges, without them watching. But then it dried up. Women didn’t want those jobs; or they did, and enjoyed the power too much. Women still wanted to be looked at, they wanted to have their conquests, they wanted to bring their boyfriends with them to dance. We lashed out, there were still fights, with sharp nails digging into arms. There’s always the powerful and the powerless. Young girls didn’t see that, we only heard the stories, made them alive with our words: She gouged her eyes out with a fresh manicure, blood red, her eyeball rolled on the ground. These were the favourite stories we told in the bathrooms at school. At home we only saw the same photographs from that first night till we had them memorised: a triumphant woman, tears shining in her eyes, set against the sparkling backdrop of the night sky. Her name was Hope.
Then the men revolted. They took back what was theirs. Some came attacking: We’ll give you something to be scared about. Others stood outside their homes, holding their baby son: He knows no violence. They resisted, they sat and waited in large circles, sitting peacefully, hands up. We have a place here too, they said. We’re alive, too. And my mother said: Shoot them.
Jake was my favourite friend. We would wander after school, safe in the daylight. I don’t think it’s fair, Jake said, that it’s girls only at the prom. I waited for his words to fall. We walked along the river. I wanted to skip stones, I had never learnt. Talking like that can get you in trouble, I said. Not with you, he replied. No, not with me. I just wanted to be with my friend. I wanted to wander the streets after an evening movie, left over popcorn in our hands, throwing it to each other, trying to catch it in our mouths.
I wore a pink dress to prom. I wanted to cut my hair short, but my mom wouldn’t let me. She rubbed at my head every week to make my hair grow pretty and long. Me and my friends stood outside in the setting sunshine and took photos, set against lush and verdant trees. We all had a brush of tan on our arms, long flowing hair, sharp white teeth. My mother told us to smile from behind the camera. As it flashed, I saw the white pop in our eyes. You guys are the future, she said, and she smiled. You can finish the work we begun.
There are still poor men, Jake said, as he skipped stones. There are still poor women suffering with them. Look at the photos from the first night. The night of revolution. Those women were already free, free by climbing the backs of the women who were suffering underneath them. He skipped a stone. But your dad hurt girls, I said. My stone fell flat in the water. I know, three skips, smooth and flat, across the water. It’s complicated, I said. I know. But your mom hurt people, too. How can we live with the history? It’s in my house at all times.
When my mother oils my scalp, she pulls at the tangles. My hair tugs and breaks. I feel like asking: Was it worth it, the things you did? My mother has never held a gun, but she tells me of the old days, when she had a weapon. I ran with a knife, she said, strapped tight to my leg. I jumped at any rustle I heard in the bushes. There were men everywhere, men who lurked and did bad things, men who wanted to hurt you. Lots of girls like you, who suffered and died at the hands of men. We looked into the backs of cars and held keys in between our fingers. You don’t think of those things any more. More tugging. I wanted to tell her that sometimes we do think of those things.
He made the news, the first son who was shot. He was only sitting, in a group of twelve of them, peaceful, ignoring the women who shouted and cajoled at them, who threw things. The first son who died was twelve. He had his hands up as the officers rounded on him. They had their orders. Please don’t, he said, and they shot him dead. They shot them all dead. Some of us said he deserved it. Some of us said it was an echoing of violence in the past, male violence that was red hot and ran in the veins of the country. Jake said it was our families who caused it, who set the lines for this chaos. All of us are free or none of us are. That’s not true, I replied. Some of us are freer than others. He said I was right.
A video of the boy’s mother went viral. She’s roaming the streets at night, women walk past and glance at her as she wails. She sounds like an animal. You killed him, she said. For this? For this? For you to go to your parties? What kind of justice is this? My mom walked into the room when I was watching that. I turned it off quick, but she could see my unsettled face. It’s up to mothers to raise their sons properly, she said. I nodded, but that night I dreamt of gun shots, dark nights, the burst and boom of fireworks that shattered, ashes in the sky.
Jake was getting restless. He knew a few boys who sat in the circles, he read their literature that circulated around social media, he liked and commented, solidarity. His stones lay flat in the river, sinking without skipping. I’ve got to do something, he said. I want to stand up for them. Jake scared me when he spoke of things like this. I wanted to keep him safe in his house; I got used to my nightly walks, walking past his house, checking for the ghostly glow of light from his window, checking he was okay. I belonged to the darkness; it was a gift I was chained to. It was my history, the legacy of my family, to worship the moon. I joined the league of other women. We wandered the streets with dark circles under our eyes, an insomniac energy in us.
Then one evening, in late summer, Jake’s light was off. The songs of sirens on the streets, women everywhere who cackled and cried and laughed. The sound of drumming, far away. I ran towards the city, minding the girls dressed like fallen stars, looking for him, for a crowd, for the spark of violence in the air. But I was too late. I only heard the gunshots from afar. I never saw him sit in the circle with his friends, but I imagine his face in grim determination, his blood humming to the tune of violence, the way mine did. The way violence was coded into my DNA. I imagined his eyes rolling backwards. Of him falling. I felt his death cosmically. I sunk to the floor as the women who killed him held me, who rubbed my back and whispered soothing things in my ears.
I told my mother it was her fault he died. I grabbed at my hair, pulling at my scalp, I cried, I wailed. I could not bear my own bones. She slapped me. A week later, she hung up a black woollen dress for me. We’ll go and pay our respects. I rose and left the room, into the bathroom, and cut off all my hair.
We watched the women dig his grave. Keep going, I thought. It would be the biggest grave they would ever see, as big as my loss, as big as the gunshots, as big as the holes in the hearts of the mothers who had lost their sons.
He’s looking well. He started playing tennis three times a week, and Brian, Elaine’s husband, sees him sometimes at the club. Afterwards, he has a tomato juice at the members bar. The other day Elaine was there with Brian, and she saw him. Elisabeth knows this because her mother is telling her now. She is saying this all in a nonchalant way to suggest a passing interest, when in fact this conversation has been constructed for Elisabeth’s benefit. Elisabeth is trying to trace back to where the topic of Malcolm began, but she can’t seem to find the source.
“Elaine said he looked tanned. I think he went to Cuba for a few weeks.”
“He did,” Elisabeth says. In fact, he had planned the trip four months before, when Elisabeth was still sleeping at his flat in Islington. She imagines sun freckles peppering his face the way they had after their trip to Madrid. Malcolm has a radiant kind of skin that seems to mop up any gesture of sunlight, christening him with a steady and satisfying glow. Elisabeth’s, on the other hand, becomes irritated by the mere mention of daylight exposure, throbbing like the crimson centre of a juicy steak, and she spent the bulk of their trip shimmering with the sticky residue of After Sun.
“Well apparently he’s looking very well,” her mother says in a conclusive way, which for a moment suggests to Elisabeth that the conversation is over. Then, she adds, “He’s stopped drinking, too.”
Ah, Elisabeth thinks, that was what the earlier reference to the tomato juice was about. She had snagged on that trivial detail at the time. It had struck her as an unusual addition, the kind a writer might include to add dramatic believability or ground their story in a familiar world. She laughs now that she’d missed the relevance of that carefully placed breadcrumb. She imagines her mother plotting out the conversation, meticulously considering whether to leave this cue untouched for her daughter to interpret, or whether to accentuate the point.
The thought amuses Elisabeth, evidently more than she realises, because then her mother says, “What are you smiling at?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, I just thought you’d want to know. That’s all.” Her mother’s tone is short now, and Elisabeth can tell she’s upset her. She’s not entirely certain what it is she’s supposed to have done, but she’s aware that her mother will already be thinking how difficult and unreasonable she is being. Elisabeth closes her eyes tightly. The past few months have been like this. A constant bartering for her mother’s affections, usually resulting in her mother concluding that Elisabeth is being irrational or sensitive in some way.
The other day, whilst out shopping, they had stopped for a coffee and her mother had bought her a scone. Elisabeth had plainly said she didn’t want one, but her mother had taken it upon herself anyway, and when Elisabeth left the cakey rock largely untouched, her mother had said, “Jesus Christ, Elisabeth – can no one ever do anything nice for you?” It wasn’t explicitly said then, but Elisabeth knew that anyone meant Malcolm.
In fact, her mother didn’t need to tell her about Malcolm, or the tennis and the tomato juice. Elisabeth knows that Malcolm is looking well. She saw him a few months before, when she collected the rest of her things from his flat and Malcolm had convinced her to get a coffee with him at the corner café she liked. Malcolm enjoys looking well. He goes to the gym most evenings, and carefully measures his protein to carb ratio for each meal. He often has protein shakes for lunch, which Elisabeth hates. The smell of the chalky powder makes her nauseous, and she’s taken up running in the park to avoid the dense stench that permeates their local gym. Still, even Elisabeth had to admit he was looking more well than usual.
*
It was July then and it had been hot, so they’d sat out on the café’s wooden decking. Even though the sun was in his eyes, he hadn’t moved his sunglasses from their usual resting spot, nestled within his hair, which she had liked, and when he squinted to look at her his expression appeared soft and gentle. He had told her that he still loved her, and she’d said something non-committal like, “I know.”
The detail of the tomato juice isn’t especially relevant, because Malcolm only ever drinks a few beers anyway and almost never wine. Her mother is stuck on a fight they had three Christmases ago, when Malcolm had drunk more than usual and had gone on at Elisabeth about how she was judging him. Elisabeth actually hadn’t cared that Malcolm was drunk. She found it strangely endearing how his usual scrupulous self-control had lapsed, and he’d become playfully competitive during charades. But later in the kitchen, when they were stacking away plates, and after he’d been mildly embarrassing during a political family debate, he had told her that she was judging him and that this was unfair because he never drinks, certainly not as much as she does.
His eyes were glassy then, and she no longer found his wilful manner charming. Each time she’d tried to defuse the situation by leaving the kitchen to rejoin the party in the living room, he’d pushed her shoulder with his fingers so that she remained with her back pressed tight against the sink. The gesture wasn’t especially forceful, but it gave Elisabeth a deeply unsettling sense of claustrophobia.
“I actually don’t care,” she had finally said to Malcolm, which was evidently the wrong thing to say because his jaw went stiff then. He let her leave, but routinely when they had fights after that Christmas, he would always checkmate her with, “Maybe you just don’t care.” This would signal that the fight was over and that Malcolm had won. She wasn’t sure when this had been decided, but it seemed an unspoken rule that anytime Christmas was mentioned Elisabeth had already lost.
The following January, Elisabeth’s mother had told her she didn’t think Malcolm had been that drunk at all. Elisabeth had been surprised by this sudden disclosure and had wondered when Malcolm had confided the incident, twisting her mother’s perceptions until they were curdling into new grievances against her. These were the kind of thoughts Elisabeth’s mother would have rebuked her for having. Both of Malcolm’s parents were dead, so it was selfish of Elisabeth to keep her own for herself.
“No,” was all she had responded, because in truth he hadn’t been that drunk and she wasn’t even sure why this had been a fight in the first place.
Still, just as her indifference to Malcolm’s intoxication was a failing on her part as a girlfriend, it also appeared to be an unspoken rule that her concern over these drinking habits was the exact reason Elisabeth had left Malcolm in the first place. A concern that Elisabeth did not have, because there were no habits to be particularly concerned about.
The real reason for Elisabeth breaking up with Malcolm was unclear, although during conversations like this one she remained stubbornly stuck on it like an obnoxious child who refused to eat certain coloured vegetables. Yet often, when she sat alone in her new flat and remembered how Malcolm would come in from his runs burning with sweat and kiss both her cheeks so that her own face became sticky and flushed, she would miss him so much she could feel a tightening sensation in her chest, and she’d have to stand in the shower for forty-five minutes just to avoid calling him.
Elisabeth had been with Malcolm for five years, and it was generally believed that they would get married. Even now, when Elisabeth was renting a flat in Brixton and Malcolm had briefly dated another girl – a meaningless relationship that her mother was at pains to tell her was irrefutably over – it was generally expected that they would reunite, and continue their trajectory blindly towards the altar. Elisabeth wondered whether this was why Malcolm had remained so calm, even after he had said he still loved her at the café and even after they had split their crockery, book collection, and holiday souvenirs with the clinical precision of a divorced couple.
When Elisabeth had originally told him she wanted to move out of his flat, which was how she had worded their separation, Malcolm hadn’t been calm at all. Instead he demanded to know why, and when Elisabeth couldn’t come up with a viable excuse, he had forced her to show him her texts, emails, and call history, as though some hidden clue could be found in her newsletter subscriptions or emails to the pubescent office temp. Eventually he had cried, and she had held him and found herself telling him she loved him and that she just needed some time to sort out the thoughts in her head. They’d had sex that night, a decision Elisabeth now categorises as a mistake. After that, it had been decided Elisabeth was going through a personal crisis and they would most likely resume course shortly. This thought causes Elisabeth a feeling of suffocating sickness and reminds her of standing in that kitchen, trying to leave and constantly being pushed back.
*
This is another thing Elisabeth cannot say to her mother – in part out of loyalty to Malcolm, for fear it will sound much worse than Elisabeth intends, and also in part due to an intrinsic suspicion her mother would find a way to take Malcolm’s side. It is not particularly the sort of thing you can divulge anyway. She made that mistake once before, after they’d had an especially awful fight during their first year of living together. Malcolm had discovered that Elisabeth’s usual running route included passing an ex-boyfriend’s flat and had demanded she find an alternative. Elisabeth had told him that that was ridiculous, firstly because he wasn’t even a real ex-boyfriend, he was just someone she had gone on a few dates with, which had led to a night or two at his apartment, and secondly because the man in question didn’t even live there anymore. Malcolm had told her it suggested some deep-set desire to see him again. They had gone on like that for several hours.
Elisabeth typically would have surrendered, but this happened to be the only route from her office towards the river walk. She would often allow herself to sit on the bank, the grass scratching at her ankles whilst she soothed the small tremors of exhaustion still catching in her throat. So, she had stood her ground. Even after Malcolm’s incessant haranguing became tiring and her energy waned. The fight resulted in a stalemate, and Elisabeth found herself lying in bed next to Malcolm, her body slack against the unforgiving stiffness of his embrace.
The following day, Elisabeth had returned home to find her gym shoes and running kit stuffed in the outdoor black bin, soiled beneath empty tuna cans and leftover food waste.
Elisabeth had divulged the story with comical exaggeration to a friend of hers at lunch a few weeks later, blindly seeking out a superficial dose of sympathy the way she would if irked over an irritating habit, her eyes mindlessly scanning the appetisers with trifling interest. But her friend had gone quiet and a disquieting expression had set on her face, which left Elisabeth with a disarming sense of guilt. She felt as if she’d stepped over some unspoken threshold, mistakenly portraying Malcolm as a tyrant, and spent the following few days in a relentless state of unease. Her anxiety began to fester, distorting and reshaping itself, until it seemed to Elisabeth that she’d falsely accused him of something abhorrent such as rape and was now carrying a deep and contemptible secret that would infect their relationship, until it was left diseased and rotting.
Her following birthday Malcolm had bought Elisabeth a new state of the art gym kit. She joined their local gym after that.
Now she runs in the park, which she enjoys and will keep doing. Elisabeth often finds herself mentally making these lists, small freedoms she will keep when they make their inevitable reunion. She does this subconsciously, as she is consciously of the mind that they are not getting back together. She has not yet disclosed this to her mother and has not yet explicitly disclosed this to Malcolm. She wonders whether this is because she is afraid of committing to their separation or whether she is simply afraid of Malcolm’s response.
Malcolm is not good at losing people, this is something she knows, and it makes the concept of finalising their break-up especially daunting. She is aware that this fear of abandonment comes from losing both his parents at a young age, his mother when he was twelve and his father when he was nineteen, and she feels disloyal when she gets these sudden bouts of resentment for Malcolm’s emotions needing constant and careful management.
Now she is sitting with her mother, in the living room of the house where she grew up, discussing the wellness of Malcolm’s being. The living room is modern and spacious and feels to Elisabeth in that moment to be sparse of décor and without life. Elisabeth thinks this is how she would describe herself. If pushed to colour her own character with such vivid terminology, she would say she is a well-designed hollow structure lacking in any internal life.
As if of an entirely separate subject and in a tone Elisabeth cannot help but detect as critical, her mother says, “Elisabeth, you don’t especially seem in a good place.” She wonders whether this is true or just another ploy designed to illustrate the necessity of Malcolm. Elisabeth presses her teeth down on the edges of her bottom lip. She considers the varying degrees of puerility she could indulge in, measuring her response in a manner of calculated hostility. Instead, she takes a piece of crystalized ginger from the open tin on the coffee table and bites into the chewy centre. The ginger burns her tongue; an enjoyable, acerbic sensation. At the same moment, her father comes in and says her name with soothing surprise.
“To what do we owe this pleasure,” he continues, leaning down to kiss her cheek. Her father has a deep woody scent deriving from an expensive bottle of cologne and a commanding warmth that seems to govern his surroundings. Elisabeth suspects he has never snapped his fingers at the bridge of her mother’s nose to demand her unequivocal attention. She’s grateful for his arrival, which seems to immediately placate the room, and the remainder of her visit is taken up with frivolous conversation that pulls Elisabeth into a pleasant lethargy.
On the drive home, Elisabeth imagines her parents alone together, the private spaces where their inner lives are kept. She considers them sitting in their cushioned armchairs, discussing the goings-on of the day with blithe intrigue, agreeing and disagreeing in amiable, unending circles.
Once, at a birthday dinner Elisabeth hosted at a small French bistro, a place since transformed into a popular brunch spot that sells watery iced coffees and that Elisabeth despises, her parents had arrived in a state of uncharacteristic agitation. Elisabeth’s mother had conducted herself with a briskness that suggested she found tolerating Elisabeth’s friends just beyond the realm of her capabilities, and it had been left to Malcolm to salvage the evening, swooping in to charm her until she had softened like crushed butter.
When Elisabeth had asked her father if anything was the matter, he had lovingly rested his hand on the indent of her neck and said, “Nothing to worry about, my darling. People fight. We power on.” It had felt at the time a notion of sage reassurance. Now the memory appears misshapen and contaminated; a catalyst of tiny errors.
The day following her visit to her parent’s house, Malcolm calls her. She’s at work so she doesn’t pick-up and instead listens to his voicemail on her way home. His voice sounds boyish and eager, obscured by the metallic froth of the recording. He’s telling her he has a meeting near Brixton, so he thought he’d pop in afterwards to see her new flat. He knows she’ll be back around seven, so can meet her then. She doesn’t entirely remember telling him the address, but it’s not implausible that she mentioned it. She considers texting him to say she’s going for drinks with colleagues, but their work circles are dangerously interlinked and she knows he’ll check.
She takes a detour through the park on her way to the tube station, trailing the familiar ruts of the river walk. She sits on the bank a moment and watches as the water laps gently over itself in slight and steady waves, mounting and smothering each trend with small, imperceptible acts of violence.
He’s leaning against the side gate when she finally arrives, holding a bottle of store-bought wine. He smiles when he sees her, an energetic smile that seems to stretch across his whole face. He looks well, she thinks.
One: because it really is just like the movies, and two: because Americans only watch American films, so they don’t realise just how cliched they are. His name was Vinnie. He was wearing a porkpie hat. He was a Central Park bike mechanic with a cigarette stuck to his pouty bottom lip and a greasy rag hanging out of his back pocket. Just like in the movies. But best of all he called me “hot tomato,” the tomaydo drawling out across the sticky street like sweet burnt butter, his thick Bronx accent wooing my Australian ears. “Hey hot tomato,” he called after me as I wheeled my freshly hired bike towards the Central Park gates. “Come back at sundown and have a drink with me.” Like every foreigner I was looking for the quintessential tourist experience, and it seemed it had just found me.
I turned him down. I already had plans to watch the sun set from the Empire State Building with my travel partner Liz, an old friend from back home. But even more importantly, I’m queer as fuck. “I knock off at six if you change your mind,” he called out, his yankee optimism irritatingly sanguine. I rolled my eyes and threw my leg over my bike, and headed off through the gates. Liz and I rode round the park for a couple of hours, weaving our bikes through little winding pathways and over wooden bridges that would have been more fitting in a ye olde English village than in the brash new town that New York pretends not to be. We posed with frosty pink ice creams that matched our lips, and then posted the photos all over Facebook. At the Boathouse we cheered our solidarity to workers standing on a picket line who were protesting against pitifully low wages. And then we headed back to the bike hire place to return our trusty steeds. I told Liz I’d meet her at the Empire State Building just on dusk, though the problem was that neither of us had yet figured out which one the Empire State was. New York is full of large important-looking buildings, so we’d been hedging our bets and taking photos of them all. But while I wandered around trying to find a famous bookstore I’d been told was a must-see, I had a change of heart. I had just turned 30. I had also just been dumped. I was embracing my Saturn return by embracing everything that tried to embrace me, and Vinnie had just been sent to test my philosophy. He was forward. He was sexy. And I was ovulating.
Along with turning the big three-oh I’d decided to get myself a baby. Being queer I needed to find a donor, but also being queer I knew very few cis-gendered men. This wasn’t at the forefront of my decision to sidle back to the bike shop at six to meet Vinnie for a drink, but it was definitely loitering there in the back of my mind when after a couple of those fabulous free-pour cocktails that American does so well, he suggested we take a walk in the park. Or rather, a waaal-k, which if I’m honest was probably the deciding factor for me. We didn’t get far. We made it to the boulders right near the entrance that make an appearance in so many famous films, and there in the shadows we lowered ourselves down onto the still-warm rock, I pulled my knickers down, and he tried to go down on me. I pulled him back up by the scruff of his neck, a pissed-off look on my face. That was not what I was there for. The poor sweet clueless boy.
Reader, I fucked him. Or rather he fucked me. Missionary, cowgirl, doggy. Holding on to the low branch of an overhanging tree, and then huddled under his jacket when the bright lights of a copper’s torch swung across the rocks, checking that all was calm and bright. And at some point the condom broke and I became the American movie cliche myself. I told him I was on the pill and that I was clean of STDs, and I ordered him not to stop. The STD part at least was true.
When it was all over I made some poor excuse to take a selfie. Just in case, so I’d have something to show the kid, to make up for the lack of a last name. Then he walked me to the subway and saw me safely to my train. The carriage rattled across the bridge to Brooklyn, a small child and its mother smiling at me across the aisle. I sat there deeply ashamed and slightly hopeful, and even more deeply ashamed about that hope.
Two weeks later, while on a hot date with a woman from San Francisco dykes on bikes, my period arrived. I deleted the selfie with Vinnie—there was nothing to remember after all. I still don’t know which one is the Empire State Building. And I’ve decided I don’t really care.
28 December 1983, Courtesy Galerie Jeanne Bucher Jaeger, Paris
ADAGP, Paris and DACS, London, Courtesy Galerie Jeanne Bucher Jaeger, Paris
The comprehensive exhibition at the Barbican is the first major retrospective of Jean Dubuffet’s work in the UK after more than 50 years and covers four decades of the artist’s work. It encompasses all the stages of the artist’s career, from the graffiti-inspired creations of the 1940s – lithographs in black and white depicting a frightened humanity just out of the Second World War – to his portraits from recollection, the mental landscapes, assemblage pieces, sculptures, texturology artworks, and Coucou Bazar’s theatrical props.
Dubuffet employed a wide range of techniques, mainly oil and acrylics on canvas but also ink, vinyl paint, and collage, that he called assemblage, which includes butterfly wings and glass shards. He was inspired by everyday objects and wished to translate them into unexpectedly beautiful artistic products in order to explore virgin fields and break with traditional culture. He was not attracted by the ancient classical world but by the oddities, the “wrinkles” and “troubles” of everyday life. Art was his method of exploring and illuminating the world which, according to him, was made of “many realities.” Trivial things, therefore, become objects of beauty showing what people cannot see but can imagine – that is, the spirit of things.
Dubuffet (1901–1985) started his working career as a wine dealer in the family business. In his forties, he trained at the Académie Julian in Paris and became a professional painter. Despite this traditional beginning, his attitude towards the established concept of artistic beauty and French idea of fine art was rebellious. He meant to liberate art from conventions, renewing it in a constant experimentation that is revealed throughout the different phases of his artistic career, which are well displayed and explained at the Barbican exhibition. Dubuffet can be considered anti-artistic, as some critics claim; but, on the other hand, his work is clearly self-conscious and self-reflexive, showing awareness of what he was doing and what he wished to accomplish. His playfulness and faux-naïve doodles of funny figures are not only disruptive and comical; they are also deliberately mundane, maybe ugly but always original and clever.
His artistic skilfulness is also revealed in the use of materials, from sophisticated lithographs on Auvergne paper in the first works of the 1940s inspired by street graffiti, to the extensive use of oil paints in different intensities, for example in the thick layered texture of his mental landscapes that create a down-to-earth solid vision. He also used acrylics, felt pens, black ink vinyl paint as well as assemblage to make collages of sorts in which he plays with organic and non-organic materials. In his artwork, he celebrates humble objects such as the pavement or soil, depicting them in detailed thin oil paint layers. They reveal his wish to explore, and they serve as symbols of an unpredictable expanding reality that does not mean to be heroic or prophetic. According to Dubuffet, the artist’s goal is to illuminate and discover, rehabilitate what is neglected, explore virgin fields, and create unexpected products. In the video displayed at the end of the exhibition, there is a scene in which Dubuffet collects pebbles and puts them in his pockets; he observes the rocks and the soil, taking inspiration from what is commonly considered worthless or discarded material.
Therefore, his art reveals both the vulnerable side of being human and the visionary view that prompts experimentation and creativity. This complex vision was intended to reform Western art through the belief that new frontiers should be achieved beyond tradition, which he considered boring, repetitive, and predictable. This defiant attitude is particularly evident in his portraits from recollection in which he did not paint the sitter from life but from what he remembered after an attentive observation session that could take hours. They are apparently funny figures in which varnish and plaster were thickly layered and then scraped or cut with a stick or a knife.
July–August 1947, Private Collection
ADAGP, Paris and DACS, London, Courtesy Private
Collection
Another example of this approach are the “Ladies’ Bodies” (1950s, ink on paper and oil painting on boards), which are in opposition to the ideal notion of female beauty present in ancient Greek art and in today’s magazine covers. His female bodies focus on internal fluids, the inner intimate parts that unsettle the viewer and open up to a landscape of flesh. They are sensual and disturbing at the same time.
During his life, Dubuffet also collected what he called Art Brut (raw art) – that is, the artworks of artists in psychiatric care or visionaries. They are outsiders who were considered to be at the margins of the art world. Most of these works are untitled and range from detailed figurative pictures to totally abstract pieces. Dubuffet found these works genuine and inspirational and wished to organise an exhibition dedicated to Art Brut, which, unfortunately, never happened.
In the 1970s, Dubuffet worked on Cocou Bazar, an installation of theatrical props that was exhibited for the first time at the Guggenheim Museum in New York in 1973. It was a display of performative art with music and light but without any narration. Dubuffet explained that the scenes were intentionally “brutally loud with abrupt interruptions of silence.” They are white figures outlined in black and painted in blues and reds reminiscent of marionettes or puppets; they are entertaining and playful, like most of his artwork.
In his final phase, he seems to revisit and mix all his previous approaches, simplifying the techniques and also commenting on his own past works. The interest in graffiti comes back together with the use of ink, acrylics, and collage. His cartoonish figures intersect with doodles, geometrical shapes, and pure abstract pieces in acrylics.
In this retrospective, a wide range of Dubuffet’s artwork is on display, and the exhibition does a fine job of explaining and analysing the different stages of his career and his belief that “there are as many realities as we want there to be.”
Jean Dubuffet: Brutal Beauty
Barbican Art Gallery, London, UK
17 May– 22 August 2021
This slim novel is intense and taut. It is based on the horrific murder of a family of five that took place some years ago in the Haute-Savoie region of France. Although the author has fictionalised the event, the crucial details are based on fact and are nothing if not chilling: an apparently happily married man enters his neighbours’ home, kills the three children with a baseball bat, then shoots their parents dead.
Samira Sedira’s fourth novel is the first to have been translated into English, and it certainly deserves the wider distribution. It is close – almost stifling – raising uncomfortable questions about the human condition. What drives people to commit abominable acts? Can they be prevented? These are the questions that Anna Guillot, the murderer’s wife, asks as she recounts, in what is essentially an open letter to the man she loves, the events that led up to that appalling day. She recalls the trial and, long before that, the early years of her marriage to Constant. Anna tries desperately to make sense of her husband’s act, but it is, of course, an impossible task. For who can make sense of the senseless? How can anyone ever truly comprehend why someone they love would commit the unthinkable?
The story is set in Carmac, a remote, isolated village that appears as innocent and idyllic as it ultimately proves to be cruel. When Bakary and Sylvie Langlois first appear, it is late at night, in the afterglow of a raucous summer wedding. Most guests have either gone home, are slumbering drunk around tables of half-eaten food, or are swaying dreamily to the last notes of music that drift across the dance floor. The wedding itself could be the scene of a 19th century painting: Tables are piled high with venison, cured sausage, and stuffed cabbage; pigs rampage wildly amongst the giddy guests, at one point even toppling over the bride who ends up giggling stupidly on the floor. When the Langlois appear, they seem to Anna like “two silhouettes glued together…like some supernatural entity.” Dressed in white, they are ghostly, Bakary’s black face melting “so perfectly into the night” that he appears to have no head. In their otherworldliness, the Langlois are defined from the start as outsiders, Anna’s grim description a gentle reminder of their fate.
This theme of difference is central to the work, a recurring riff: the idea that there exists a separation between “them” and “us.” The people of Carmac inhabit a very insular world, a place seemingly untouched by outside events. When two tourists appear at the local bar asking for directions, they are politely received but gently mocked for their knee-high socks and eccentric habits: “They walk all day in the blistering heat,” one local observes, “and at night they don’t even sleep in a hotel, right? They prefer a tent…” The bafflement is widely shared and helps to explain why the arrival of Bakary and Sylvie, a mixed-race couple with expensive tastes and a garage full of fancy cars, should cause such a stir. As a black man, Bakary reminds the older men of the Senegalese shooters they encountered during the war, there having never been, as Anna points out, any black people in the village before. Ironically enough, it is the very insularity of Carmac that brought the Langlois there in the first place, it representing to them an “authenticity” that could not be found elsewhere.
Yet despite their differences, the Langlois and the Guillots become – at least on the surface – friends, but it is never any easy relationship, marred as it is by jealousy and mutual incomprehension. The Langlois seem just as nonplussed by the locals’ derisive attitudes to newcomers from the city (“They gave up everything to become farmers!”) as the Guillots are by the shelves of books that have all apparently been read. All sorts of currents move below the surface, issues of race and class bubbling steadily up.
Sedira has said that the novel deals not only with racism but also with the invisibility with which people in menial work are often treated. Following a successful acting career, the author worked for a number of years as a cleaning woman and is all too aware of the unconscious prejudice to which service staff are often subjected. Although ostensibly it is envy that fuels Constant’s rage, close reading of the text reveals that self-respect, too, is a driving factor. For although he is fascinated by the flash cars, the big house, and the seemingly easy life that the Langlois live, what tips the balance for Constant is not the material conditions of his neighbours’ lives but the attitudes it allows them to adopt towards him. It is the small slights – a condescending word, a humiliating offer – that cut to the quick so that in the end, it is the petulant glare of a twelve-year-old girl, ‘like she wanted to show me who was boss,’ that sends him over the edge.
The prosecutor, however, has no time for such petty sensibility. He refuses to accept that Constant’s act could have been provoked by ‘a child making a face.’ Instead, he wonders why, having killed five people, Constant would rush out into the cold to wash his hands in the frozen river rather than simply using one of the many bathrooms in his victims’ house? For Sedira, this obscure act serves to demonstrate the insidious, unacknowledged forms of racism that seep into so many daily interactions. Constant weakly explains that he was repulsed by the idea of ‘my blood mixed with their blood,’ a claim his wife brushes off as part a more general phobia that prevented her husband from even attending their own children’s births. Yet as the novel progresses and Constant’s motives begin to take shape, the contours of a racism that is denied and even condoned begin to emerge. We see how it is excused and even enabled by others. When her husband calls Bakary a “fucking ape,” for example, Anna assumes she has misheard. “It should have shocked me,” she says, “but I didn’t react. It’s out of anger I told myself. Anger. Or else, which was more likely, I had heard wrong.” And when it is all over and the trial closed, Anna will acknowledge the implicit responsibility of the bystander, the guilt of family and friends who passively ‘stood back and let it happen.’
The novel is engrossing, swift, and rich in picturesque detail. Not only are village scenes like the wedding or the local carnival beautifully described, so too is the countryside and the seasons by which it is marked. The heat of summer presses down, just as the winter silence is felt as a state of high alert. As such, the novel has very earthy texture that places Constant’s behaviour in a context that is far more elemental than it is simply human. In earlier years, he was a promising athlete, a pole-vaulter who aimed, both literally and metaphorically, for the skies. His ambitions ended, however, when a technical error sent him crashing to the ground, never to vault again. For Sedira, this is the beginning of his demise, the start of the feelings of humiliation and worthlessness that will drive him to his act. Yet the visual image of this man trying to break out, by flying up and over the confines of his small-town world, show something of the desperation and determination by which Constant is driven. He applies all his energy and strength to defeating the gravitational forces that seem, however hard he tries, to be pulling him down, back towards the earth, back to the village and the ice and the rushing river far below. Is he not, then, at one with this place to which he is so inescapably tied? Is he not just as fickle and unpredictable as the local climate, which, according to Anna, can be relied on to “regularly contradict” the inhabitants forecasts? It may well be so.
The author has said that there is “no such thing as monsters, only humans,” and ultimately it is this that People Like Them seeks to show. For in recounting Constant’s tale, it is a litany of human weakness that Sedira lays bare, her demonstration of jealousy, prejudice and pride, a lesson in acceptance and forgiveness that all of us would do well to learn.
People Like Them
By Samira Sedira
Translated by Lara Vergnaud
Raven Books, 178 pages
Vanessa stared at her brother’s smiling face in the Nice-Matin newspaper. Just like Kevin, Olivier too had made the news. The 27-year-old pact, could it be responsible? It had happened one summer evening while Vanessa and her brothers admired the picture of a schoolmate in the daily newspaper. He wore a big smile that matched his large eyeglasses. They had never seen him so happy. He who was mocked in school for his flaky scaly skin, had been called a hero. If they too had left school on time, they would have been the ones to have saved the child. Vanessa had sworn with her elder brothers to also make the news even though she had no idea how. She was only eight after all.
Twenty years later, Kevin, a circus performer was mauled to death by his three bears. His body had been unrecognisable. The papers had read, “Man mauled by his beloved bears.” Seven years later, it was Olivier’s turn. He had been at the Promenade des Anglais with his wife to see the fireworks. A large truck driven by a terrorist had sped two kilometers along the crowded sidewalks, slamming scores of people. His remains were identified through DNA analysis. Many journalists flocked to his burial a week later.
Since the second incident, Vanessa’s life has been moving in slow motion. Many questions about the 1989 pact swirled in her head. What violent death would put her on the news? What horrible incident would leave her corpse unrecognisable?
They had made a pact to be in the news like their neighbour who had saved a four-year-old boy from a burning house. Instead, her brothers had made headlines for their brutal deaths, like the child’s drunken mother whose body had been found burned beyond recognition.
Mr. Chowdhury, the shopkeeper, went to prison for it, but that was no consolation to those of us who knew Fozzy.
The media had a field day, making proclamations about how the incident had shone a beacon on the state of the nation. It ticked boxes: binge drinking, racial tension, gun crime. Britain was broken and we should all be afraid. It made a good story at the time, I suppose.
Fozzy had always been a bit of an idiot, the one to take a joke too far. Forever getting caught for things, while others got away.
I wasn’t around at the time. I’d been living in London for a few years, but I still saw Fozzy whenever I came back to Leeds, and he was always the same. That was what people liked about him. There was no side to him. At the same time, some of us were moving on – new jobs, new places, new friends – and Fozzy seemed stuck. He never appeared to be bothered about it, but you can never really tell how people feel.
This one night, Fozzy had got drunk. There was nothing unusual in that. On the way back from the pub, he popped into his local Costcutter. He was a regular; he only lived around the corner. He probably went in there a couple of times a day.
It was all captured on the grainy CCTV footage: Fozzy enters the shop and goes up and down the aisles, browsing. He places a Pot Noodle and a packet of Hob Nobs on the counter, and Mr. Chowdhury rings it up on the cash register. Then instead of handing over the money, you can see Fozzy putting his hand in his jacket pocket and an elongated shape forms in the material (This was the major piece of evidence in the court case.) Mr. Chowdhury reaches under his countertop and produces a gun. On the CCTV footage, you see a white flash, and Fozzy just collapses out of the picture.
The police report confirmed Fozzy wasn’t carrying a weapon, let alone a firearm. This was typical Fozzy: He was just pissing about. And it cost him his life.
At the funeral, Jamie was inconsolable. There was a big group of us that had been friends at school and we’d all kept in touch, but Jamie and Fozzy were best mates. The night of the shooting, they had had a drunken argument that ended up with Jamie aiming a punch at Fozzy. Next day, Jamie was on his way round to Fozzy’s house to make it up and walked past the Costcutter, all ribboned in police tape. Right through the service, Jamie was in floods.
The wake was held in The George, just around the corner from where Fozzy was shot, so everyone bought him a pint and placed it outside the Costcutter in a gesture of remembrance. There were over a hundred pint glasses, sparkling golden in the sunshine.
Back at The George, I got talking to Jo, a girl with dyed red hair and a tattoo of an eagle on her wrist, who Fozzy had met when he was stacking shelves at the big Morrison’s in the Merrion Centre. It was clear she and Fozzy had been firm friends: “He were right fuckin’ twat, was Fozzy. A proper doylum. I’m surprised he made it to his mid-twenties. Sharp as a fuckin’ button, he was.” Only someone who really knew and loved him could summon up such an accurate eulogy. I imagined Fozzy laughing along with it as she spoke. Her speech was all flat vowels and glottal stops and full of all the local slang I had stopped using since I moved away. I realised how much I was changing. I wondered what she thought of me. A local lad who had spread his wings, moved on, bettered himself? Or someone who was forgetting where he came from, who he was? In truth, she probably didn’t think any of these things. Why would she? She was drunk, and so was I. We went out to the back car park. She’d been drinking Jaeger Bombs, and I could taste the sweet, herbal, alcoholic tang on her tongue.
Later that night, in Jo’s creaky single bed, she told me a story about Fozzy I hadn’t heard before. The previous Easter, he had scraped enough money together to go interrailing. He went all over Europe, and in Siena he met a Belgian girl who recommended that he go to Venezia. One evening shift on the cereals aisle, he told Jo that the highlight of the trip had been those days in Venezia. Jo said Fozzy had become uncharacteristically earnest when he told her about it. It had clearly made a massive impression on him – well, he hadn’t often been out of West Yorkshire, let alone Great Britain. Fozzy said Venezia was full of canals and bridges and little boats ploughing up and down. In the evenings, the mists rolled in off the water and the atmosphere became quiet and still. He said that that had been the best time, just walking around in the gloom surrounded by sounds of the water and the flickers of light from apartment windows and passing boats. He was all alone but at peace with himself. Jo quoted Fozzy’s final thoughts on the place: “You hear people banging on about Venice all the time but this place was something else.” It was a fitting epitaph. The most significant moment in his life, and he didn’t even have a clue where he was.
It was late and we were tired and drunk, and when we started laughing we couldn’t stop ourselves. It was one of those laughing fits that finally begin to hurt in your stomach.
“It’s nice to meet some of his mates. You all seem a decent,” she said. “I were never sure if he had any proper friends. He was friendly to everyone and nobody had a problem with him. It just made me wonder if he ever had real mates. People he could speak to.”
I felt a stab of guilt. I wasn’t sure if I was that sort of mate to Fozzy. It had never occurred to me that he would need someone like that. He always seemed happy. Like I said, though, you never really know how someone is feeling. I asked her if she thought that perhaps he wasn’t happy. If it was all just an act.
“Dunno. The fact that he went off by himself around Europe – that says summat. That he was looking for something he didn’t have. He must’ve felt that, even if he didn’t think it.”
A tug of regret moved inside me. How did this girl know so much about Fozzy, whom I’d known my whole life, and I knew so little? I asked her if he ever spoke to her about how he felt.
“Not really. We just arsed around together. We hated our jobs. Couldn’t see a future. Morrison’s isn’t exactly fuckin’ Shangri-la, you know. So we talked bollocks with each other. Got pissed. Messed around together.”
I asked her what she meant: messed around?
“I shagged him a few times. I didn’t fancy him or nothing. I couldn’t think of a good enough reason not to. It was alright. It was nice.” She smiled.
The next morning it was raining. “You know the way to the station. I won’t bother offering to see you off,” said Jo. On her doorstep, she kissed me on the cheek and closed the door.
The platform was cold and damp, and muffled announcements competed with the heavy metallic grinding of wheels on rails and couplings jarring. I thought about Fozzy and his travels. I knew nothing about them. He had chosen not to say anything to his mates. He had told Jo. I looked up at the grey sky and saw a solitary seagull being buffeted by a gust of wind. I remembered Jo telling the story about Fozzy’s ridiculous trip to Venice, crying with laughter, her bare chest heaving and, as she wiped her eyes, the tattooed eagle soaring past her blackened lashes.
It was winter, and we flocked to the shops after school. Arms interlinked, we strode down the aisles, picking up clothes and discarding them, chattering at the top of our lungs while we pocketed what we could. Lacy bras and wadded-up tops went into our bags, thongs that we’d have to hide from our mothers, nail polish that rattled as we walked past the register. We were starlings, leaving empty shelves in our wake.
At the vintage shop, we tried on dresses that hung low off our shoulders and T-shirts advertising bands that had long since split up. Claire reached for the green leather jacket on the sales rack.
I was thinking, Claire said. She ran her fingers over the leather, the give of the folds. I’m going to fall in love.
Claire was the only one who had spending money. She lived in a house outside of town. We knew her parents as ghosts in an idling car, pale in the light from the dashboard, waiting for her to say goodbye and dash across the road.
What do you mean? Kerri said.
It’s going to be Paul. Claire held the jacket up to her chest.
The green leather jacket had been on the sales rack as long as we could remember. Nobody wanted it, other than kids on a dare. The leather was too soft, the zipper too long, the red stitching giving those who tried it on a prickle down the back. It was rumoured to be made from human skin. Rattenbourg, the label read. Like the famous artist. A posthumous performance.
We kept silent.
Paul? Laura said, still shivering from the cold.
Paul was on the rugby team. He had careless hands and blushed easily. When he’d had a few pints, he turned sloppy and mean, his hero tales taking on a sharp edge. He was destined to become a middle-aged man yelling at the TV in a corner of the pub, stomach bulging.
He has lovely eyes. Claire slid her arms into the Rattenbourg’s sleeves. It had wide lapels, kneaded into submission by many hands over time.
Claire looked at herself in the mirror as we gathered behind her. She popped the collar.
It’s been decided.
She slid off the jacket like a snake shedding its skin and folded it, its bulk pressed against her side.
I’m doing it tonight.
*
We hiked up the hill to the churchyard, knees shivering. Snow fell around us and settled on the ground like ash. Kerri brought out a soda bottle full of vodka. We passed it between ourselves, lips blue.
Claire put her bag down between the headstones and stripped off her coat. She unbuttoned her blouse to her sternum, snow dusting her skin like freckles. The Rattenbourg was big on her, the sleeves falling past her fingertips, the hem level with her school skirt. The zipper flashed silver in the dark.
We could hear noise coming up the path. The boys did not care if they were loud.
Claire pulled out a packet of cigarettes and handed them out to us like communion wafers. She licked her lips.
Oi, what are you doing in the dark?
They had brought beer, six-packs of cans swinging between them like weapons.
Lying in wait, Claire said. She put her hands in the pockets of her jacket, but up close, we saw her mouth tremble.
They laughed, smacked their lips. Toby pulled out his phone and propped it on a headstone, music beating in our stomachs. Paul cracked beers, handed them out. We drank, watching Claire, our minds humming.
Nice jacket, Paul said. He leaned in, touched the leather at her waist.
She sucked on her cigarette, exhaled, rose onto her toes. She whispered in his ear, the Rattenbourg’s zipper poking his chest.
It snowed. The beer fizzed in our stomachs as we bobbed to the music. Toby chased Kerri around the headstones until she shrieked. Laura plucked flowers from a wreath, the shrivelled petals clinging to her fingers. Dan and Alex stood at the precipice behind the church, hurling stones into the dark. We sipped vodka while the snow whispered.
Claire and Paul stood together, sharing secrets. Paul’s face turned red from drinking. He shrugged off his coat and tried on the green Rattenbourg, zipping it up as far as he could. He turned for Claire, arms stretched out to the sides, his grin uneven. He caught her round the middle and folded her against him, her blouse untucked and turning damp with snow. She looked translucent, something beating under her skin like a second pulse.
We tried to catch her eye.
Claire, Kerri said.
They kissed, Paul balancing his beer against Claire’s back. The Rattenbourg tangled between them like a jealous lover.
The boys howled. The snow picked up.
Paul took Claire’s hand and lead her into the flurry. We saw her sway, unsteady. Snow caught in her hair. Her blouse was missing a button. She looked at us, teeth chattering, as if she could not remember her plan.
We called her name.
The beer had lulled us, the night swirling around us in pieces. We had lost our hats and gloves. Our fingernails turned blue. The boys tugged on our hair, the dark full of hands.
Claire was gone, whisked halfway down the hill. She waved in a flash of green under the streetlights. By the time we made it down the path, there was no trace of her.
We clung together, shaking, the vodka roiling in our stomachs.
*
Claire wouldn’t talk about it. Not the next day on the phone, not a week later at school.
What happened? Laura asked. Did you fall in love?
Claire shook her head. She always looked cold now, her hands trembling. She stayed quiet, pressing her lips into a thin line. The boys had taken to whispering when she walked past, half sentences under their breath, capped by laughter.
Claire’s silence made us twitchy. We gathered around her, staring across the field, where the boys were kicking a football through the mud.
Did you go back to his house? Laura drew closer.
Kerri gave her a look and Laura slapped a hand over her mouth, forcing the words back inside.
Claire cinched the Rattenbourg around herself, folding the sides over each other. The snow had melted into mud, leaving a chill in the air that made our knees shake. Across the field, her eyes caught Paul mid-kick.
He raised his chin, stared back, his skin pink. He winked. Claire took a step backward, her feet stumbling over each other. Her breath rose from her mouth like smoke.
*
We tried to console her. At the shops, we pocketed lipstick and blush, painting our mouths in the alley outside.
He’s scum, we said as we congregated around Claire.
We took it in turns to wear the Rattenbourg, draping it across each other’s shoulders, sharing the weight, the softness of the green skin against ours. Claire ran the zipper up and down, up and down, a silver line from her hem to her neck. Her eyes stared off into the sky, where clouds gave way to clouds. We could hear her bones rattling against each other like reeds.
I thought he was different, she said.
*
She doesn’t wear anything underneath, said the boys at school. Stage whispers, echoing off the walls. Not even knickers.
They left drawings on her desk. Body parts, held together by string, big mouths whispering her name. We collected them in our notebooks, pressing them between the pages like flowers, guessing at the artist. After school, we stood in the field and lit them on fire. We held onto the edges until our fingertips burned.
She does it with anyone, they said, jostling each other with their elbows, a chorus of wolf whistles from between sharp teeth. She’s done your dad.
No, yours! Maybe she’ll take pity on you, too.
Oi, Claire! Give us a twirl! A smacking of lips, a hiss following her around the halls.
The Rattenbourg turned Claire’s wrists green where the leather touched her skin. It rubbed onto the nape of her neck, fading into her hair like mould.
It’s the clap, the boys whispered. My mate’s cousin had it. Same thing.
We filled their lockers with snow and drowned their assignments and books. We stole the apples out of their bags and returned them with bites missing.
It never goes away again, they whispered. They huddled together between periods, daring each other to go and shake Claire’s hand, ask her for a kiss. It’ll make her bits fall off, they said.
We took turns putting makeup on Claire, rubbing foundation into her neck with careful fingers, trapping wishes with setting powder. We walked with her, smiling lipstick grins and flicking the straps of our stolen bras at the boys until blood rose to the surface and turned our shoulders red.
Claire ran her zipper up and down. At lunch, she stood outside the gates and smoked, a catch inside her chest. The Lewis boy, Marcus, ran up and tore her jacket open. The Rattenbourg parted like a clearing in a forest.
The boys howled. We slapped him, tried to grab him as the boys closed ranks. Claire flipped her cigarette to the ground, squashed it under her heel.
I’ll have your hide, she said.
*
School let out for Christmas. We hiked up to the churchyard, where music thumped between the graves. The path was iced over, and we clung to Claire, clutching the edge of the Rattenbourg with blue nails. She zipped it up to her throat.
The boys were drunk, huffing with laughter when we arrived. Paul held out his beer in a salute.
There she is, my green lady.
He reached for her. Claire leaned away. We passed the vodka around, our stomachs puckering.
The sky was full of clouds hanging low in the dark, the ground frozen. Claire turned to the music, her feet unsteady on the ice. We saw her shiver, her bones creaking.
You cold? Paul opened his arms, winked at her.
Claire swigged from the vodka.
Girls don’t get cold, she said. Our skins are tough.
She unzipped the Rattenbourg and slipped it off. Her eyes were on Paul. We crowded around, laughing, throats sore from the cold.
Paul licked his lips and accepted the dare. He took off his coat. He shifted his beer from one hand to the other, lifted it in a toast. His jumper rode up to show a strip of his stomach, pale like the underside of a slug. A vein jumped on his hip, counting out his pulse.
The boys chuckled.
Kerri slipped her arm around Toby and unzipped his coat. Dan turned up the music. Alex grabbed for us as we wrestled off his jacket, pulling the sleeves from his arms. Laura danced away with his hat.
Claire passed around the vodka. The boys pressed their mouths to the lipstick on the bottle, teeth rattling. Kerri and Laura stood at the precipice behind the church, sending coats flying into the dark like herons, one by one, sleeves flapping. Paul picked up the Rattenbourg. His face was red, his feet were slipping. He held the Rattenbourg close. The sky filled with snow, white arms reaching for us like they were drowned men.
Claire plucked Paul’s coat from the ground between the headstones. Her lips were blue. We helped her put it on, hugged it around her, did up her buttons with numb fingers. She slipped her cigarettes into the pocket, halfway down her thigh. The coat encased her like a cocoon.
That’s mine, Paul said. He tried to kiss Claire’s ear, but missed. His knees wobbled. His breath was sour. You’re stealing my coat.
Claire stepped away, swigging the last of the vodka, a smile carving up her face.
You cold?
The boys laughed and shivered, laughed more. Their grins were red where their teeth cut their lips.
Paul held the Rattenbourg’s sleeves, spinning it to the beat of the music. His beer dropped out of his hand and rolled between the headstones.
Claire popped her collar. Her knuckles were white. Our breath burned in our lungs, limbs swinging in the shadows.
Alex spit blood onto the snow.
The boys’ hands were cold, tangling in our hair. Their mouths tasted bitter, the bread scent of beer mixing with bile. Snow was soaking through their jumpers, their jackets lost, hats gone, skin split open in the cold, steaming.
Come with us, we whispered.
The year Gert turned eight all the girls had a favourite Monkee. Most favoured Davy Jones, some liked Peter Tork, and a few Mike Nesmith. Micky Dolenz was too brash and American to be a favourite.
Gert lived in a terrace of tall houses with outside toilets. On good days Gert’s mum referred to the outside toilet as the garden toilet. Not that anyone gardened. Gert’s back yard was a mess of weeds and brambles and the leftover bomb shelter had too many mice to be a clubhouse of the sort in children’s books. Behind the bomb shelter was the absolute wild. A cratered ground where people dumped old prams and household junk. Beyond the absolute wild was Abercrombie Street, the roughest and most dangerous street in Luton. Luton was a General Motors town, a scar on the Chiltern Hills, said Mum.
Gert, a solid girl with dark hair and a nose with a large bump in the middle, sat on a dining room chair dressed for school. Mum wore rubber corsets and, like a tank with a waist, nudged and jabbed Gert from behind as she plaited her hair.
“Sit still, it’s not easy making anything decent out of a sow’s ear,” said Mum. “This hair’s a tangled mess.”
“Ow!”
“Serves you right. Will you sit still? No.”
“I could wear it down.”
“School rules say plaits.”
“Other girls wear their hair down.”
“And if other girls jumped in front of buses would you jump in front of buses?”
“No one cares.”
“Sit still and don’t talk back,” said Mum and whacked her with the plastic comb. “And there’s another one where that came from.”
Gert stared into the wallpaper, her dark brown eyes amplified by brown plastic-frame glasses. When she smiled, Gert flashed stick out teeth, “an attractive overbite,” Mum said. Gert wanted braces like her older sister; Mum said no because her sister’s braces had caused permanent inner mouth damage. Gert’s sister worked in Marks & Spencer. In Manchester! Abandoning Gert.
Outside, Gert checked Lola Grace’s house for danger. Lola Grace Mason, also eight, lived two doors down. Gert walked fast and held her breath for good luck. She cleared Lola Grace’s house. Safe. She closed her eyes and imagined walking hand in hand with Davy Jones; her name was Mandy. Footsteps. Gert walked faster. Lola Grace overtook Gert and walked backwards, facing her, staring her down. Then Lola Grace fell in beside her. Silence. Lola Grace veered closer and closer, and Gert edged towards the road which wasn’t busy but had enough cars to be a threat. Lola Grace was small but unwieldy and, like her name, took up double the space of other girls. Gert hung back. Lola Grace hung back. There were puddles in the gutter. Lola Grace lurched towards Gert and stamped in the puddles. Tears prickled Gert’s eyelids. Her socks had been snowy white.
Lola Grace’s socks looked like they were worn until they fell to pieces, so said Gert’s Mum. Today Gert could see ketchup puddling against Lola Grace’s left shoelace. Gert’s Mum boiled whites in a copper on the gas stove, every Monday. She hung them on the clothes line, fourteen pairs of righteous, bright white socks glowing in the sun. If it clouded over, they were brought inside. If it rained and they got wet they were washed again. Mum said even a good boil couldn’t save Lola Grace’s socks. Mum prided herself on boiling her whites. Now Gert’s socks were muddy.
In sewing class, Gert’s pink embroidery cotton knotted itself on the back of the even weave burlap. The teacher leaned over and took her sampler out of her hands. Gert shivered with fear.
“If you keep this part of the thread really short it won’t bunch up. Do you see, Gert?”
Gert nodded and tried to smile with her mouth closed. “Keep up the good work.”
“Thank you,” whispered Gert.
School lunch was fish sticks and potatoes and baked beans followed by bananas and custard. Gert sat with Lizzie Horton who was almost her best friend. They planned to walk home together, a defence against Lola Grace. Baked beans were Gert’s favourite.
Gert loved maths, the way everything added up and made sense. She understood numbers. That afternoon, she coughed. If she coughed when she got home, she wouldn’t be allowed outside to play. She coughed again. Someone tapped her head. She held her breath and looked up. The teacher slipped three cough sweets into her hand. She smiled, teeth out, and sucked on one.
Back home, Gert opened the door slowly. Her plan was to get to her bedroom and change her socks before mum saw. She wasn’t sure what she’d do next. Wash the socks in the bathroom sink? Throw them away?
“Hey! Let me see those socks.”
“I got splashed.”
“You weren’t careful!” Gert swallowed, tried not to cough. “Don’t know why I bother. You don’t care about your socks. Your father doesn’t care. Only I care.” Gert thought Mum’s corset might burst from anger. “Get out of my sight. I give up. Wash your own socks!”
Sometimes when Mum got cross she cried. Other times she slammed the door and went for a walk. Said she wouldn’t come back. Yelled really loud. Like the time Gert smuggled a bracelet to school to wear and it got tangled up in her sweater, or when she got a silver star instead of gold on her homework, or chewed with her mouth open. Once when Gert was four and Mum was polishing the lino, down on her hands and knees, Gert climbed on her back and hugged her, kissed her.
“Get off me!” she grumbled. “Don’t touch me! What are you doing? Get away from me, you’re ruining everything.”
Gert realised mums were strange people, triggered by the unexpected and quick to ruin a day.
Mum went to her bedroom, too upset to hear Gert cough.
Gert grabbed some bread and jam and the seat for her swing and headed outside. The best part of Gert’s house was the small almost flat piece of grass, close to the living room window, where the swing stood. Gert’s father brought the swing home for her fourth birthday. It was made of metal by someone from his work. A chain hung from a metal crossbar. Dad had cut two Vs into the seat and it slotted almost neatly onto the chain. Gert was told to bring the seat in the house when she was done swinging.
Dad sold vacuum cleaners door to door. He’d been made redundant from selling them in a shop. He bought a bubble car with his redundancy money, and Mum didn’t speak to him for a week because it was made in Germany and Mum’s brother had died in a POW camp in Japan. It was all connected. Mum bore a good grudge. Gert liked the bubble car even if people laughed at it because it only had three wheels. It was pale blue. Gert didn’t like that Dad was away five and sometimes six nights a week doing a bad job of selling vacuums.
“Everything alright?” Dad would whisper when he came home.
“Yes,” answered Gert, whatever happened.
If Mum heard him, she’d shout, “What do you mean is everything alright? Of course it’s alright. Do you think we can’t manage alone? Tell your father we make out fine without him. Go on, tell him.”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Thought as much,” said Dad.
He’d pore over the employment ads in the Luton News, searching for something in town, but the year Gert was eight there weren’t many jobs locally. Not for Dad.
Gert swung and wondered if Mum would make tea that night or if it would be bread and jam and bed. She looked at the house two doors down and blamed Lola Grace. Lola Grace was a bully whose mother didn’t clean her socks properly. Gert’s mum was an ace cleaner. She could win awards. Gert still remembered when the television repairman came because the horizontal hold wasn’t working and the pictures were squeezed in the middle. Mum was horrified when he took the back off the set.
“Look at all the dust,” she chirped and grabbed a duster.
“No!” he said. “Too static. You’ll wreck it.”
Mum froze, like an animal stalking prey, desperate to dust. The television repair man talked her down.
“It’s always the clean houses that have dusty televisions, you know?”
Her duster was poised for attack.
“Dirty houses, where people don’t care about cleaning, the dust isn’t disturbed, doesn’t get in the set,” said the repair man. He was crouched behind the set ready to throw himself on the duster and disarm her if she got any closer.
Mum slowly relaxed, turned, and concentrated on the picture of the Queen that hung over the dining room table. She dusted the tiara area with all the nonchalance of a woman unconcerned by dust wafting into the television.
These days Mum only went outside for medical appointments. The doctor gave her pills to sleep, pills for her nerves, and suggested she get a job. She didn’t.
Gert swung and daydreamed. She had two cough sweets in her pocket and felt lucky. She dared Davy Jones, who was on an invisible swing next to hers, to swing around the world. She watched the windows of Lola Grace’s house when she swung. They looked dark and dusty, black holes against the night. Gert’s house had dull honey-coloured windows illuminated by 60 watt bulbs and blanketed in shades of brown and mustard. Lola Grace put the lights on herself before she came out. She would swing till bedtime or until Mum found herself again and offered food. Gert figured that the next time Lola Grace pushed her off the path and laughed, the next time she used a pea shooter to sting her with dried peas, the next time she splashed her snowy white socks, the next time she’d say, “Don’t. Be nice.”
Gert always looked for, but never saw, Lola Grace in the yard. She stayed inside the house like a prisoner. When Gert swung high she could see Lola Grace’s back entry, near the toilet, see people coming out to use it.
The noise started low at first, low groans like a hurt animal or maybe a baby. Did someone have a baby? Was Lola Grace’s mum fat? Maybe she had a new baby. The groans got louder, shifted into a moan.
“Please…,” said a voice. Gert looked around. Who said please? “Please don’t take me,” said the voice.
Gert identified the words between little hiccupping sobs. She swung extra high and the ground heaved around the steel plates that were buried in lumps of cement and meant to stabilize the swing. She could see Mrs. Mason holding onto the toilet door and two men trying to pull her away.
“I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go.”
Gert knew she should go inside. She swung higher.
“Get your hands off me, you fucker.” Gert wasn’t meant to listen to certain words. Fucker was definitely on the list. The swing was about to leave the ground. “Don’t touch me.”
A wail cut through Gert’s cardigan and dress and skin and all the way to her insides.
“Piss off! Fuck off! Get away from me…Piss. Fuck. Get off.”
Gert swung higher; the swing set clumped back to earth with a wallop every time she swung through. Each time she breathed a sigh of relief.
“No, no, no, no.” Gert heard the saddest tears. They froze her heart and made her think one day she might become a doctor.
Somewhere there was a thumping sound. It came from the door to Gert’s living room, the one Mum called a French window, but it was really a door.
Gert peered upwards like she’d heard a mysterious noise in the sky, a sickly airplane. But she knew her time outside was numbered. More thumping.
“Get your fucking hands off me. I don’t want to go,” wailed Mrs. Mason.
“Gert!” Mum had opened the window, furious, and beckoned her to get inside.
Gert stopped the swing with the toes of her shoes. They scraped across the mud where the grass was worn away by her feet.
She slowly picked up the seat. If it rained and she forgot to take the seat in, Mum got angry.
Gert dawdled towards the house, half on tippy toes, stretching her neck to see into the Mason’s yard. Mum banged on the window. Preoccupied, Gert looked innocent and careful walking towards the house.
“I don’t want to go. Please, please…” The voice was small and hidden in tears.
“You took your time,” said Mum. “Lock the door.”
Gert bolted the back door, and they went to the front room, used only for guests, Christmas, and hiding from the enemy. The room had a bay window, and when they didn’t have money and the Tinkers came to the door selling charms and good luck, Mum and Gert would hide in the bay. Every time the Tinkers knocked at the door, Mum flinched. She didn’t approve of hiding, she liked to buy charms and luck, but when there was no money, she hid, scared of being cursed.
Mum and Gert peeped out of the window. There was a funny little ambulance van outside. No marking but an ambulance man standing at the back door. Two more ambulance men waddled Mrs. Mason, who looked to be wrapped up in bed sheets, to the ambulance.
Gert and Mum couldn’t hear what was being said, but Mrs Mason was struggling not to get into the little ambulance. Gert looked at Mum. Her face was white, and she was picking the paint off the windowsill. Chip, chip, chip. Gert didn’t know what to do. Mum would be mad if she saw the chipped paint. Gert, ever so slowly, put her hand on top of Mum’s, expecting to be pushed away. Instead, Mum smiled at Gert. She looked like she had tears in her eyes.
That night Mum and Gert had beans on toast for supper. Beans twice in one day!
“What was going on?” asked Gert. “Outside.”
“I think,” said Mum putting down her knife and fork, “that Mrs. Mason had a medical appointment.”
“And didn’t want to go?”
“Exactly,” said Mum.
“Maybe an injection?”
Next morning Gert walked to school, hand in hand with Davy Jones. Her name was Jenny, and she wondered if she’d kiss him if he asked. She almost didn’t hear Lola Grace lumber up beside her. They walked in silence.
“Who’s your favourite Monkee?” asked Gert.
Romanticising friendship comes easily. Friends are those special companions who aren’t family but, at their best, sustain us in similar ways; and, unlike one’s birth family, they are chosen, which also speaks to the greater freedoms and solidarity that friendships afford. The history buried deep in the word friend, related as it is to both love and free, should come as no surprise.
As with all human relationships, the reality of friendship is complex and varied. We have BFFs who last for less time than the latest teenage fad. We can become friends on Facebook at the click of a button and can unfriend with the same ease. There are friends with benefits, frenemies, and bromances, and there are fair-weather friends and friends in high places. And, inevitably, there are toxic friendships.
The 21 stories and essays in Litro Magazine’s Friendship issue show the complexity and variety of this universal, human relationship – the joys that friendships bring as well as the pain when friendships go awry. In “Guests,” four friends who have grown apart realise they cannot rekindle their former relationship. In “We Leave, We Return, We Leave Again,” the narrator questions how well he knew a friend who has died. “Who’s Your Favourite Monkee?” asks whether we can turn our tormentors into our friends. “Insights at LiquorLand,” “Empty Promises,” and “Bric-a-Brac American” explore cross-generational camaraderie. “Routine” and “That Summer” speak to the complications that sexual desire can bring to a friendship. And “Partners” delves into the limits of friendship and the impact of time and bad choices.
Like good friends, these stories and essays are in conversation with each other but also with the pieces in Litro’s last digital-only issue, on the theme of loneliness. Whereas there the disconnect between people predominated, the Friendship issue shows that, despite everything that can go wrong with friends, our instincts for friendship are durable, necessary, and hopeful.
Ed LaBeaux walked boldly along the shoulder of the county road. He was an upright piece of gristle, and as he walked he casually tapped a Number 10 can against his knee. The can held a few inches of dirt plus a wriggling handful of earthworms. The man wore a jaunty grey hat with a band sweated dark. June had come with a vengeance and caught him out on the road. He walked on the left shoulder because if by chance a car came along and might hit him, Ed wanted to look it in the eye.
“You’re on the wrong side,” Christene had told him. “You’re gonna get hit.”
“Who says this is the wrong side? Who says?”
“You’re gonna get clipped by a milk truck or some car doing a hundred miles an hour. Bumper going to hit you and toss you into the ditch like a fawn deer.” She had said this as she walked on the right side, a few steps behind him. As they walked she peered ahead as if to see the unlikely oncoming car of destruction before he did. It was, he recalled, maybe nine, ten years ago. When she was still able to walk more than across the room. He shook his head at the memory.
“I’m going fishing,” he had told her over breakfast. “Catch us a mess of fish.”
The bacon was lean, and she was having difficulty with some of it. She lifted a napkin and gently tongued it out. “You going to the river?” she asked.
“Naw. We got fish right here. Grandpa’s lake.”
“I was hoping you were going to the river. Check on our investment.” She set the napkin beside her plate and pushed the scrambled eggs around with her fork. “Might not want to wait much longer. If Braden is running the place into the ground it’d be nice to catch a piece of it before it’s gone.”
“The bar is not going anywhere,” he said. “It’s going to outlast us all.”
They had leased the Black Bear Tavern to Jack Braden. He was one of the outlaw Bradens and was a shirttail cousin of sorts to Ed. Jack had been good, mostly, for the payments. It was a lease-to-buy arrangement that Christene and Ed had insisted upon. Not a bad idea, Ed had to admit. Miss two payments and the contract goes to straight lease with the payments no longer applied to purchase.
He watched her eyes drift from the plate to the TV. They had just splurged on a colour TV to replace the black-and-white. To Ed the colours looked false, too blue or too yellow. He had pointed it out to Christene the very first day.
“Look,” he said, “look at the colour of the horse Little Joe is riding.”
The Cartwrights were riding three abreast, Ben, Joe, and Hoss. The youngest one of the riders flashed Hoss a grin.
“Oh, he’s giving it to Hoss,” Christene said. Bonanza was her favourite show. “Wish I could hear what he was saying.”
“Probably dirty,” Ed said. “That’s why they don’t let us hear it. Joe has got a dirty mouth.”
“Oh, hush.”
“Look at his horse, Christene. It’s purple.”
“It is not.”
“It is. Look at the sides of the trail. The weeds are purple too.”
“That’s sage, you dummy. Haven’t you heard of the purple sage?”
“That doesn’t explain the horse.”
“Don’t care,” she said, and had climbed from her chair to turn up the volume.
Today after breakfast Ed went to the garden shed and found a pitchfork. He stabbed it into the ground between the tomatoes and the potatoes. Yes, the garden needed weeding. He overturned a few forkloads of dirt and stomped them open to find worms. His practice was to spread cow manure on his garden every fall. When Albert Muska was tilling the acres he rented from Ed, he knew that part of the rent was to harrow the garden. When Ed broke a clod of dirt in his hand he paused to sniff it. Might ought to put some wood ashes on it, he decided. When he had enough worms, he knocked the dirt from the fork and put it away.
The lake wasn’t far. It was a kettle pond set in a copse of trees. Eons ago a recalcitrant chunk of ice had broken free from the glacier and lay in a nest of sand and gravel. While the river of ice retreated, the ice chunk lay in its insulated bed. Eventually it melted, leaving a round, deep depression in the newly exposed land.
The gravel and sand banks eventually wore dryas, then alder and spruce. It was low enough and deep enough to remain full of water with banks that grew spongy in times of wet. Ed walked the road until he made a few steps across the shoulder into lank grass and then was swallowed by trees. These were low, woolly pines, and Ed pushed through them like they were a fragrant curtain.
County maps listed this as Labeaux Lake. It was a few hundred feet across, and the trees that circled it cast deep, dependable shadows over most of it. Ed’s eyes had to adjust to the semidarkness, and he paused to breathe in the cool.
He could feel the moss and bog grass give a little underfoot. If he stood still, his shoes would fill with the seep. Just to the left was his boat, and he went to it. A fallen log wet its head in the pond, and Ed stepped onto its bare trunk, careful of the slickened wood, to sidle to the snagged branch with a string knotted to it. The boat was a wooden thing, low and wide. No more than eight feet long. He was uncertain if it was put here by his father or grandfather or any one of the LaBeaux who visited. Its hull held water not much different than the pond around it, so Ed used the snagged branch to lower himself into the boat. A bleach jug scoop floated in the bilges, and Ed knelt on the stern thwart to scoop water out.
It took a while, and Ed paused. The pond was a mirror of sky. Once again he was impressed by the silence. The first time Christene had come to the pond she had not liked it. She had stood by as he bailed the boat on a cool spring day.
“It’s spooky,” she had said.
“What is?”
“This lake. It’s black as molasses. You don’t know what’s down there.”
“It’s the cedar,” he said. “Like a tamarack swamp. What’s down there is supper.”
“Maybe, but what else?”
Memories, he almost said. For at once he had been reminded, in painstaking clarity, of how his first wife, Elsie, had come here the first year of their marriage. She was a fragile woman, nineteen years old and had worn a white dress patterned with wood violets. Her shoes had been old fashioned, laced high with a one-inch heel. Ed had swept her into his arms and carried her easily, joyously over the wet.
“Oh,” she had said when he placed her in the boat, “my love, you have brought me a jewel.” She had waved at the trees that surrounded them. “I had no idea this was here. It’s so beautiful.” He had rowed her across the pond and then paused in the middle. Sun backlit her as she sat in the bow, and he told her she looked like an angel.
“I feel like an angel,” she said. “Some sort of spirit. A woods sprite. Oh Ed, I can breathe here.”
Ed had paused his bailing at the memory. The water had become still, and he watched a water strider emerge from the bank weeds to dance across the surface. The sun reflected into his eyes in a thousand small stabs of light. He lowered his head to resume bailing.
Soon he untied the boat and pushed off the log with an oar. These were old but not so old as the boat. Cheap things, he thought, for the blade of one had split and the varnish was mostly a thing of the past. He made a few strokes and floated out away from the bank. He kept a can pole laid across the thwarts, and lodged in one of the frames was a tobacco tin with hooks and an extra length of line. When he unwound the line attached to the pole, he thought it good enough. He eyeballed the location of the bobber before thumbing a wriggling worm onto the hook. As he swung the pole over the water, the worm was mostly coiled around the hook with its fingerlike head extended and reaching for the water. Ed lowered it in until the bobber floated.
The sun was warm across his shoulders. The boat needed paint, he reminded himself. Again. He recalled it being a light grey with buff interior when he rowed Elsie on the lake.
“What is the name of the boat?” she had asked him.
“This one? It doesn’t have a name.”
“It should have a name. It deserves one.” She had patted it like a dog. “Let’s think of a good name.”
One of their bedroom pleasures had been to share a pillow and to make up names for the children they would have. “William,” he had said. “Bill. Or Billy. Another one named Pete.”
“Lillian,” she had said. “Lillian Inez. Or Elizabeth. I like Elizabeth Ann.”
“Sounds like a name out of one of your books.”
“What’s wrong with that? My love, we can name our child after our family members or we can give them lovely names full of potential.”
“Lizzie?” He had winked.
“Elizabeth. Bethany if she has to have a nickname.”
“You win. Elizabeth. Protected by her big brother, Bill.”
“Of course.”
The memory pained him, a stab in a place that never healed over. They had no children, of course, and a doctor counselled Ed that he should refrain from “relations” with his wife as pregnancy would hasten her demise. He saw, again, too clearly, her dark hair against the pillow. Saw a cloth held to her mouth that grew crimson before his eyes as she chuffed another painful cough. Ed closed his eyes.
*
Ed LaBeaux woke in a surfeit of sound. His hearing had faded as with men of his generation, brought on by unmuffled tractor engines, by jack hammers, or by the deliberate percussive nature of war. He shook himself awake, upright in the boat. Ed had been hard of hearing when his first wife walked the earth, and had bent close to her as she lay in the bed of the TB ward.
“What, Elsie,” he said, “what are you saying to me?”
“Not too close,” she breathed. “Don’t want you to catch it.”
With the second wife, Christene, hearing wasn’t so important. She was also remarried, two to his one, and had learned to speak loud. It was useful in the bar they owned, her cry of last call a sure bark to end the evening. It was a cry of authority and finality. No men would gather in the back room when she worked, gathering to play cribbage or pinochle while Ed cleaned up. She used the same tone on the telephone when wives would call for their husbands.
“He’s here,” she would say, and stare at the man in question. “He’s right here.”
“We’d do better,” Ed told her as they emptied the till, “if you were less hard on the men.”
“Works both way,” she answered. “When a fella gets a tab I go see the wife. She pays it out her egg money or some such thing. The women pay back my honesty.” She shook a finger at her husband. “You let Bill Kvapil fall behind on his bar tab and he never paid.”
“Of course not. He died.”
“If he’s a been married his widow would have paid.”
“If he had been married he wouldn’t have been in that tree spying on the schoolteacher’s bedroom. He wouldn’t have broke his neck over some lacy drawers.”
“So you say. I wouldn’t put it past him to die in some other foolish way.”
“That wife,” Del Sooner would say to Ed, safely out of her hearing, “she’s a pistol.”
“I know. And I’m a son of a gun.”
But they did alright in the bar. Ed had got a loan from Christene’s brother, Herman Hennig. Herman had been led to believe it was for his new brother-in-law to purchase a few milk cows. Ed had sixty acres and surely that meant the man was going to farm them. When he found out the money went to purchase the Black Bear Tavern, he threatened to never speak to his sister again. He was a crew cut block of man with a gap in his front teeth. Some said he resembled a fat Teddy Roosevelt.
“Go ahead,” Ed told the man. “She won’t miss you spitting on her.”
Because Herman would not speak, they ignored his letters asking for the money back. “He never got me a wedding present,” Christene said. “Not last time, either.” A bar is easier to carry if the mortgage is already paid. The tavern was six miles from the sixty acres Ed had inherited. It sat on the bank of the river neighbouring what had been a village of Chippewa that was home to one of the oldest Catholic churches in the northern part of the state. Chippewa Mission was what the village was called. To old-timers it still carried its original name: Squaw Point.
The tavern was always the Black Bear. It was once a house, quickly converted to sell booze to river men and lumberjacks bringing rafts downriver to the sawmills. The back of the tavern was stone, and Ed kept a cot in the small storeroom there. Times he was too tired to drive home he might stare at the hewn rafters and think about the conversations the old wood retained, conversations in French, Chippewa, German, and whatever tongue the men shouted in. Ed had found a ledger from 1886 back there. If Armand Pelly or Jack Sturges ever rose from their graves and came into the tavern, Ed would have to remind them of their unpaid tab.
“Why do you read those old things?” Christene had chided him. “You spend too much time in the past.”
Ed felt a tug on the pole. Instinctively he tugged back. When he lifted the pole he had a small, thrashing trout on the line. He raised the pole over the boat and hand-over-handed it to where he could reach the line. The fish arched and writhed in the bilge, so Ed put a shoe on it.
It was a small wonder that the fish caught in the lake were always the same size. They were lively, hungry trout that fit four to a pan. Ed could not recall catching larger fish or tiny ones. It was as if the fish grew to one size, suited to the size of the pond, by some sort of agreement. Ed worked the hook from the fish’s mouth and killed it. He rebaited the hook and swung the line back over.
Ed’s eyes swept the lake. Toward shore he saw motion and squinted. From the shadows of the pines a blue heron stepped forward. It had a white cravat of feathers with its blue suit, and Ed thought it was dressed like one of those English dandies in a book. Lord Heron.
The heron froze. Ed watched it peer into the water. In a movement quick as the eye it speared the water. Ed could hear the splash. It raised its beak with a trout speared neatly behind the gills. Ed watched the heron lower its head to the water and then lift it again to swallow the fish. We’re even, he thought. You got one and I got one. See who catches the next. He smiled.
“My love,” Ed said, aloud. I should name this boat MY LOVE. For Elsie. I wouldn’t name the boat ELSIE. That wouldn’t be right. She called me “my love”. He imagined the lettering on the stern of the boat in lettering finer than he could do himself. MY LOVE. He could hear her voice now, dulcet and for his ears only. “My love.”
Whether it was his voice or the bird seeing the boat, the heron leapt away. It spread its wide wings and splashed a few awkward times with its long legs. As Ed watched, the heron skimmed the dark water of the lake, pumped its wings, and flew away. He lost sight in the tree line, uncertain if it landed among the pines. Across the pond as it went away Ed heard the bird’s outraged squawk, a curse or worse with no one else to hear.
“Can I help you? Can I walk with you and practice my English?” I was standing on a busy street corner in downtown Shanghai peering at a map in my Rough Guide, trying to figure out how to get to a local restaurant recommended for its unique cuisine when I heard those familiar words. I looked up and there he was: well-dressed, blue suit, white shirt and tie, black hair slicked down, leaning toward me, politely smiling. I knew by now he was yet another of those ambitious young men I had encountered on my travels these last two weeks. They had all asked that same question: “Can I help you? Can I walk with you and practice my English?” Many of them, I learned, were planning to visit the United States and I was a learning opportunity for them. But so were they for me.
It was 1988, and China, still animated by the iconoclastic energies released in the long aftermath of the Cultural Revolution, was encouraging exchange programs with the West. Having successfully applied, I had been ecstatic to find myself in Beijing, on the other side of the globe, teaching, but also studying Chinese, a subtle four-tone language requiring a musical ear, and exploring nearby cities. At the end of my term, the Foreign Guest Office of the college had arranged an exit trip: I was to travel from Beijing to Guangzhou along a route from North to South that included visits to Suchow, Hangzhou, and Shanghai. Although I was somewhat anxious about my ability to communicate in Chinese, traveling proved no real difficulty. For in each city, whenever I had pulled out my Rough Guide to China, someone like this polite young man standing expectantly before me had approached and asked if he—it was always a “he”—could help, if he could “practice his English,” “if he could walk with me.” I soon discovered that “walking with me” meant that, like a tour guide, he would not only tell me about the wonders of his city but show them to me as well. Today, in downtown Shanghai, on a street crowded with people weaving around us as we stood talking, and innumerable bicycles competing for space with the truck and bus traffic, I replied gratefully, “Of course. I’ll be happy to walk with you,” answering his smile with my own. But this time I had a specific tour agenda in mind.
We introduced ourselves—his name was Wang–and showing him the citation to the restaurant in the Rough Guide and the map, “Can you tell me how to get there?” I asked speaking slowly to make sure he understood.
He took a moment to read and then shook his head slowly: “It’s too difficult for you. I think you should not try to go there.”
Feeling like an intrepid traveler who could easily overcome obstacles in my path, I persisted: “But then, can’t you go with me? I’m really eager to try the food. My book tells me it’s really special. We can talk all the way there.”
He hesitated, looking distressed, and after a moment’s pause, said quietly: “Very sorry. I can’t go there with you. It’s too far.”
As if I hadn’t heard this remark–certainly I didn’t want to hear it– I thought of a perk that might persuade him.
“If you take me there, I would like you to be my guest for dinner.”
“I can’t eat with you. It is not allowed for Chinese to fraternize with foreigners.”
I had come so far. Now Shanghai, with this exotic sounding restaurant. Was I to be thwarted by his polite but adamant refusal ? Determined to sway him, I put my desire above his caution and pleaded with him to reconsider: “I so much want to go there. I’ll never be here again. And who would know?” He looked even more distressed by my plea, but I continued wilfully to press him until finally, with the courtesy of a host, he acquiesced.
How many streetcars we took to get there I can’t recall, but a good hour or so later, we entered a featureless building in a rather shabby neighborhood and climbed the stairs to the red-curtained alcove entrance of the restaurant. We had to wait for two seats at a table—Chinese restaurants have large tables at which strangers as well as friends and family are seated —but finally we were led through the curtain into a spacious high-ceilinged room crowded with people noisily talking and furiously eating. As we were being seated at a round table in the center of the room, I took note of the group of rowdy, intoxicated soldiers in uniform at the table next to ours, and was grateful to be with Wang.
With Wang’s help I ordered dishes recommended in the Rough Guide and ate heartily, and with relish, more so than he, I thought ruefully. When the check came, I reached for my small black shoulder-bag, which I had hung on the back of my chair. But my hand encountered only the wooden chair-frame. There was no bag! Panicked, I cried aloud to him and to the room, “My bag! My bag’s missing, my passport, money—everything I need is in it.”
“Oh, no. Are you sure?” Wang, eyes wide, froze before me..
“Yes, I hung it on the chair and now it’s gone! We have to call the police.”
As I uttered those words, once more a look of distress, more extreme than when I had asked him to take me here, crossed his face. He leaned toward me and whispered, “Maybe the soldiers took it…. I think the soldiers took it.” By this time, the soldiers were gone.
“We have to call the police,” I repeated, my hysteria rising. “Please do that…there must be a phone here. You have to do that. Or get the restaurant owner to do that … we need to call the police.” Looking increasingly miserable, he shook his head from side to side and remained robotically seated. I burst into tears. That seemed to activate him; he rose from his seat, and promising to call the police, disappeared across the crowded room.
Half an hour or so passed; I sat there nervously, wondering why Wang had not yet returned, trying to imagine what I could do in this emergency. Was there an embassy? A consul who could represent me? Through the red curtain, a curious trio appeared: a wizened but dapper elderly gentleman in a cream-colored suit wearing a purple bow tie, accompanied by two strapping young men in dark suits. At last, the police, I thought, relieved. They made their way through the room to my table. One of the men brought the old man a chair, and once seated in directly in front of me, he began to converse in English:
“You came here with a friend to have dinner?”
“Yes, I did.”
“You are American?”
“Yes, I’m American.”
“What are you doing in China?”
“I came to teach in Beijing and now I’m on my way out of China.”
“You have lost your money?”
“Yes, I have lost my money. Someone stole my purse!”
“You have lost your papers?”
“Yes, I have lost my papers and can’t leave China without them. And I have a flight tomorrow.”
Given this rhythm of query and response, I had no doubt I was speaking to a very polite senior policeman, and so when the old man concluded, “I’m very sorry you have lost your things,” arose from his chair, and bowing to me, left with his two companions, I was puzzled. What had just happened? Who were they? A short time later, Wang reappeared. When I described this mysterious visit, he informed me that the gentleman was probably an elder whose function it was to pay due attention to foreigners upset by a local experience. An old tradition. Not the police.
“But the police should be here soon,” Wang assured me as my panic returned. “I called them from the kitchen.” An hour or so later, as he and I sat silently at the table waiting, several men walked through the curtain into the restaurant and, waving their arms lustily, ordered the staff to clear the restaurant, as I understood from seeing waiters scurrying around ushering people out. No ambiguity here. The police had arrived. Then it was my turn.
An office on the side of the room: I’m seated in front of a tall, slim, cold-eyed official who asks me questions similar to those of the elder, but in a voice with no emotional valence. Wang is seated next to me and translates between us. Some fifteen minutes into the interrogation, the door opens and another plain-clothed policeman walks in– dangling my bag in the air! A surge of relief—“That’s my bag!” I shout to the room, but no one responds.
The policeman gives my bag to my inquisitor, who looks through it, and then returns to his questioning: “Is this your bag?”
“Yes, that’s my bag.”
“Describe its contents.”
“My passport and my wallet….”
“How much money did you have?”
I try to imagine how much I had and come up with a number: “About 400 yuan and $100.”
The reptilian inquisitor looks at me coldly and intones sternly, “Think again.”
Panic. How much? How am I to remember? The pounding of my heart interferes with thinking clearly.
“Oh, yes, I forgot. I bought film this afternoon. 375 yuan and $100.”
“Think again,” he intones again, stonily. “That’s not right.”
Oh no. I try to remember. Oh, yes, … the little statuette ….. “I forgot something else I bought. I think maybe 350 yuan?”
That seems to satisfy him; he hands me my bag, and turning to Wang says something in Chinese I don’t understand. Wang translates: I have to go.
“But what happened?” I ask. “Where did they find my bag?”
“While we waited they searched the houses of all the restaurant workers; they found your bag in the apartment of one of the waiters. Now you must go.”
I rise, but he doesn’t.
“Wang, aren’t you coming too? I need your help to find my way back to the Teacher’s College,” I hear myself implore. Wang looks down at his lap, and says softly, “I have to remain here. Please go.”
Waves of guilt wash over me; in Beijing I had been told that crimes against foreigners are often punished by execution. What would happen to the waiter? And Wang, who helped me when he shouldn’t have! When my own desire put him in danger. What would be his punishment? What should I do?
“Please go,” he says again more insistently. There’s nothing to be done.
I made my way out of the now empty restaurant and onto the dark deserted street. A nearby streetlamp cast a long shadow on the sidewalk. I saw by my watch that it was close to midnight. I had no idea where I was or how to make my way back to my quarters at the Teachers College. I was considering whether to crouch in a doorway until morning when suddenly, as if in miraculous answer to my need, a taxicab pulled out of the darkness and stopped near the corner, and a young woman hidden in another doorway ran out to meet it. Without hesitating, I ran after her. The cab was full of other young people, apparently workers who had arranged for these nightly pickups. I pleaded with them to take me too, gesturing, repeating the few Chinese words I now remembered–“Warshe Laoshe” [I am a teacher]. And wondrously, they understood I was staying at the Teacher’s College and agreed to have me driven there! As if sinking into a warm and healing bath, I felt the relief of rescue.
But Wang. Whatever happened to Wang? In a country like China, in which social transgression was not a game, what were the real consequences of my single-minded pursuit of my desire. Selfish. I had been called that before, but never had it seemed such a just epithet as now. And never had I realized so clearly as now how in my search for exotic experience, my perception of the “other,” whoever he or she might be, was essentially instrumental. A sociopathology of tourism? I would have to check my moral compass more completely, tomorrow.
In her white-hot memoir, Shiori Ito arrives as a warrior resolved to expose a social injustice long obscured by societal norms. Through her pain and trauma, this young woman displays undisguised bravery and fortitude. As an advocate for other females who have suffered or may suffer gender-based violence, Ito writes, “Keeping my shame and anger to myself wouldn’t have changed anything.”
Black Box is an eye-opening account revealing cultural, hierarchical, and systemic problems in Japanese society. With it, Ito shines a bright light into a broken system that reduces victims of rape and sexual assault in Japan to invisible anomalies. In protracted, quiet anguish, Ito publicly challenges these ingrained injustices, demonstrating a steadfast, lonely majesty against power.
In a refreshing twist to memoir, Ito periodically interacts with her readers, soliciting their opinions, offering advice, and beseeching them to learn more. She delivers a strong message. “Unless we call out things that we see as abnormal, we have no choice but to accept the wanton fate that befalls us. If we remain silent, whatever problems we face will continue to be reflected, like a mirror, for the rest of our own lives as well as the lives of generations to come.”
Widely recognised as the account that spurred the #MeToo movement in Japan, Black Box has received international acclaim as a critical exposé on the urgent need to support victims of sexual violence. Reforms in Japan are vital to address failures in police investigations, access to justice, updates to antiquated laws, and the provision of sympathetic social services.
Ito adroitly paints a picture of her early life as a high-spirited, confident girl. “Not the kind of child who could be bribed with candy, I was stubborn and willful,” she writes. Even at a very young age, Ito recognised that school norms dictated that “you mustn’t stand out…you weren’t allowed to stray from the path laid out for you.”
“This was my first taste of the pain of existing within the closed order of society,” Ito relates. These early insights provide the backdrop for a cultural reckoning, centuries in the making.
Through her journey, she carries us from her schoolgirl days to becoming a young lady who “dreamed of testing my abilities in a place where I didn’t speak the language or know anyone.” Her determination brings her to a student-exchange program, through which she was sent to Kansas. Although she changed host families several times, she was always in Kansas, moving from small, dusty towns to cattle ranches. Struggling to understand her schooling and surrounded by nothing but vast, open space populated only with Kansans, she feels “a growing urge for connection with and information about the outside world, and I saw that this thirst could be quenched by international news programs.” Ito knew then that she wanted to become a journalist and resolved to study in New York.
Years later, and after many strategic detours, this determined 24-year-old student made it to New York. Here is where she first met Noriyuki Yamaguchi while working at a piano bar in September 2013. She tells how she was talking with a customer about her studies in journalism, when the gentleman pointed Yamaguchi out to her and said, “That guy is the Washington bureau chief for TBS,” – the Tokyo Broadcasting System. Through her conversations with Yamaguchi that evening, Ito was connected with an internship at Nippon Television (NTV) in New York a year later. “As far as I was concerned, Mr. Yamaguchi was a successful journalist, someone who knew a lot of people, and was friendly about making introductions. Nothing more, nothing less.” Ito substantiates their professional relationship throughout with her consistent use of honorific language while addressing Yamaguchi.
When circumstances brought her back to Tokyo two-and-a-half years later, Ito reached out to Yamaguchi to inquire about paid positions with TBS’s Washington bureau. Their communications led to the evening when, while he was in Tokyo, Yamaguchi invited Ito to meet to talk more about opportunities they had discussed. On April 3, 2015, Shiori Ito’s life changed forever.
In her unvarnished account, Ito asserts she was raped by the prominent and politically well-connected television professional Yamaguchi while she was in an unconscious state. At his invitation, Ito had accompanied Yamaguchi to dinner and drinks to discuss obtaining a visa for a potential job opportunity in the United States. During the evening, she became incapacitated and ill, passing out at the restaurant, where Yamaguchi was known to the owner. She later suspected she had been drugged.
“The intense pain was what made me regain consciousness,” she describes. Finding herself in a hotel room with no memory of how she ended up there, Ito’s confusion and despair are evident in her statement, “Neither the recognition that I had regained consciousness, nor my repeated pleas that I was in pain, made him stop what he was doing.” Her recounting of Yamaguchi’s behavior is astonishing and painful to read.
Equally devastating are Ito’s subsequent experiences with medical providers, police investigators, and a legal system whose practices evidence a severe lack of compassion and trauma-informed care. Highlighting the ideological status quo, Ito shares how “[T]he hospital, the hotlines, the police – none of these institutions were there to save me. I was astounded to realise this about the society I had been living in so blissfully unaware.”
Ito’s description of the insensitivity and inadequacy of procedures that sex crime victims are required to undergo is unnerving. In the process of making a police report, and during the investigation, she was compelled to relate in vivid detail, time and again, the occurrences of her rape: the before, the during, and the after. Even more humiliating, and with no female official present, she was made to reenact the circumstances with a life-size doll in a room full of male investigators:
“Lie down there, please,” I was told, as I lay face up on the blue mat, surrounded by men. One of the investigators placed a large doll on top of me.
“Like this?” “Or was it more like this?” they asked as they rearranged the doll.
It was then, after she went to the police, that Ito came to the scalding realisation that authorities would minimise her allegations and that avenues for recourse were slim. “This kind of thing happens all the time, and there’s no easy way to investigate cases like these,” she was told.
And, under the legal term of “quasi-rape” – which refers to sexual assault that happens when a person is incapacitated – the victim must prove not only that intercourse occurred but also that it was non-consensual. In her case, despite video evidence of an unconscious Ito being half-dragged, half-carried through the hotel lobby by Yamaguchi on the night in question, the prosecution indicated to Ito that, without a witness, a third party cannot know what goes on behind closed doors; thus, her claim was a “black box.”
Ito talks about the “wall of consent” – legal and judicial roadblocks that exist for female victims of sexual assault, compounded by the consistent patriarchal undertone of Japanese society. An historic Japanese mentality that women must conform, or “put up with it,” overlooks and pardons sexual violence.
Bringing all of this into sharp relief is the fact that thirteen is considered the age of consent for females in Japan…not to mention the clearly non-consensual and widely conventional practice of public groping, known as “chikan,” to which girls and women are commonly subjected.
Under the blanket of pervasive sexism in Japanese culture, how, and with what supports, is a woman or a young girl who is not allowed to speak out able to prove that consent was not given? Ito states, “The crime of quasi-rape seemed unenforceable within Japanese law.”
Ito’s professional journalism is evident in the facts she presents in her memoir. She educates the reader in sex crime statistics; the prevalent use of “date-rape” drugs and their effects; pitiable victim supports; inadequate police procedures; and obstructive laws and judicial proceedings encountered by victims of quasi-rape.
Ito’s fearless pursuit of the truth eventually resulted in enough evidence being gathered for the police to issue an arrest warrant. However, on the day Yamaguchi’s arrest was to take place, an order “from the top” canceled the warrant. This unusual, high-level decision also removed both the Takanawa Police Department investigating officer and the prosecutor in charge from the case. It was then transferred to supervising authority Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.
Yamaguchi was known to have close ties with Prime Minister Shinzo Abe, and in fact had written his biography. Suspicions arose that some governmental influence may have been invoked to quash the warrant for Yamaguchi’s arrest. According to Ito, “the link between Mr. Yamaguchi’s personal connections and the arrest being called off was essential context for the case.”
“I felt frustrated by my own insignificance,” Ito tells us.
Over many months, charges were refiled; the case stalled and became convoluted. Ito relates conversations with the newly assigned prosecutor, who allowed “… he could be convicted but, to be frank, it’s difficult with the evidence we have. He’s a deplorable man. He’s habituated to this behavior – I can’t help but think he’s done this to others.”
The same prosecutor stated, “Criminal law in the United States…allows for prosecution based on objective facts rather than on subjective accounts. In Japan, even when the suspect’s guilt is clear, objective circumstances on their own are not enough for a conviction unless there is an admission of guilt.” In July 2016, a ruling was announced dismissing the criminal charges as “non-prosecutable.”
Ito filed an application to reopen her case. In a decision to “bear witness,” she held a press conference, airing her allegations against Yamaguchi. But things did not turn out as expected; the community support the West has seen as part of the #MeToo movement did not happen for Ito. Instead, she suffered backlash in the media and was publicly mocked and criticised. “Following the press conference, my personal information was made public,” Ito relates. “I was harassed and threatened, and I was bombarded with scathing emails.”
Ito’s memoir is a brave, personal example of investigative journalism. It highlights the ideological Japanese governmental substructure that serves to benumb the victimised and uphold the ugliest hubristic male arrogance.
One cannot help but cheer her on as she gives volume to the many lost female voices, mounting her attack on this treachery in quiet rage, and with sheer determination to be heard and to make a difference. Global news program The World’s Global Post summed it up. “Ito is a beacon of change to many in Japan who have never heard a woman stand up in public and challenge the status quo.”
Since the 2017 publication of Black Box in Japan, grassroots movements to tackle crimes against women and stamp out the social taboo of speaking out have taken hold in Tokyo. Men of prominence in corporate Japan and in Japanese government have been accused of sexual harassment, including Junichi Fukuda, vice finance minister for administration; his resignation is one of the most senior associated with the #MeToo movement in Japan.
While much reform is still needed, this movement for social change is receiving due attention in Japan. In December 2019, Ito won a civil case against Yamaguchi and was awarded 3.3 million yen ($30,000 US, £22,917 UK).
The courage and tenacity of Shiori Ito, and others like her, have finally brought the tsunami of justice to the women of Japan.
Black Box
By Shiori Ito
Translated by Allison Markin Powell
Tilted Axis Press, 224 pages
Zoey is awake one night watching a story about a string of burglaries on the news. The next day she orders herself a boomerang. It arrives in a cardboard box with illustrated instructions on how to throw it properly, and Zoey immediately feels safer.
*
Zoey goes to the park at lunch with her friend, Shana, and practices throwing it against around a tree, hoping it will return. It bounces off the bark and lands in the grass near a disinterested bulldog who lets out a perturbed bark.
“Why a boomerang?” Shana asks one day while they’re walking in the park for lunch. The question catches Zoey off guard, and her grip slips. Shana ducks. The boomerang narrowly misses her ear.
“You know these used to be weapons?” Zoey says, holding out her hand and gesturing for Shana to pass her the angled stick.
“This used to be a weapon?” Shana asks, handing it to her friend.
“In Aboriginal Australia,” Zoey says.
Shauna shakes her head. “So, you bought one because?”
“Self-defence,” Zoey says, taking aim at the tree again. “And at least this won’t run out of ammunition.”
“Neither do knives,” Shana says.
*
The night before she ordered the boomerang Zoey lay in bed alone, anxious about if she’d locked her apartment door. She didn’t use to have this anxiety about living alone, but the evening news had gotten under her skin.
She made a mental list of the weapons available to her. She didn’t have a baseball bat or a fireplace poker. Guns meant time and training, and she wasn’t sure she had the stomach to use one. Her lease did not allow her to keep a dog.
She thought about things that might leave a mark if you put it in a sock and swung it. For a few days, she slept with a dry bar of soap in a sock under her pillow. She invented scenarios where she’d wake up and swing the apparatus at an assailant’s stomach.
Then she ran out of soap and had to dismantle her weapon.
*
Three months ago, Zoey had the news on while she made dinner. The anchor talked about an airstrike on a village in a corner of the world no one cared about. The night, Zoey stared at the ceiling in the dark and imagined the missiles sailing through the sky. She imagined the contrails in the sky and the ash their ordnance would leave behind. She imagined the photos of the wailing people in the rubble.
She wondered how many people died during a dream, believing they were safe with a line of defence in reach. She wondered if they ever imagined waking to the squealing sound of a missile entering the atmosphere.
Her boomerang would be useless against weapons from the sky.
I remember with intense accuracy a scenario I would run through my head as a primary school pupil. Bored, slouching in a chair, my attention span worthy of an ADHD diagnosis, I would imagine the entire classroom filling up with water. The four walls would seal us in as the inexplicable flood poured, turning the classroom into a fishbowl. Everyone would be helpless. Everyone but me. I would swim first towards our young teacher (also my first crush), scooping my arms around her and pulling her to the surface and to safety. Next, I would dive back in for my fellow pupils, who would somehow survive until I reached each of them in turn. I would be a hero. Little did it matter that I didn’t know how to swim. If the moment required it, I would learn it on the fly. So strong was the belief, that any projection of physiological limitations would be brushed off.
Later that afternoon, I would look out the window of the bus that took me home to grandma’s at a superhero-type character running alongside the vehicle. He would jump over cars, run ahead of the bus and circle around it, doing backflips and showing off, always smiling and winking back at me. The hero’s face was mine, but also not mine at the same time. Everything he was able to do, I was able to do, and nothing could stop me from being like him if I really wanted to.
Disappointment struck soon. One day I attempted to move a pen across the table by just watching it intently. The pen laid still. I squinted my eyes and stared hard at it, urging it to move. Nothing. As a last resort, I summoned all the energy that had bubbled inside me for so long and released it onto the pen. If I really wanted it, it was going to happen. I grabbed the edge of the table, squeezed my eyes so tight they started to water, and muttered through gritted teeth, ‘move’. Seconds passed. The pen didn’t move. Instead, I moved on, ruefully ignoring the small crack I had heard inside me, like compressed wood fibre in an aging chair, announcing that the perfection contained within was now starting to decay.
*
You were born at dawn on the 5th of November. I was there to see it all: your head peering out, my wife, your mother, screaming in a vocal range beyond suffering, and a few seconds later, you yourself—a wrinkled, hairy mess ready to be loved and cared for. You were healthy, your mother happy, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I was present. A strange, pensive silence took hold of me. I sat and watched you breathe on your mother’s chest, all the while wondering about the world we brought you into.
Six years back I met your mother on our first day as graduate students at Oxford. I was cocky; she was hot and so confident that it confused me. It was an accident waiting to happen and I could not be more grateful that it did. Let’s just say that even though I haven’t been looking for better alternatives, nothing as good has come within my range of vision since, or ever had before.
The two of us have moved a lot. It’s part of our story: belonging everywhere but really nowhere. Berlin versus Bucharest has been our long debate – an overdue war of sorts – fuelled for both of us by an allegiance we still struggle to understand. It goes beyond what we used to call ‘home’ and instead resembles a Game of Thrones style allegiance to a house that defines our identity. It is both a blessing and a curse, something to cradle and yet be smothered by. If there was anything that could have torn us apart over the years, this was it. Where we live remains a tender subject for us, reactive to the slightest pinch. Any discussion around it is conducted with care or well-intended humour.
When we found out you were on the way, location became a topic once again. This time, as the destination of your birth. We settled on Berlin, though we now live in Bucharest.
Fortune favoured us and when the day came, it all went smoothly at the hospital and we brought you home. Our rented flat in Neukölln is filled with flowers – bouquets we’ve received from friends and family to celebrate your birth. Their aroma still lingers, faded, overcooked by the heaters, and it floods my senses as I cradle you from room to room praying that you will go to sleep. It takes me days to realize I am now a father. And when it does, it happens at night, the joy cloaked by the heaviness of having given you life. Random thoughts shoot through my brain, smouldering on its sleep-deprived surface. I cannot stop questioning the nature of my responsibility to you. I want to speak to you, to warn you, to tell you all the things you should know about us and the world you’re in.
But I never do. And the nights pile on, fragmented, unpredictable. Even when we sleep we don’t truly sleep. Your mother wakes me up to change you. It’s your turn, she says. I stumble out of bed and go to empty my bladder. My mind races with all the things I wanted to achieve before turning thirty but never did. Then I feel guilty. I should be happy with what I have. And I am. But that still doesn’t stop the optimizing machine inside me, a junkie on a rush, craving for more and more, never contented. My brain moves past the missed opportunities and finds fault in the present, in all the wrong things that I am doing knowing they are wrong. Like being lazy or weak or not recycling properly. A contagious spiral blooms up from there. Soon enough I see myself as the active agent that I am in an economy bound to self-destroy.
*
A few days later I sneak out for a run while the two of you are napping. I am both free and lonely, all by myself again, and the cold air opens my lungs. I start along the Maybachufer and go through Neukölln towards Kreuzberg. Covid has closed the cafes and bars, but the parks are full. It’s Sunday afternoon. On a patch of sand, four people are playing boules. Next to them a group of men swipe with vigour across two ping-pong tables. Another runner passes me with a dog on a leash. I just try to shut out the noise and focus on my breathing. In and out. If I could only think about my breathing, everything would be a lot better.
If only.
I am almost thirty. Still young and yet not so young anymore. Old enough to clash with my own delusions and come to terms with the fact that I am as hopeless as anyone else. My ambition to single-handedly bring about political change in my home country was an exercise in messianic grandeur and now rests putrid in a personal mausoleum of all the people I wanted to be. I am not special. I know that now. In fact, I have lost the sense of what being ‘special’ means and I seriously doubt the intrinsic value the word attempts to carry. I am like everyone else: I decay at the same rate, I am made of the same matter. I float in the same sea of chance. In these moments I want to pray and ask for some privilege, but I don’t know from whom. I wish I was religious. I would find relief in a godly ear ready to listen, a divine hand ready to fix whatever needs fixing. I would abide by the rules, strict as they might be, which, if carefully followed, would (surely) lead me to oblivion.
Instead, I watch myself grow into my parents – shrugging their shoulders in surrender – and greet it with a sense of disappointment, soon followed by shame. I see in you the wide-eyed mini-me of years ago making sense of the adult world’s inaction. What could they all do about the world and all that was wrong in it? They retreated into a shell of their own, thinking of personal financial growth as a sort of independence sufficient to overcome any aspects of life that never truly worked. With time, like all others, they grew apart from stillness and nature.
I try to fight my way out of that lane. I preach about the importance of sustainability, careful and mindful consumption. I buy organic Japanese cotton jeans at 200 euros a pair and promise to wear them for life. I can only afford what I afford by working as a business consultant – a job that is part of somebody’s economic solution and everybody’s environmental problem. I catch myself chasing labels with my eyes above the butt cracks of passers-by. I judge them. And yet, I only know what H&M jeans look like because I used to wear them. Even more so, I used to support the ecosystem they created – one hard to demonize once you’re in the store in the middle of December with dimmed lights, festive decorations and Christmas music in the background. Shrugging it off is what you’re expected to do.
Back at the flat, I sit down and I write this letter to you, the same one I’ve been writing since we found out your mother is pregnant. I say: there are a few things I want to tell you before I forget them. It’s not much and I don’t think it’s really helpful. Or it’s helpful only in as much as one’s transparency and empathy can elevate another person. It’s 2020, start of winter, you’re not even two weeks old, deep asleep on your mom’s chest. You are a wonder to us and a mystery and every day we try to figure out how you work, tiptoeing around, afraid we’re going to break something inside you. You’ve arrived at a strange time, though I’m not sure what a better time would look like.
*
Four weeks later we pack up and get you ready for your first move. We’re emptying yet another flat and are going back ‘home’, though by now home is wherever we spend more than four weeks. We arrive late and my parents, excited to see you, drive three hours from my hometown to pick us up at the airport. They hold you, eyes laughing above the face mask. In the bright arrivals hall, they look older, as if becoming grandparents instantly aged them. They drive us home and then leave, afraid of exposing us to the potential of them carrying the virus.
Next morning, 8am, minus 2 degrees celsius outside and I’m already queuing, shuffling from one foot to the other. I’m not dressed appropriately. I wasn’t expecting to wait outside for that long. For about an hour I squeeze my muscles under my coat and watch an overweight security guard lean against the door of the Civil Registry office, smoking unfiltered cigarettes above a lowered mask. Covid, he says. That’s why you need to wait outside. I nod and look away. I’m here to register you, but the cold is making me reconsider the advantages of being a Romanian citizen. Like a mirror it’s reflecting all there is to see in front of it and all I feel like doing is looking down.
A year and a half ago I convinced your mother to move with me to Bucharest. By then I had been living abroad for ten years and was longing for my roots like a sailor lost at sea. She, on the other hand, was probably more tired than convinced. We agreed to give it a try and from that point on my mission was not so much to curate her experience, but to do my best in highlighting what the place had to offer. I bought a van, which turned out to be a lemon, loaded it up with our stuff and we drove from Berlin to Bucharest. I rented us a cool, central flat and asked around for recommendations of restaurants and galleries. I introduced her to friends from home, made new ones and nudged a lot of people to switch from Romanian to English. If there was a chance it could work, then this would be it. So I built, bit by bit, not noticing that my castle rose on sand.
At every social occasion, on hearing our story, the question we heard was ‘why?’. Why did we move here if everyone else was moving away? The self-deprecating humour of Romanians, a former favourite of mine, ended up biting me hard. After much time and effort showing her that the medical system is not great but improving, I would get two or three medics at a party laying it all out like a stinking carcass. I went silent, both in the discussion and on the walk back home. At first, I thought it was an isolated incident, but soon more drops of poison dripped over. Bit by bit, we sowed the seeds of doubt and started growing bitter.
Soon after that, the postman dropped our mail in front of the apartment building instead of our mailbox. Your mother had a gift sent to our address and the package miraculously disappeared, signed by and delivered to some neighbour that doesn’t exist. Then none of the lights worked on our staircase anymore. We got flooded by the neighbour. A hole opened up on our street and grew larger every day, threatening to swallow the city. It remained unfixed for six months, a broken tree branch marking the threat to approaching vehicles. More potholes then appeared in the streets, the cars swerving around them, honking and screeching, exhaust fumes scratching the bottom of your throat. It was the cars too that turned the sidewalks into mazes and poorly marked crossings into assisted suicide. Concrete crumbles peeled off buildings like frosting on a stale cake. There were no trees around save for some greyed out birches and the parks were invaded by diarrheic pigeons. Soon the cheese was too white and the butter too crumbly. Why we had come here grew less obvious, and my story weaker. A sour taste built up at the bottom of my throat.
If it weren’t for the indemnity your mother is supposed to receive during her maternity leave, I would’ve left the queue earlier. Instead, I do it two hours later having achieved nothing. I can’t register your birth in Bucharest since formally I am registered in my hometown at an address I haven’t lived at in ten years. Your mother is a foreigner here and for some good reason she’s not allowed to register you either. The surest path is to register myself in Bucharest, which involves changing my ID and finding someone to grant me residence at their address. When I do, the local authority will refuse my application and request that I first register my marriage in Romania since the papers I hold were originally signed in Berlin. For that, they will send me back to my hometown where I am trying to de-register from. Weeks stretch in between. Like in Kafka’s The Trial they send me from one place to another, issuing random requests for papers which need to be in two or three copies, some translated, some verified by a notary, stamped, signed, legalized, mailed, e-mailed. At every interaction I shiver in expectation of yet another paper I need to produce. There’s a lot of cold and waiting around involved, queues with people in thick coats, bored government employees and signs to wear a mask being stared at by people holding theirs under their noses. I thought acceptance is meant to feel like relief and instead it settles on me like volcanic ash – acidic, heavy and cancerous.
Back home, I sit down and I write to you again. I say: even though I’m looking at you every day, I cannot see you grow. Only the photos on my phone, disjointed, glimpses of the past, allow me to notice the jumps you’ve made. You’re big now, bigger than you’ve ever been. You even smiled at me yesterday, though it’s likely you just had gas. There are many things I’ve learned but only a few that truly matter. First, time passes. That is a miracle in itself, both as a healing mechanism and as a wonder of life. Although time stopping would be as much of a miracle, to be honest. Since it passes and we each have a finite amount of it, you need to maintain a constant awareness of how to prioritize it. That in itself is a form of torture and a contributor to the fear of death. Then I stop, realizing that none of this is useful.
*
That night you make a show. At midnight you’re crying like the world is out to get you. As I cradle you, I watch the prostitutes outside pacing the sidewalk on high heels like fearless impalas. We moved to a new flat right before the birth. The viewing took place during the day, on a weekend. Bad choice. At night, every night, we have several prostitutes stationed right in front of our block. Sometimes they use the boot of my car as a bench and in the morning I find empty bottles of Coke propped up against my windshield wipers. The police’s reply was peaceful inaction, despite our multiple calls. That’s their place, they said, they’ve been there for decades. I fail to calm you down and your mother takes you over as a next level of escalation. I stretch back on the bed and I stare at your joint silhouettes against the light from the lamp post outside. Through heavy eyelids, from the way you rest against her lower chest, she looks pregnant again.
People say you should strive to give your children the best future they could possibly have and that confuses me once I start thinking about it. I have no clue what future would work best. I struggle to come to terms with my own present. Becoming a father was meant to happen at some point when I felt complete. Or at least complete as an adult. I am not sure who to blame for this delusion, but I like to think it wasn’t me who came up with it. And still, I too want to issue some advice. Being the preacher has always been easier than being the disciple and I’d like to send you off into the world with something.
So once you give in and fall asleep, I remain on the bed staring at a stain on the wall, wondering whether my responsibility rests with you, my wife, my parents, my country, my work colleagues, the child I used to be or the man I am now. It’s like I owe so much to so many people, I’m so deep in emotional debt, that I will never manage to dig myself out of it. I struggle to describe my feelings when your mother asks what’s wrong. I shrug my shoulders and tell her some passing thought.
If anything, what I feel is a lot of aggression bubbling up inside me. The sort that is dangerous to no one but the person who carries it. It’s poison, dripping, rousing a thumping headache from the depths of my brain. I take my time to find the source, to slowly trace the river of mud flowing through me. Your mother says I should see a therapist. That it would help. Maybe I should. Maybe it would.
In the dead of night, I decide I should be proactively honest with you. Curating experiences is bound to fail, as the past has shown me. Honesty would mean telling you early on that this world is fucked, in a fundamental, structural way. We’ve made a mockery of nature and grew apart from it, labelling ourselves superior, beyond the natural, and have destroyed it and ourselves with it. The cataclysmic change we’ve triggered through only decades of pollution left its mark on the Earth’s surface and is now spreading every day like a cancer.
In the meantime, we are very, very busy. My friends, colleagues, some of the smartest people I know, are stuck in meetings, back to back, answering e-mails, conducting alignment calls, their phones buzzing with a flood of important notifications, texts, and they all stretch themselves to their limit, sleep deprived, to keep up with everything that we have defined as success. The big man in the office, holding a pen and staring at a chart, still lingers in our common imaginative repository as the archetype of accomplishment. Like cartoonish zombies we stand and walk out of the office every day, remote controlled, living within a reality of manufactured meaning that we’ve given life to and that’s slowly working to take ours away. I read newspapers and they say the economy will suffer this year. I wonder what the economy is, despite having graduated with an economics degree and working for years in the corporate zoo.
Outside of offices, floods rip through villages. Hurricanes trigger mass evacuations. The dry becomes drier, forcing conflict over land, and soon after, waves and waves of refugees. The rich frown and the poor beg on. Yet another shooting. Yet another block of ice separating from the polar ice caps, breaking into smaller and smaller pieces until those too are swallowed by the blue. The water rises here and the fires ravage over there. We build bigger buildings, we buy more cars, we lose sleep over whether the numbers are going to stagnate this year instead of hitting the quarterly projected growth. Everybody has an island to protect, a bonus to hope for. We are here for only a blink, and that blink is here, now, with all these people, not on some ice cube floating somewhere we are not even sure exists. We rely on religion, then we don’t, then we kill each other over it. We believe in what some call conspiracies because it makes us believe that only we can see through the smoke.
There is something toxic about where we are now, about the things we define as good, about what we aspire to or strive for, about the idea of wealth as an end in itself, about ‘more’ being a religion, about ‘better’ just meaning ‘more’, about how changing minds is both incredibly difficult and discouragingly easy. There must be something rotten in us if we set our wallpaper image to a luscious green forest but go out spending time in malls. There must be something wrong about always longing for what’s hiding around the corner and not appreciating what is right in front of us.
We’ve redefined ambition and turned it into the one true goal. I’ve seen men and women cower in front of each other, in glass buildings, afraid of extra work, of being noticed or of not being noticed, of their promotion being delayed, or being fired, or losing face. And I don’t blame them. Hell, I am them. And I am tired of my own mistakes and choices, although put in the same situation I might do the exact same thing. I’ve chased it all for so long – the names and the titles – and even grabbed it a few times. But the hunger only grew and looking back I always prized less the few things collected than the many more that lie ahead. The only way to keep the dream alive was to keep on running.
And there was a time when I thought I could make sense of all of this, that I just needed to read one more book, to listen to a few more people. Somebody surely knew which wheel turns the other to keep it all moving. But I don’t. I honestly believe that no one has a clue. At most, we each understand really well the mechanics of a small cog, and the lucky ones are making a good job of taking care of theirs, but with little to no awareness of how that joins in the entire mechanism. As long as it’s moving, it’s working. Even if it’s too late, or too fast, or the wheels themselves are grinding so hard against each other that the engine is slowly crushing itself to death. I go to bed soon after, my mind still searching for the silver lining.
*
You are two months now and growing as if we’re feeding you magic beans. You smile and smell divine and our hearts melt when we see you. When I hold you, you nestle around my neck and purr like an enormous cat.
Despite all you’ve heard, there’s really no reason to be scared. Nor should you find fear in the dark, in the shapes that mould around the corners. There comes a point when you are disappointed there’s no one behind the curtain or the shelf, that the scary man is just a winter coat and that the shape is just a shape and you are just yourself, alone, eyes all teared out and dusty. And I know it’s worse when you can’t see the enemy, when it might not exist in a predictable form but the fear still pulsates raw within you. You will live past all this.
I thought for a long time of what I should write to you. So here it is. Craft a story that you believe in and that makes sense in your universe of thoughts. Live in it, grow it and achieve any form of excellence it allows for and then some more. But also allow yourself to break down that story, to tear it to pieces and create a better one. Most importantly, along the way learn about and share in the stories of others. If I figured it out well, this is how growth comes about.
I do that too. On some days it’s easier than others. But most days, I wake up with a sense of unease creeping behind me like a shadow. It’s fear really, or rather shame. Shame that I am less strong than I would like to feel. That I must make do with what I have and that I have not yet been able to accept myself as I am. I’ve retained broken pieces of my past stories like shattered stained glass. I can’t make sense of them anymore, nor can I let go. I can’t see my hero running by the side of the car unless I make myself see him. And by now I know that I am a terrible swimmer. My attempt at saving anyone would only reduce their chances of saving themselves. I still haven’t moved any pens with my mind, but at least I figured out a few things in all this time. Hopefully, if I tell them to you early enough, you can run faster and freer, you can get to enjoy the ride more than I did. In the meantime, I’ll just focus on you, your mom and the few things that I’ve discovered I like. I really don’t want more. I’m now old enough to be confident in what I’ve come to love.
But I am still broken and so is the world. Soon, so will you. But we all mend on our own, we can help others too. I am sorry if bringing you in the middle of all this is just as selfish as not having you in the first place. But just give it a shot. Despite what they say, there is no game, because nobody seems to be winning.
Flood me with boiling water. Drown me in cosmetics. Destroy me with antibiotics. I am your drowsy, irritable, self-conscious monster. I am your life now. I am your midday and midnight. Your ‘laying awake at night.’ Your ‘missing an appointment.’ Your ‘wearing your hoodie up when entering the shop.’ Your ‘not talking to anyone for an entire week.’ Your ‘driving down the motorway.’ Your ‘car crash.’
Tiny glass shards fell from the pockets of a red-faced corpse as the paramedics slumped it in a bag on the hard shoulder of the M1.
An individual radical Black male, according to bell hooks’ 2004 treatise on Black masculinity We Real Cool, named after the seminal Gwendolyn Brooks poem, is one who does not adhere to the social mores created by the imperialist white-supremacist capitalist patriarchy. Unfortunately, those social mores are often embraced and perpetuated (at times enthusiastically and at times unwittingly) by young Black males.
Flouting these social norms can be dangerous. Brian Broome’s memoir Punch Me Up to the Gods, which also takes a structural inspiration from Brooks’ poem, recounts his perilous rejection of a narrowly defined Black masculinity as well as his harrowing journey from Black boy to radical Black male.
Broome did not set out to be a radical Black male. At the time he grew up, in the place he grew up, this concept was something akin to a death sentence. What Broome desperately needed was to be “normal”; that is, straight, athletic, and most of all cool. Broome was not cool growing up. Coolness, that great gift bestowed on all Black men, or so the world would have him believe, eluded him. His older brother had it; he knew how to move, how to talk, how to lean against various objects with the right amount of nonchalance. These intangibles were out of young Broome’s grasp. He realised their import but he could not master them.
He paid dearly for his inability to do so. His father, his best friend, and other Black males terrorised him with fists and shoves and insults. They all wanted one thing: for him to be normal.
From the opening essay “Colder,” Broome describes the attempts to normalise him. It reads like Midwestern gothic horror, Sherwood Anderson by way of William Faulkner. As he and his best friend, an abusive 10-year-old named Corey, walk through the woods Broome sets the scene: “The sky was the color of concrete and the branches of the trees were stripped naked of their leaves and heavy with snow.” This is the colourless world to which he belongs and which is getting bleaker all the time. Corey is taking him to a farmhouse so that he can prove to an assorted band of his peers that he’s not white, which is to say he is not weak or effeminate or, God forbid, gay. This is the first of many tests that young Broome will fail.
Before long, it is clear to Broome that he cannot be converted to full Blackness. He will never achieve the necessary cool nor the necessary sexual orientation. Naturally, this leads him down the road of self-hate. He despises himself for liking boys, for being so dark, for being Black at all. He decides he’ll embrace whiteness. He’ll become respectable.
“Black boys are always a disruption in class and the Black girls are too loud and bossy, so I try not to be like them and blend into the background. But she doesn’t treat me any better.”
The “she” to whom Broome is referring is his sixth-grade teacher. She is white, and his attempts to distinguish himself from his peers do not endear him to her. His rejection of acceptable social norms is not prized for being radical but instead scorned for upsetting the natural order, for complicating matters. White people have expectations for his behaviour and deviations are unwelcome.
He knows this to be true, but the lesson does not stick. He learns it again when he uses dancing to win over white friends in high school or when he has sexual encounters with white men who fetishize his Blackness but care nothing for his person, especially because his person doesn’t conform to their concept of Black masculinity. Perhaps the book’s most audacious example of this latter phenomenon is the French professor who assumes Broome plays basketball but also empathises with Broome’s plight in the United States of having to live with “ze racism.”
Respectability doesn’t do Broome any favours in the Black LGBTQ community either. Once he escapes provincial Ohio for the comparative metropolis of Pittsburgh, he comes to find that his self-hatred bars him entry into the community that should rightfully be his.
He becomes unmoored. Broome belongs to no community, he has no home, no place to be himself, and no sense of that self. He was not the Black man that he was supposed to be and in failing to be that, he is nothing. Reading the memoir, one wonders how Broome was strong enough to go on living until one realises that his existence could barely be described as such. Alcohol and cocaine kept him insulated from reality and allowed him to put off dealing with his trauma. He went out night after night using bars to avoid being alone with himself: “I can’t take sitting at home on my own at night. Too many ghosts use silence as their time to attack.”
Every page of the memoir speaks to Broome’s vulnerability and courage. We see Broome at his worst, when the substances threaten to consume him, and he pulls back the curtain further still showing us his damaged roots, revealing his complicated relationships to his Blackness, sexual orientation, and gender. But the memoir wouldn’t work as a mere confessional. Even with Broome’s crisp prose and occasional levity (“Homosexuality, as it so often does, attacked me in my bed in the middle of the night.”), the book would be undone if it didn’t offer a modicum of hope.
As Broome narrates some of the seminal events in his life, he also recounts a bus ride, in media res, during which he observes a series of interactions between a young Black boy and his father. Broome uses the scenes with Tuan to jump into different periods of his own life, hoping against hope that Tuan will avoid the same pitfalls that he did not.
Make no mistake, Broome is not presupposing that things are going to be easier for Tuan. He has given up on the idea of an easier time or an easier place. Once upon a time he learned that Pittsburgh can be every bit as racist and homophobic as provincial Ohio. There is no escape. The United States and the world at large have been hostile to Black bodies. Gwendolyn Brooks knew this as does bell hooks as did Broome’s patron saint of Black literature, James Baldwin. There is no room for naivete. Broome, too, knows that Tuan and all Black boys have to be tough, but do they need to be so to the detriment of their humanity? After several decades, Broome has found that he doesn’t have to be. He can be a radical Black male, walking through the world as himself without self-hatred.
Punch Me Up to the Gods is a story of survival and perseverance. The title refers to a threat his father would make when Broome would step outside of the accepted parameters of Black masculinity. He would be punched up to the gods, up to the heavens, better to be dead than to be what he was. Broome did make it to the other side, he survived, but he did not find death there. Quite the opposite.
Punch Me Up to the Gods
By Brian Broome
272 pages. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
I worry about my gym instructor.
An alarm has been going off in his home for four days in a row now, the amount of his online exercise videos I have completed. His name is Wayne, and he has children. Sometimes he uses them as weights to show us how strong he is. He is very strong.
‘Say no to drugs, guys,’ he shouts as he flexes his bulging biceps. ‘This is a ‘roid free zone.’
The alarm beeps again. It could be a smoke alarm. Or carbon monoxide. I think I should tell him, but I was taught not to teach my grandmother how to suck eggs. Why would a grandmother do that? Perhaps I should refer to him as a grandfather. He launches into burpees.
‘My wife will be back tomorrow,’ he tells us while jumping.
Where has his wife gone, I wonder. We are meant to be staying home to save lives, after all. She is Israeli, his wife. He likes to tell us that.
‘My wife is a Jew. I can say that because she is from the Homeland, and I am Black. Black Lives Matter.’
Pip goes the alarm. Maybe his wife will notice and fix it when she comes back from wherever it is she has gone. It could be slowly suffocating him and his kids to death and he doesn’t even know it. What if he can’t hear the pip because the pitch is too high? Can no one in his house hear it? Surely his children can. They are young and apricot stone brown with beautiful ringlets. There are two of them, and they could be boys or girls.
‘Check out my socks today. Spider-Man.’ He shows us an ankle and kisses his bicep. ‘Now drop and give me 15 more burpees. I don’t want any moaning from you lot, shut up!’
I jump up and down, up and down. I am trying to be soft-footed because I am the second floor flat and I don’t want to upset my neighbour downstairs. She is South African and works as a video editor. I see from the multiple letters she receives from HMRC that the company is called ‘Splice Girl,’ which I think is a great name for her business. I want to tell her this, but we have never met, even though I have lived here for three years. I place my ear to the floor: It’s okay, I can hear her snoring. It is 4.30 in the afternoon.
Pip pip pip. My cat darts under my chest and I nearly crush her but I don’t. Pip pip pip. Should I message my gym instructor? Will he thank me? Will he remember me from the time before? Maybe he really doesn’t know. He’s running out of time.
Pip pip pip.
The 45-minute video is coming to an end. I know what will happen. I will shut my laptop and shower and have a glass of wine and check the numbers for the day. I will forget all about the alarm when I cannot hear it anymore. Just like with all the other videos I have done by now. All smudging into one like the colours on a paint palette.
Pip pip pip.
I shut the laptop. I no longer have a portal into Wayne’s world. I am no longer worried about my gym instructor. I am alone again.
On April 15th, 1945, a heavily pregnant Nakahara Toshiko arrived home to Kurayoshi, Tottori Prefecture, western Japan with a small child on her back. It had been a long and arduous journey. By rail from northern China, through Manchuria, and down the Korean peninsula by ship from Busan to Hakata in Kyushu and then again by train to Kurayoshi. Some 2,500 kilometers. Surprisingly, her husband Toshio, a staff officer in the Imperial Japanese Army based in Shijiazhuang, Hebei Province, had been given special permission to accompany her.
Toshio had inherited a large tract of land, which he hoped would provide amply for his family after he returned shortly to his posting in Hebei.
But it was not to be. Disaster had struck. Unbeknown to him, an elderly aunt, who had been taking care of the land in his absence, had sold it. The cash value was wiped out amid hyper-inflation. The Nakaharas were suddenly transformed into homeless, poverty-stricken refugees.
Nakahara Toshiko was born in 1922, the fourth of nine children in a farming family. They owned their own land, and hence were not considered poor, but they were most certainly not rich either. One of her fondest childhood memories is of a trip with her sister to Mount Daisen, often called “Western Fuji” for its distinctive volcanic peak, so similar to the sacred mountain. It was only a journey of thirty kilometers by bus, but to the young Toshiko was a transition to a wondrous different world.
Shortly before finishing primary school at the age of 12, Toshiko was sent to work in Kyoto, Japan’s ancient capital, as a maid in a steel merchant’s household. Although she was a servant, her legal rights were respected and she finished primary school there. For the rural girl, the more refined Kyoto education was a shock, but Toshiko learned new skills such as how to operate an abacus.
As the senior of three maids, she attended the lady of the house, a former geiko (the name given to geisha in Kyoto) and teacher of ikebana flower arrangement, on high-society visits and in her flower classes. Her job was to carry the mistress’s handbag and other apparel. The young Toshiko was in a kind of heaven of beauty and sophistication, and was even allowed to taste the delicate Kyoto sweets left after the tea parties to which she accompanied the ikebana teacher.
The master of the house was a former colonel in the Imperial Army, a gruff but kindly and unpretentious man who always dressed in simple kimono and worked tirelessly in the family business. His family were originally samurai from Aizu, a tough northern domain annihilated during the civil wars of the 1860s, and he followed his ancestor’s austere and unostentatious ways. The colonel encouraged Toshiko to read by giving her access to his books.
There were four sons; the eldest two attended the University of Tokyo, the third Doshisha University in Kyoto, and the fourth, who had a fondness for animals, studied agriculture at Hokkaido University. This was an extremely prestigious family educational record. Indeed it would still be today.
One day, out of the blue, when she was twenty, a message arrived telling Toshiko to return home immediately to Kurayoshi. On arrival, to her great surprise, she was informed that she was to be married the next day to Nakahara Toshio, a staff officer based in Shijiazhuang, China. The day after the ceremony, they left for his posting.
Even by the standards of the day, this was unusual. Daughters were normally at least consulted before being married off. But that was not her father’s way and she obeyed.
Having been a maid herself only a matter of days before, she was now the mistress of a Chinese house, with a servant of her own. Her new husband worked in the Japanese military world, prosecuting the Second Sino-Japanese War, and left his young wife to manage the household alone. The elderly serving woman who helped her did not speak a word of Japanese, so Toshiko had to learn Chinese fast – at least, just enough to keep the home going.
Shijiazhuang was a strategically important city and, since its capture in 1937, a key headquarters of the Imperial Japanese Army. Strong fortifications were erected. The city was surrounded by trenches and barbed wire, and 5,000 concrete pillboxes were built in its defense. Not only was it a Chinese city, built in a radically different way to Japanese cities – of brick rather than wood – but it felt like a city at war. Extremely daunting to a girl brought up in rural Tottori and serene Kyoto.
By the time Toshiko arrived, the Japanese civilian community, many of whom, reflecting the multiethnic empire, were in fact Korean, numbered well over 10,000. There were even, surprisingly, other people from Tottori Prefecture (the least populated prefecture in Japan). Military families were well provided for, enjoying standards of healthcare – including the best possible maternity provision for the birth of the Nakahara’s first daughter Chie – and food no different (and later in the war perhaps far better) than in the home islands.
However, by 1945 Japan was on the verge of defeat. Although news was strictly controlled, it was clear that the Americans were approaching the home islands. Nobody talked about it out loud, not to the young wife of an officer, but all knew the end was nigh. A second pregnancy gave Toshiko a chance to return to Japan, and luckily her husband was granted leave from his duties to accompany her.
Had they not left China then, they would have likely been victims of the massive upheavals that accompanied the collapse and disintegration of the Japanese Empire only a few months later. In the chaos, thousands died. From starvation, in the surprise invasion by the Soviet Red Army, and in reprisal attacks by the liberated locals, although in China proper these were relatively restrained. Thousands of children were separated from their families and adopted into Chinese households. The identification and repatriation of these castaways lasted until the 21st century.
The Nakaharas had arrived back in Kurayoshi to a warm welcome from Toshiko’s mother, and on July 17th, 1945, their second daughter Masae was born. Toshiko begged her husband not to return to China. His emotions must have been in turmoil, Toshio was a man who did his duty come what may. But which duty should he prioritize ? His country or his family?
He stayed in Kurayoshi.
Less than a month after Masae’s birth, Japan surrendered.
Prior to the surrender, while the war raged far away, resources in this quiet and peaceful corner of Japan had already been strained. Food was directed to the cities further south and east. Fertilizer production was curbed in favor of munitions. The military commandeered anything they could. Everything went into the war effort.
Post-war, conditions deteriorated further. Those in the cities and surrendered combatants on distant battlefields were starving. In fact more Japanese soldiers died from hunger than in battle over the course of the war.
The Japanese were not alone. All over Asia, in China, India, and elsewhere, the war caused tens of millions of deaths from hunger, both through shortages arising from conflict, and through governments’ administrative incompetence.
The Nakaharas were in penury, their land was lost, and only a small and dilapidated rental property remained to provide a tiny income. The family had no fixed abode of their own and flitted between the houses of relatives, trying not to outstay their welcome. They did not even have their own futons, so an aunt donated her old kimonos to be filled with straw and made into bedding. Toshiko’s husband made do with his old army uniform.
At least as members of a farming family, they had just enough food to survive. They certainly could not have afforded the black market prices that were being charged for the most basic necessities.
Post-war Japan was in ruins. Industrial capacity was at 10% of pre-war levels. Most cities were reduced to shouldering embers. Infrastructure of every sort was in tatters, and the massive psychological blow of defeat and national destruction hovered over everything. For the first time ever, Japan was the object of foreign occupation. The Allied occupation was in fact relatively benign, and huge imports of food from North America ensured that very few people actually died from starvation. But it initially seemed like one more nail in the coffin.
The return of seven million new mouths to feed from former imperial territories did not help the situation. The hikiagesha, returnees, were often stigmatized, made scapegoats for the defeat and disaster. Many felt they had become unwanted aliens in their own country.
There was little work to be had for a former soldier, and Toshiko’s husband struggled. One day, she happened to see a police recruiting poster. Toshio was not keen on the idea, but he had little choice in the matter, there was no other way to provide for his family. On October 1st 1945, he applied, took the tests and was successful. He was transferred in succession to the two biggest cities in Tottori Prefecture, Yonago and then Tottori City itself. The family stayed in Kurayoshi.
At last a modicum of stability had been established, but junior police salaries were low, prices were sky-high, shop shelves were bare and times were still hard. Two more daughters arrived, Tokie and Miyako. Toshiko’s husband could not help feeling disappointed at not having a son, and complained bitterly to her.
The family still helped them out with food, sending wind-fall fruit to feed the growing girls. Sometimes Toshiko’s elder brother took the girls on trips to the nearby seaside and camping in the mountains.
Japan recovered, then flourished, and so did the Nakaharas. Chie the eldest daughter married and moved to Hiroshima, the other three daughters went to university and became teachers and medical professionals, then started families of their own. In the 1980s, Toshio was decorated by the emperor for his police service, and Toshiko accompanied him to the Imperial Palace in Tokyo for the award ceremony.
Life became easier, but Toshiko never forgot the hard times. She spent her life working hard to bring up her children, support her husband, and grow vegetables for the table. She would visit multiple shops daily to find the cheapest prices and always kept an eagle eye on interest rates so as to get the best return for the family’s savings. She was still working her small field and garden vegetable patch well into her eighties. It was a life with few luxuries, exemplified by the time a few years before her death that her granddaughter, Junko, tried to knead her grandmother’s tired shoulders. After a few minutes she said, “That is the first time anyone has given me a massage.”
Perhaps her one luxury was sweets. She always retained the sweet tooth developed as a maid to the fine lady in Kyoto all those years ago. The last thing she ever ate was yokan, a sweet jelly from the famous Tokyo confectioner Toraya, which Masae fed her on her last day of consciousness.
Nakahara Toshiko’s story is that of a normal life lived in troubled times. It is representative of the lives of millions of Japanese women of the age whose stories are rarely told, especially not in languages other than Japanese.
The wars that the Japanese military and state engaged in during the 1930s and ’40s are well known, indeed infamous. The civilians caught up in the machinations of the powerful had little choice but to do their duty as they saw it, and ultimately to survive.
Women like Nakahara Toshiko worked hard, overcame adversity and nurtured the children, and grandchildren who would change a militaristic empire into a strong and prosperous, peaceful nation. Their praises are rarely sung, but they deserve to be.
This is one small attempt.
Nakahara Toshiko died in 2012 at the age of 90, seven years after her husband passed away.
Before he died, Toshio told his wife, “お前。女の子だけで良かった。”
“Sweet one. I am glad you only had daughters.”
This article is based upon several interviews with Nakahara Toshiko in 2011, a year before her death. The memories of Kinoshita Masae, the daughter who she bore within her on the long journey back from China, and her granddaughter Junko Lockley, as well as various other family stories, contributed to this article.
As he climbed the fence he looked down the street again and it was still empty. Some stray dogs were on the corner, and one had detached itself from the group and followed him. It now sat regarding him curiously. Reaching the top of the fence, he swung himself over and then dropped awkwardly. He lay still, catching his breath, and watched the orange light from the street lamps filter through the mesh of the wire fence and the branches of the trees that hung down over him.
He looked at his watch. It was well past midnight.
It should be cooler now, he thought. But if anything it felt closer than it had earlier. His t-shirt stuck to him, and even in the darkness the air seemed to ripple with the heat.
He had been wandering the streets after drinking with new friends. It was a new city.
Somehow the excitement of arrival had overtaken him, and he’d drunk too much. There had been endless toasts with a harsh spirit that tasted of liquorice and which numbed his tongue. After, to clear his head, he had walked and allowed himself to become lost. But even as he wandered, he found he could always orient himself by the huge and ancient structure towering over the city, lit by spotlights. It was always there, glimpsed between alleys and high above the squares. He planned to visit tomorrow, or maybe the next day. But in his heightened state it somehow drew him to it, and after a while he found himself on a road that skirted the hill. A wire fence ran along the boundary and was overlooked by dark trees. And through the woods he could see it, the rocky ground rising steeply up towards the sky and the great temple like a beacon. Then the idea had formed that he must visit now. How wonderful it would be to explore the ruins alone, without crowds, he thought. And it was very unlikely anyone would notice. What harm could come of it?
He got to his feet and started to push his way up through the undergrowth.
*
He had seen the ruin for the first time that morning.
He was in a café, and the morning sun was already hot. It was a new city. It had been dark when his train had arrived the evening before. When the waiter brought him his coffee, they chatted. He asked him about the city, keen to learn, as always. The waiter explained how to say please and thank you, rolling the consonants. They both laughed at his efforts to copy the sounds. The language was unfamiliar and awkward to him. He couldn’t get his mouth around it.
On the table before him was a notebook, pressed open, pages empty. When he did lean over it to write, it was only to note his expenditure and make the daily calculation. How long could he keep on like this? The coffee was bitter. His thoughts wandered, but he found that his gaze was drawn always to the great stone ruin on the hill that dominated the city.
He chatted also to an old couple who sat at the next table. At first they were wary, eyeing his shaved head and the bracelets on his wrists. He had been travelling for months and it showed, on his skin and clothes and in the way he moved. But he was polite, and they quickly saw that he was gentle and open. He reminded them of their own son somehow, a little lost, searching for something, and they told him so. They insisted on paying his bill, and for the first time in weeks he had a pang of homesickness, which he quickly swallowed.
*
At first it was difficult to force a way uphill through the bushes and over the rocks. Several times he slipped and fell in the darkness. But then he found himself on a wide pathway, roughly paved, that climbed gently across the hillside. Here he stopped and looked back at the city spread below him. It was like an enormous jigsaw puzzle, he thought, lit by embers and flames. It went on for as far as he could see and the glow of it cast a gentle fire on the sky.
He followed the path and found himself beside a broken amphitheatre that reminded him of a vast and ancient seashell. Like all the other structures on the hill, it was illuminated with sodium lamps that cast a strange orange brightness like unwavering candlelight and seemed to distort scale and render the whole hillside unreal.
The temple was now directly above him, its many columns lit up and its interior filled with shadow. He followed the path and soon found himself on the top of the hill. Around the temple were a number of low flat-roofed structures which, he thought, might have been small dwellings, storage chambers, or perhaps even tombs. He climbed up onto one of them and lay down. The stone was warm.
Above him the fiery glow of the city spread across the sky.
He lay back on the stone and closed his eyes.
*
When he woke he did not know, for a moment, where he was. Lying back and looking up into the night sky, he remembered the encounter with Smith earlier that day. It had been like seeing his own ghost. And now he felt that Smith was haunting him.
It had been early in the afternoon. He was eating in a small place renowned not only for its food but also for its cheapness. He was seated in a small courtyard shaded by vines. The clientele was mainly young Europeans. A tall man in an old t-shirt and cargo shorts brought his bowl of food over and asked if he could sit with him. He was gaunt, and his skin was like leather. His head was shaved. His face was deeply creased, and he could have been anything between thirty and sixty. Around his wrists were leather bands and faded friendship bracelets, but no watch. On his upper arm a tattoo of a compass. A moment of recognition passed between them. He nodded and the man introduced himself, smiling: Smith, just Smith. They talked, comparing notes on their journeys and, having finished his food, he bought himself a beer and settled into the conversation.
“Have you been to the temple yet?” Smith asked, and he shook his head.
“It’s amazing,” Smith enthused, his eyes glowing. “Mind blowing, really. There’s a definite power up there.”
He nodded. He intended to go tomorrow, and said so.
“I might go too,” said Smith.
And he thought to himself, I don’t want to go with him. I want to go alone.
Tourist or traveller, Smith had asked him. Traveller, he had replied without hesitation. He understood the distinction. For a long time, intoxicated by Chatwin, Durrell, Laurie Lee, Malcolm Lowry and even Kerouac, he had believed travelling was an end in itself, a way of life, a philosophy even, by which one might attain self-knowledge. That it was not so much the things seen and the sites visited that were important, but the process of going from one to another. Time and space. Objects, people, and places could only teach so much. In travelling, passing through, moving on, giving oneself over, a different kind of insight could be gained.
Smith laughed and explained that he had been on the road for years. He called it wandering. In a hierarchy of the road, Smith was clearly a venerable master (even if self-appointed), while he was just a novice. Smith was scornful of guidebooks (and he was suddenly grateful that his own battered Lonely Planet was safely hidden in his rucksack). No one tells me what to do, Smith said vehemently. Sometimes he found work and stayed put for a few months. Mostly he wandered. He had been on the move for years. He was looking for something but didn’t know what it was. He had a vague idea he’d get to Constantinople and then keep going, try to get as far east as he could. Into the unknown. All that.
He watched Smith as he talked, drawn in by his intensity. The older man was scathing about what he called normal life and said fervently that he was encouraged by the violent protests against capitalism unfolding at home even as they were speaking. “Change is coming,” he said. “You watch.” He was even more damning of what he called touristic tendencies. Fucking cattle. Morons. He gestured around him. What started out as a kind of comedy rant quickly became a real one. Fucking morons. But then he laughed, and the anger had passed as quickly as it had come, which in itself was unnerving.
As they talked, he saw that Smith had the air of a kind of fanatic. “I won’t be tied down,” he said. “No way. No one tells me what to do. Never.” His commitment to non-commitment was absolute.
Smith’s eyes were bright but seemed to be always seeking out something far away, somewhere beyond. As they talked, he had the sense that Smith looked right through him and was instead focussed on some abstract place far down the road.
Somehow, this strange conversation put him off balance. The vision of the endless road east, which once would have been so intoxicating, had become terrifying. The sense of having no goal, no destination, was vertiginous. He thought to himself, I’ve lost my nerve.
There was a silence as Smith unzipped the leather pouch that hung from his belt and, extracting a small plastic bag and papers, quickly rolled a short joint. No thanks, he said, when Smith offered it. Too early for me.
Smith puffed and leaned back into the cushions, contented.
He watched him and thought, is it possible that I have never really done what I want, never really been true to myself? That I have always tried to act out a role? That, in essence, I’ve been lying to myself all this time?
His thoughts spiralled around and back upon themselves and, to distract himself, he questioned Smith, who was sitting in a haze of blue smoke. How do you keep going, he asked. Seasonal work, fruit picking, building sites, Smith explained. Of course, you have to be very careful with money. Sometimes you get lucky. He nodded, thinking of the kindly couple paying for his breakfast. And sometimes you have to make your own luck, Smith whispered, winking grotesquely, and made a gesture as of dipping his fingers into a pot.
In a way Smith was good company – he had many stories to tell and was happy to tell them to whoever would listen – but there was something maniacal about him that he found deeply unsettling. He had been out too far and for too long. It was as if all those days and months and years of travelling, of living hand-to-mouth, had honed him to a fine point or stretched him out too thinly. Normally he would have been fascinated by this, would have wanted to know Smith’s story. He might even have written it down in his notebook, thinking perhaps it pertained to his own journey. But something seemed to have cracked in him, and instead he was appalled. I’ve lost my nerve, he thought again. Don’t let me end up like him, he said to himself. That road is endless.
“You know,” said Smith, with a smile, “there comes a time after which it is impossible to turn back. After that, you have no choice but to keep going.”
He nodded and smiled, but the concept filled him with dread.
An acquaintance of Smith joined them, and then the drinking began in earnest. Suddenly there was a group of them, and he found himself buying many drinks, recklessly burning through his limited funds. The conversation had undone him, and he felt the need of strong drink to steady himself. Then at some point Smith was gone, and he felt a curious relief. He could not escape the feeling that the older man was an auger, that he somehow represented one of many possible futures. But by then the moment, his chance to address the problem, whatever it might have been, had passed, and he gave himself over to the night.
*
But now perhaps he has another chance. He has been asleep. When he wakes he does not know, for a moment, where he is. And that feeling of being lost is truly terrifying. It is like swimming out to sea and then looking down and being unable to see the bottom, only a deep and dark void. He seems to have come adrift in some way. He is far from home, and it is the only thing he is certain of. But then it comes back. The journey and everything else. And Smith, the ghost.
It is deep in the night and everything is quiet and still and the city is holding its breath. The lights stretch for as far as he can see and twinkle and ripple like tiny fires.
Could he still make it right? Even to start again? Is there time to sort it all out, or has he gone too far?
Slowly the fear passes. As he watches the flickering lights far below he begins to feel an extraordinary sense of relief. A weight has lifted. He has escaped. He cannot help but think that somehow he has avoided a catastrophe. Somehow, by climbing up here above the city, he has cheated fate. He has cheated Smith, even.
He thinks of the blank pages in the notebook and knows it is over. It is not defeat; it is acceptance. He finally knows now, after months, he has been chasing the wrong dream. He must get to his hotel and sleep. Tomorrow he will need to start again.
He thought he was, but he is not of Smith’s kind.
Wearily, he picks himself up and climbs down from the stone slab.
A pale line of light appears on the horizon. It is just a slit, an opening in the veil of the darkness, but the day is coming.
He begins to carefully make his way back down the mountainside.
I am ten. I am wearing my new purple and white matching leggings and vest top that I chose from my nan’s Freemans catalogue. They have the intoxicating smell of new polyester just pulled from its protective plastic. It is summer and school has paused for six long glorious weeks of freedom and the air is sticky, frizzing my short, thick hair. I sit on the 253 bus with my best friend. I don’t remember where we are going nor where we have been, only that we are ten and life is simply an adventure, full of parks, playgrounds, fizzy sweets, repeatedly renting the same three VHS tapes from the video shop and creating dance routines to Belinda Carlisle and Tiffany songs. I know nothing yet of adult things. We are ten and we suck lurid red ice pops on the bus unaware of any connotations. A man older than my father sits behind me and I am aware that he is shuffling in his seat. Something feels strange I think but I don’t know what, or why. At some point, the man leans forward and kisses my back. As if it is the most normal thing in the world. I freeze. My heart pumps violently. This is new. Time slows. I feel my face flush. I am scared and confused. I turn and look at the man and he looks right back at me, unbothered. I look at my friend, desperate, pleading. For what? She doesn’t know what to do. Of course not. We are ten. I don’t think we even discuss it. We are both embarrassed. Today we learned a little about adult things. I remember still the way his beard felt, scratchy on my left shoulder blade. It still makes me shudder.
*
I am twelve. I walk down the busy high street towards the station from my block. I pass all the sweet, familiar smells of my neighbourhood. Perming solution, jerk chicken, laundry detergent, overflowing bins. I am going to meet my friend at Ed’s Diner where we will perch on high red stools at Formica counters and drink malted vanilla milkshakes from silver tankards, feeding the mini tabletop jukebox with ten pence pieces, listening to 50’s songs we have heard in the movie Grease, singing along to lyrics that we don’t yet fully understand, about unwanted sex, women being slags and secret abortions.
A man on a dark blue motorbike kerb crawls me along the road, although I don’t yet know the term kerb crawl. I am wearing boot-cut blue jeans and scuffed trainers, a baggy white t-shirt with a man’s oversized checked blazer. He whistles at me. I look directly ahead and keep walking. It is daytime, and there are people everywhere, so I must be safe, but my heart does that violent pumping thing again. He whistles some more and keeps pace beside me. Don’t look, I tell myself, don’t react, he will leave soon, ride away. The whistling persists and then is replaced by that universal ‘tk tk’ noise people use to summon a cat or a dog. Or a girl. My legs become feeble, but I try to walk faster without showing that I am afraid. I tell myself to pull myself together, that I am stupid to be scared. I feel a nervous rash spreading across my chest. I become angry. The man wears a helmet, his identity preserved. He is faceless. I finally feel a moment of something approaching courage and mumble ‘for god’s sake leave me alone’. He revs his bike, which makes me jump, and he pulls in close to me, in my path, on the pavement and yells at me: ‘fuck you, you walk like a man anyway,’ before speeding off. My hands and my legs tremble, and I start to cry but I do not stop walking. I feel ashamed. I don’t know what upsets me the most. The fact that he followed me, frightened me or the fact he insulted me.
Oh god, do I walk like a man?
How does a man walk?
A man walks proudly. Strides, unburdened, with no fear of danger on his way to the station. A man takes up space and owns it. Certainly, at no point in my life do I walk like a man. I am fifteen. I stand outside the post office moments from my flat, in my neighbourhood where I have grown. The post office that sits between the Turkish grocers where I used to buy penny sweets and now buy cigarettes, and the launderette where I bring bags of heavy, sodden clothes and pockets bursting with coins when our washing machine breaks, which it does with alarming regularity. As I wait in line, a man calls out ‘hey sexy.’ I roll my eyes. This is not new anymore. Far from it. I am thoroughly exhausted by it, worn down. And I have also now learned how I am required to respond. Boys and men will spit out carnal words about my body, furious words, sharp like darts. They puncture and they smart, but I am expected to receive them appreciatively. To collect threats as commendations, as validation of my worth. To act flattered and most importantly, to not be a fucking bitch about it. But I am furious. I am old enough to court attention. I am not unknowing. I am aware of my body, and conscious of my currency, and I am also old enough to know that you do not talk back, you do not antagonise, you do not ‘make things worse’ and you certainly do not ‘ask for it’.
I ignore, ignore, ignore but he persists. ‘Hey sexy. Hey sexy. Hey sexy. Hey sexy. Oh, you’re too good to reply, are you? Think you’re special do you? Stuck up, are you? Can’t you take a compliment? What’s the matter with you? Lost your voice? Fucking ugly bitch’. I mumble ‘oh fuck off’. As soon as the words escape my lips my fury turns to fear. Oh, I have done it now. Stupid girl. The man propels himself towards me, closes in, presses his chest against mine and backs me up against the wall. I can smell his sweat. He tells me with little emotion that he has a knife and that he could stab me, and I freeze. I cannot move, and I am unable to breathe. In that suspended moment, with my feet jammed firmly to the ground, I understand fully, for the very first time, that I will forever feel unsafe. They say in moments of danger you see what you are made of. Fight or flight? My body’s response is neither to flee nor push nor run nor shout for help. It is to freeze, startled into inaction. My body wholly incapacitated.
I remember the way he laughs at me as he bowls off, kissing his teeth and shaking his head as if I have done something unfathomable. I remember how as the feeling slowly floods back into my body, my legs are no longer able to keep me upright. They wobble like jelly and I sink to the ground where I stay for quite a while, trying to calm my racing heart. I remember too how nobody comes to my rescue. Nobody asks me if I am ok. I ask someone for a light and smoke a cigarette, hands shaking. And I remember feeling a new rage that has not left me since. It is the recognition that as a woman, it does not matter how smart, judicious, sensible, confident, streetwise or outspoken I am, I will forever be vulnerable and that in a dangerous situation, I could again be rendered powerless, incapable.
There have been tens of thousands of incidents in the decades since. Some you could consider minor, ugly slurs yelled, vulgar words whispered, bodies pressed too close, hands too loose, protestations ignored. Others certainly more serious. Flesh grabbed, consent unsought, drinks spiked. Over the years there has been running and crying and the now so overly familiar violent heart pumping.
*
How do you walk like a woman? You try to walk in daylight. And when you must walk after dark it is with keys clenched tightly between knuckles, one earphone out, volume so low that you can’t enjoy the music anymore. You walk swiftly, with purpose, never quite sure whether to hold your head high or keep your eyes firmly on the ground. You stick to main roads where you can. Or you are too nervous to walk so instead, you order a cab. And though you have taken tens of thousands of cabs in your life, each and every time you climb into one alone and hear the clunking sound of the automatic lock, encasing you in a small space with an unknown man, your phone in hand, unlocked with your best friend’s or boyfriend’s number glowing on the screen beneath your poised finger, you think ‘I hope I get home tonight.’
In the beginning…
… they were citizens of the bubble. Its colours the deep emerald of the forest, the blue mosaic where the ocean met the sky, the wisps of lilac clouds at dusk. They lived in the treetops and between the rocks. They covered their bodies in warm sand and counted the stars above. They woke up to mosquito bites, and birdsong, and the distant scent of possibility. The future abstract, yet palpable.
Then…
Postcodes at odds – treehouses are not forever homes. Oceans divide.
Passports at odds – the fortress guards itself against intruders.
Colours at odds – chromatism only in tones of skin: black, and white, and brown in between.
The future arrived and it was colourless, but pigmented.
Parenthesis
It’s really a ‘boy meets girl’ story. Except it’s not.
It’s a ‘black boy meets brown girl’ story. Except it’s not.
It’s an ‘african boy meets indian girl’ story. Except it’s not.
It’s a ‘latino boy meets european girl’ story. Except it’s not.
It’s a ‘middle-class love story.’ Except it’s not.
It’s really only just a love story. Except it’s not.
Hierarchies
Her father said: This is unacceptable. I have worked all my life to make it in this world. I am not racist: We just want the best for you.
Marry up, not down. A person of too much colour.
His father said: This is unacceptable. I am a leader in the black movement. I am not racist: It’s a matter of principle, of allegiance to our kind.
Not enough melanin. A person of too little colour.
African pride versus Indian assimilation. Brown complicity in black oppression.
Against white, there’s only overtones of melanin, undertones of perfection.
Blindness
Friends said: Your babies will be soooo beautiful! I wish I could have chocolate babies!
A delicious caramel macchiato of a couple.
Colleagues said: I had never even noticed we were different until you said it! I don’t see colour – you’re just like me!
Congratulations. You’ve reached the absence of colour.
Except colour is not just in the eye of the beholder. It has been wedged into the tissues and the bones and the heart and the mind and the soul of the holder.
Way below the skin, there’s black, and white, and brown in between.
Across the ocean
The emerald forest, and the deep blue ocean, and the birdsong over the treetops will forever be with us. We’re on the same page. We’re on the same side.
He shares: I was dared to jump in a pool to prove my hair could get wet.
She shares: I was told to go back where I come from – in the city I was born in.
He shares: I’ve ran from the police all my life.
She shares: I’m treated like a terrorist.
He shares: I’m treated like an animal.
We’re on the same side, we’re on the same page.
He says: You don’t understand. Caramel skin is exotic. Black skin is dirty.
She says: You don’t understand. My identity is denied in my own country.
He says: You don’t understand. You’ve never been afraid of the police.
She says: You don’t understand. You’ve never been strip searched at the airport.
He says: You just can’t understand. Your ancestors were not enslaved.
Racism does not end with your experience, she states.
You’re relativising my experience, he replies.
You’re minimising mine, she claims.
Nothing compares, he sighs.
They’ve got to us, they think. Are we not on the same side?
In Slipping by Mohammed Kheir, struggling journalist Seif is sent on a walking assignment through Egypt with an enigmatic companion named Bahr. An exile, Bahr has come back to his homeland to research material for a book, and Seif is picked to accompany him and write an article about their trip. Set after the Arab Spring uprising, this novel begins as a mystical journey and becomes much deeper, turning into an examination of both the fractured self and the psyche of a fractured nation.
Seif and Bahr are both dealing with their own grief, and this journey leads them to look inward and confront their own traumas. Intertwined with their expedition are the stories of other people who are either related to the places they visit or who have played an important part in their lives. A pivotal character is Ayla, Seif’s ex-girlfriend, who has an almost supernatural talent for singing sounds such as the gently lapping waves of the Nile, falling rain, or the crackle of a flame. Ayla also has the ability to feel when things are about to happen. She believes that she is connected directly to her distant ancestors; she is almost prehistoric in her relationship to the world around her, and she can see and feel things that others can’t. So she knows when it’s going to rain, but she also knows when things are about to turn bad – an inbuilt sense of danger that can be both saviour and enemy. What happens between Alya and Seif is directly responsible for Seif being on this journey, and his coming to terms with it over the course of their travels is far more important than his assignment for the magazine.
We also learn about Bahr as they walk and the reason for his exile. In some quite harrowing chapters, he details his early experiences of protest and suffering at the hands of the regime before he leaves Egypt and travels around Europe, sometimes living in refugee camps, sometimes in a succession of dingy rooms, taking part-time jobs, always with a packed bag sitting by the door and a nagging, insistent need to be ready to run. Eventually he falls in love and has a child, but it isn’t long before things go wrong and he has to leave again. Both of these men have loved deeply and lost painfully, and this pain is reflected in a nation trying to come to terms with the aftermath of the recent political storm.
Together the two men visit a number of out of the way, odd, or seemingly just impossible locations and people. For example, they visit an intersection of streetcar tracks where it’s possible to stand in a tiny safe spot as streetcars whistle past on both sides and even the slightest of movements would result in serious injury or death. Under a starlit sky, they appear to walk across the surface of the Nile when the tide is low enough for them to be able to walk on a raised section of riverbed. They visit an apartment block that is literally being rocked to its foundations by construction work next door, and there they meet a council inspector who has moved into the building because the vibrations provide a desperately-sought cure for his insomnia. We also take a walk in a rich, cosmopolitan neighbourhood where gigantic flowers with blade-like protrusions sprouting from their centres rain down onto unsuspecting pedestrians from the walls of a house perched high above them on a rocky outcrop. On the surface, these and the rest of the places they visit don’t appear to have much, if anything, in common. But the stories that Seif and Bahr tell each other as they travel, and the other people whose stories we hear and who are all, in some way, connected – no matter how loosely – bind them all together and create a patchwork from the fragments.
The world that most of us can’t quite see, the mysterious world that sits just at the periphery of our vision, is hugely important in this book, and so it’s not surprising that the story is filled with ghosts. The dead are everywhere, from the opening chapter to the closing one. They haunt Seif and Bahr on every step of their journey, and both were seeing ghosts before they met. Shortly after the protests, a traumatised Seif starts seeing the faces of dead people he once knew everywhere – at a café, in the metro station, driving a car, at the zoo. Of course, when he circles back to check on one of them, he finds that it isn’t his friend back from the dead and sitting outside the café, just someone who has the same build and posture. But each time he sees one of these faces it shakes him, and when he isn’t able to go back and check, he can’t be sure what he has and hasn’t seen. When he and Bahr visit “the wall of visions” in a temple carved into a rock, it is with the intention of seeing the dead; and that night, Seif sees them in his dreams. Ahmed, one of the devotees at the wall who watches over Seif and Bahr during their visit, saw his father’s ghost in his dreams when he was still living at home, and his mother, claiming to be almost possessed by it, gave their neighbours advice from her dead husband to the extent that they came to rely on it. After his mother has died, they turn to Ahmed to carry on telling them what to do, and it is on his, or rather his father’s advice, that the town makes a collective, life-changing decision.
Translated by Robin Moger, Slipping is a beautifully written work, lyrical and evocative. It is also intensely moving. Seif’s love for Alya shines from the page, and his joy at hearing her sing the sounds of the world around him is infectious. When tragedy hits, it’s so devastating that we feel the pain and the loss with him. Meanwhile, Bahr’s traumas seep into us, and we live his fear, humiliation, and anger. Mysterious and dreamlike in places, Slipping is also a beautiful lament to futures lost, both personal and political; and much like its ghosts and visions, it will continue to haunt you long after you have finished it.
Slipping
By Mohamed Kheir
Translated by Robin Moger
260 pages. Two Lines Press
Haiku in Africa is growing nowadays. And as a “new” art finding roots in Africa, credit could be given to Sono Uchida, the prominent Japanese haiku poet and diplomat, who thirty years ago in Senegal initiated a haiku contest in the French language, which in those days was the only international haiku contest on the African continent. Later, there as an ambassador, he also promoted haiku in Morocco, among other places he was posted to. Being a haikuist himself, he founded The International Association of Haiku, Japan, with his friends in 1989 to support the development of cultural and human exchanges through the works of haiku.
During his three-and-a-half-year mission as an ambassador of Japan, he had always felt that Senegal would be a fertile ground for the growth of haiku. The image of the Senegalese people adapted to nature reminded him of the traditional life of the Japanese people that the contemporary world has started to forget. According to Sono Uchida, it was the belief of haiku poets in Japan that nature does not belong to men, but rather it is men who belong to nature. In that respect, men should always revere nature and live in harmony with it.
His haiku pursuit in Senegal was supported by the first President of Senegal, His Excellency Léopold Sédar Senghor, who was also a great friend of haiku.
In 1980, during his stay in Dakar, Uchida wrote this haiku
firmament covered
(translated from the original Japanese, source unknown)
of Saharan dust
white sun does not move
Haiku Activities in West African Countries
Haiku activities in West Africa in recent years have been dominated and championed for the most part by Ghanaian and Nigerian poets in international circles, primarily through regular posting on various haiku societies’ and associations’ websites, on social media platforms, and by participating in international contest and kukai, with some of their haiku taking the topmost, runner-up and honourable mention positions. Mention can be made of early African haiku poets like Nana Fredua-Agyeman (Ghana), Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah (Ghana), and Oritsegbemi Emmanuel Jakpa (Nigeria), all of whom had written and published in journals, and later Emmanuel-Abdalmasih Samson of Nigeria, who invented what he termed “mirror haiku”, a technique that would be found in many other haiku cultures around the world.
Here are few samples of their early published haiku in various journals around the world:
the swift’s home
– Nana Fredua-Agyeman, Ghana (Simply Haiku 4.4)
in the wall–
painted over
empty matchboxes
– Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah, Ghana (Ambrosia 4)
scattered in the mud
my new community
harmattan
– Oritsegbemi Emmanuel Jakpa, Nigeria (Shamrock 15)
cracking green buds
from a tree
walking in the rain
– Emmanuel-Abdalmasih Samson, Facebook Notes (Mirror Haiku Series),
umbrellas sing counterpoint
August concerto
August concerto
umbrellas sing counterpoint
walking in the rain
31-08-2011
Among the contemporary haijin who followed these early advocates, and who remain front-runners of African haiku, are Adjei Agyei-Baah (Ghana), Celestine Nudanu (Ghana), Kwaku Feni Adow (Ghana), Kojo Turson (Ghana), Emmanuel Jessie Kalusian (Nigeria), Barnabas Ìkéolúwa Adélékè (Nigeria) and Precious Oboh (Nigeria), all of whose work appears regularly in prominent journals and among winners in international contests.
roasting sun
– Adjei Agyei-Baah (The Heron’s Nest XVIII.1, The Heron’s Nest Award
the egret’s measured steps
in buffalo shadow
2016)
blackout evening
– Kwaku Feni Adow (Babishaiku Contest2016, First Prize)
the moon lights up
outdoor conversation
midday shower
– Barnabas Ìkéolúwa Adélékè (Cattails May 2016, Editor’s Choice Haiku)
a cow’s hoofprint quenches
the dove’s thirst
the homeless man
tides up his new residence
approaching storm– Emmanuel Jessie Kalusian (IAFOR Vladimir Devidé Haiku Contest 2015, Commended)
after the storm
the homelessness
of fallen leaves– Turkson Adu Darkwa (5th Japan-Russia Haiku Contest 2016, Winner, Akita International University President’s Award)
ballad of the moon –
– Precious Oboh (The Heron’s Nest XVIII.3)
virgins painted
in primary colours
dinner with family –
– Justice Joseph Prah (Mamba Haiku Journal II)
thread by thread
okra slime ties our hands
Haiku Activities in East African Countries
Haiku activities in Kenya emerged strongly from around 2006, spurred by Dr Gabi Greve in Japan, the Director of the World Kigo Database, and Susumu Takiguchi, Chairperson of the World Haiku Club. Isabelle Prondzynski, a member of the World Haiku Club, founded Kenya Saijiki, an internet discussion forum collecting a kigo database (i.e. saijiki) for Kenya and similar tropical regions, in early 2006 under the direction of Dr Greve. The group began with some 100 members with six local coordinators, and it has stabilised and grown from there.
The existence of Kenya Saijiki provided a foundation for the country’s poets to grasp the aesthetics of haiku art and thus to be able to write about their local seasons, their immediate environment and their culture, which they shared on the world stage through participation in competitions and contributions to journals, blogs and magazines. Haiku is even included as part of the national curriculum for Kenyan secondary schools.
Isabelle Prondzynski also initiated the Haiku Clubs of Nairobi, with Patrick Wafula, a Kenyan teacher, as coordinator of these clubs. Wafula (the 2010 Shiki Kukai runner-up awardee and a professional teacher at Bahati Community Centre as well as a member of Kenya Saijiki) and Caleb Mutua (a gifted Kenyan haijin and journalist, who became the first Kenyan to be published in Shamrock Haiku Journal in 2011) are among the leading lights of Kenyan haiku.
full moon –
cumulus clouds
slowly form a wolf– Patrick Wafula (Shiki Kukai 2010)
on the campus lawn,
– Caleb Mutua (Shamrock 18)
fresh anthills surrounded
by fresh mushrooms
The Haiku Clubs of Nairobi regularly invite new haijin to join, and have thus passed on their love of haiku to ever-new populations over the past ten years. They meet at least twice yearly in an all-day kukai. They now have active members in several regions of Kenya, as well as writing haiku when travelling to neighbouring countries.
The Japan Information and Culture Centre attended the very first meeting of Kenya Saijiki in 2006, and in recent years has been supportive in inviting members of Kenya Saijiki to cultural events providing information about Japan.
sunny savanna
the lion starts to yawn
then roars– Mercy Ikuri, Kenya (5th Japan-Russia Haiku Contest 2016, Honourable Mention)
Maasai village
– Mercy Ikuri, Kenya (Asahi Haikuist Network, January 6, 2017)
cattle bells awakening
the dawn
Though not much is known about haiku activities in other East African countries, some individual poets have emerged on the international scene:
a committee
gathers in celebration
dying buffalo– Nshai Waluzimba, Zambia (The 17th HIA Haiku Contest 2015, Honorable Mention)
monsoon rain
– Roundsquare Chomulet, Somalia (Mamba Haiku Journal 1)
rinse the beggar’s eyes
clearer petitions
the bully walks slow
– Judy McIntosh, Tanzania (“Our Daily Online Haiku,” USToday.com
to the principal’s office
second time this week
January, 2003)
Recent haiku activity from the East African region includes the founding of the Babishaiku Contest, organized in 2016 by Babishai Niwe Poetry Foundation, a Ugandan-based NGO dedicated to the promotion of African poetry, founded by Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva. The Foundation organized the second international haiku contest solely for Africans to promote haiku. Its first contest was judged by Adjei Agyei-Baah, a Ghanaian poet with an international reputation who is also a co-founder of Africa Haiku Network.
Haiku Activities in South African Countries
Haiku emergence is the southern part of Africa might similarly have been inspired by the activities of Japanese ambassadors and visiting Western teachers and academics.
Dennis Brutus, for instance, during an early visit to China in 1973, was influenced by haiku. And as a political racial advocate, he employed this terse poetic genre to communicate intimate moments of his memories of a lost, fleeting love, and a wish for reclamation:
That gentle touch on
your cheek many years from now:
ashes from my urn.(Source: Dennis Brutus Collection at Worcester State College, Worcester, Massachusetts, Publications and Printing Services Worcester State College Press Third Edition 2010)
Similar mention can be made of the enormous contribution of Ted Goossen, a professor from York University with a specialty in Modern and Contemporary Japanese Literature, who brought Japan’s culture to Zimbabwe through public and academic lectures, on subjects as diverse as the tea ceremony and ancestor worship to writing haiku. Goossen’s lectures yielded results, as he returned to his country with some delectable Africa haiku written by his students as a memoir:
In the middle of the night
Two frogs are croaking
At least I have some company– Cynthia Chigiya, Zimbabwe
A pool of water
Covered with wings
Where did the flying termites go? (1)– Takvra Whande, Zimbabwe
Falling raindrops
Flying ishwa
Companions on a chameleon’s tongue– anonymous
In South Africa at least six haijin have published work. Once prominent on the scene in the late ’90s was Wilhelm Haupt, who wrote in Afrikaans and published in the Netherlands. One of his early haiku published in a Dutch journal is:
Daddy, come quick and look:
– Wilhelm Haupt (Vuursteen 1998/3)
The sky is so full of
God’s footprints
Moira Richards (George, Eastern Cape) writes mostly tanka and linked verse. She once served as renku editor for Simply Haiku, and a co-convenor of the annual online festival of women’s poetry in South Africa. Some of her pieces among other renku participants can be found here:
a crusted pier
– Moira Richards (A Hundred Gourds 4:2)
points to where
the moon just was
Gus Ferguson is an African cartoonist, editor and pharmacist from Cape Town, South Africa. He edited the poetry journal, Carapace. A typical example of his verse is found below:
Gus Ferguson should be martyred
But not with wood and nails
he should be wrapped in lettuce leaves
and thrown amongst his snails.(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gus_Ferguson)
Steve Shapiro writes lovely haiku as well as haiga, and has published two haiku books, In a Borrowed Tent (1994) and Of Little Consequence (2007):
Through a hole
(In a Borrowed Tent)
in a borrowed tent
the Milky Way
Collecting mushrooms
(Of Little Consequence)
my knife blade reflecting mist
swirling through the pines
Dr. Marié Heese published Haiku for Africa in 2014 (Unisa Press, South Africa) and excerpts the collection can be read below:
faith
small beetle, huge ball of dung
he rolls it, thrusting it with the finest sand
after birth
nobody told her, she will carry the child
for the rest of her life
long live the king
vultures are circling just to frustrate them
I shall survive one more day
Daniel Hugo, an Afrikaans poet, occasionally writes haiku in Afrikaans. He was a specialist announcer/producer for Radiosondergrense, the national Afrikaans radio, and was also responsible for the literary programmes “Leeskring” and “Vers en Klank”. He was also an editor at the publishing house Protea Boekhuis. Below are sample pieces of his random written haiku:
o haiku without
nature and the seasons:
frog without pool
o haiku without
counted syllables:
spring without swallows
haikoewêreldjie:
only seventeen steps to
the top of Fuji
the rooster has a daily
break notch in his throat, he crows
get dawn color
A poet from South Africa whose haiku began appearing in journals in 2015 or so is Clifford W Lindemann of Broederstroom. Among his most recent publications are:
Dusk and the moon
(Asahi haukuist Network, December 30, 2016)
smiles at the evening star
Venus blinks
My grandson
(Asahi haukuist Network, January 6 Issue, 2017)
greets the fridge first
last night’s chicken
Other haikuists from Southern African countries recorded in contests and journals include:
a committee
gathers in celebration
dying buffalo– Nshai Waluzimba, Zambia (The 17th HIA Haiku Contest 2015, Honourable Mention)
I looked around me
In the middle of the street
Suddenly I am lost– Jacob Nthoiwa, Botswana (University of Botswana English Department, 2003)
African summer
– Rakotomahefa Diamondra, Madagascar (The Heron’s Nest XVII.3)
elephants trumpet
in the dusty plains
they roam hand in hand
in their deep connectedness
our thoughts and our minds– Lize Bard, Namibia (Haiku out of Africa, https://wandererhaiku.wordpress.com/ November 29, 2016)
The above haiku and books demonstrate the presence of haiku in South/Southern African countries but no significant activities had been recorded yet in countries such as Angola, Lesotho, Malawi, Mozambique, Namibia, and Swaziland.
Haiku Activities in North African Countries
Haiku has not remained solely in the heartland of Africa but has travelled to North African countries as well. The aforementioned Sono Uchida served as Japanese ambassador to Morocco as well, where he initiated a haiku contest that might have been the first haiku competition to have emerged from the Arab world.
In spite of this, haiku is still a relatively “new” practice in Arabic literature. The first book of haiku translated from the Japanese appeared in 2010 by a Syrian writer, Muhammad Adimah. Though most Arab haiku poets use the three short lines structure, this has not always been considered a strict rule. Literary critics in the Arab world have not reached an agreement yet whether the haiku written by young poets can be considered a new form of poetry or merely a different name for (the already popular) flash fiction. In July 2015, Poetry Letters Magazine [“A Study on Arabic Haiku”, Poetry Letters Magazine (Arabic ed.), No. 3, 2015, p. 47–54; Poetry Letters Magazine (Arabic ed.), No. 3, July 2015, “special issue” (“The Arabic Haiku”)] acknowledged Arabic haiku as a distinct form of poetry by publishing, for the first time, haiku by eleven Arab poets from Syria, Morocco, Iraq, Jordan, and Tunisia.
The 11th World Haiku Association Japan Conference and the 5th World Haiku Seminar (April 29, 2016, Itabashi Green Hall, Tokyo) included poet Abdelkader Jamoussi, an envoy of the Moroccan Embassy in Japan, who discussed the development of haiku in Morocco, and announced the 2nd Morocco Haiku Seminar. His paper “Is Arab Haiku Possible?” explains the poetic tradition of the Arab world and the wide possibility of future of haiku there.
Examples of haiku from Northern African countries include:
scorching sun…
– Ali Znaidi, Tunisia (The Mamba Haiku Journal II)
a leaf in search
of a shadow
Another lemon tree
– Mohammed Bennis, Morocco (World Haiku 2007 No.3)
In another country
My gazes are desires
Carefully picked spot
Cat sleeping in the garden
Caressed by the Sun– Talib, Morocco (https://talibhaiku.com/)
There also exist haiku poems written in Arabic (and yet to be translated into English), from Arab poets from Syria, Morocco, Iraq, Jordan and Tunisia, to be found in Poetry Letters Magazine (Arabic ed.), No. 3, July 2015, “special issue” (The Arabic Haiku). Algeria, Egypt, Libya, Mauritania, Morocco, Sudan, and Western Sahara still remain a greenfield where haiku seeds have yet to drop.
Ali Znaidi is a Tunisian secondary school English teacher and Arabic translator whose haiku and other Japanese poetry forms have been prominent on the international scene recently, appearing in many international journals and placing in contests as well. Below is some of his best-known work:
full sunshine…
rainbow perishing into
butterflies(Grand Prize, Non-Japanese Division, 8th Yamadera Bashō Memorial Museum English Haiku Contest)
sirocco…
a bird bathing
in the camel’s urine(The International Matsuo Bashō Award 4th Edition 2016, Honourable Mention)
cancer survivor…
(European Kukai #14)
a flower sipping
the dew
full moon…
the weight of
the blood donor’s joy(Croatia Blood Donation Haiku Contest 2015, High Commendation)
From Africa to America
Richard Wright, a black American author, discovered haiku in 1959 when the South African Beat poet Sinclair Beiles handed him R.H. Blyth’s four-volume Haiku. This new poetic genre came as a revelation to him. Wright specialist Jianqing Zheng writes, “Immediately after Beiles’s introduction, there was an enthusiastic intensity of haiku writing in Wright’s life in Paris. Wright was ‘completely incapable of stopping’ his new obsession with haiku though he was very sick at the time.” Wright seems to have had no other source of information about haiku and no one with whom to discuss his work. Still, Wright produced some 4,000 haiku, 817 of which were selected by the poet himself for publication.
His watershed collection, Haiku: This Other World, appeared in print, however, only in 1998.
Formation of Haiku Societies and Associations in Africa
Haiku’s spread in Africa can be observed not only in publications but through the formation of societies and associations as well. Haiku activities seem to have spread faster in West Africa compared to the other sub-regions. Senegal most likely formed the first haiku society in Africa, since the Embassy of Japan in Senegal has records of a haiku contest dating back to 1979. This contest is widely recognized as a Senegalese cultural events, and 2017 marks the thirtieth year it has been held. Participants from previous contests had been from various countries, but a greater representation came from Senegal and Cameroon.
Senegal has a tradition of “short talk” poetry, with no rule relating to syllable count as in haiku, but with rhyme and rhythm repeated, and engaging in much wordplay. Such poems were recited at occasions such as weddings and baptisms. The Japanese Embassy saw an opportunity to connect traditional Japanese and Senegalese cultures by encouraging the creation of haiku in relation to the traditional oral poetry of West Africa.
The second such association was perhaps the Nigeria Haiku Society, formed in 2004 by Jerry S. Adesewo. The society, recognized and duly certified by the Association of Nigerian Authors, was officially inaugurated on June 2, 2005 by the then-Japanese Ambassador to Nigeria, Mr Akio Tanaka, at his residence, during the prize-giving ceremony of the 1st Haiku Poetry Contest organized in collaboration with an Abuja-based edutainment outfit, Arojah Concepts, for FCT Schools. It has since ceased activity.
A third such organization is the Ghana Haiku Society (GHS), founded by Adjei Agyei-Baah and Celestine Nudanu in 2016 with the sole aim of promoting haiku in Ghana and making it an acceptable new poetic genre in literature studies in both high schools and universities.
July 2015 saw the birth of “African Haiku Network” by two young Africans, Emmanuel Jessie Kalusian, a Nigerian ICT instructor with specialties in computer programming and networking, and Adjei Agyei-Baah, a Ghanaian lecturer from the University of Ghana Distance Learning Centre, Kumasi Campus, with the purpose of promoting and teaching haiku in Africa. In February 2016, The Mamba Haiku Journal, Africa’s first international haiku voice, was launched, bringing the global haiku community’s attention to haiku growth in Africa. Even before that, mention must be made of Nana Fredua-Agyeman’s blog, “Haiku from Ghana.” Fredua-Agyeman was one of the first Africans to be published in a Western journal (Simply Haiku 4.4, in 2006). Mention should also be made of Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah, Ghanaian editor of Rough Sheet Tanka Journal, who had written and published under the pseudonym “Sitting Mountain”, who was published shortly thereafter (Simply Haiku 7.4, 2009).
Haiku Books / E-Books from Africa / Reviews
African haiku poets have not only achieved journal publication and winning contest awards and mentions, but have also put their poems into collections and anthologies either in e-print or hardcopy books. Below are a list of haiku books written by Africans or haiku about Africa written by foreigners:
Haiku for Awuku. Prince K. Mensah (Mensah Press, 2010)
Haiku Rhapsody. Celestine Nudanu (Nudanu Press, 2016)
AFRIKU. Adjei Agyei-Baah (Red Moon Press, 2016)
Bye, Donna Summer! Ali Znaidi (Fowlpox Press, 2014)
Moroccan Haiku. Sally Kendall (Blurb Books, 2010)
Of Little Consequence: Haiku. Steve Shapiro (Snail P. 2007)
Haiku for Africa. Marié Heese (Unisa Press, South Africa, 1997)
In A Borrowed Tent: Ninety-Nine Haiku. Steve Shapiro (Firfield Pamphlet Press; 1st Edition, 1994)
Africa Haiku Journals and Reviews
The Mamba Haiku Journal (February 2016–present)
Review of Mamba Journal I by Akwu Sunday Victor (2016)
Review of Haiku Activities in Ghana, 2016 by Justice Joseph Prah, UHTS Ambassador
Review of Adjei Agyei-Baah’s AFRIKU (Red Moon Press, 2016) by Akwu Sunday Victor
Translated by Jeffrey Angles
SOUND IN THE WIND
One day it happened
A certain word disappeared
Even now, soil is still buried
In the soil of my garden
Words are buried within words
What must we do to dig
Soil from soil and words from words?
I whispered this question to the telephone poles
The wind strummed the telephone wires
And the wires rang in the wind
*
PERSPECTIVE THAT WILL NOT END
as I collect only pencils
far off in the distance
a small government collapses
as I make a line
of new erasers
the world grows heavy
as I take a clock apart
a distant army forms a line
& starts to march
open a scarred
hardback book
& my unborn uncle
starts to develop cyanotypes
as the triangle I use to measure
is wounded, a distant river
burns
adolescent boys & sacred girls
hurt one another in concrete ways
& a courtyard puddle stirs in the breeze
meanwhile
a ship in a distant bottle
capsizes
as I suck on a piece of candy
a moth vanishes in the windows of a far-off school
it simply disappears
still not speaking
my childhood sobs hysterically
& lies prostrate on a table
if I try to crack an egg
the drying rack on the roof of
a far-off hospital lies where it has fallen
prisoners wordlessly form a line
& set off for their workplace
while the guards’ legs cramp
try to put on a damp cloth
& the names of distant seas
have changed
still furious
a bank teller smashes his calculator
& tears up a map of the Silk Road
as I begin to boil milk
a new species of crab walks straight
across a far-off sandy beach
one vending machine
standing next to another
has run out of change
as I go to comb my hair
a beetle starts to spread its wings
on the landing of a distant staircase
a freshly painted fishing boat
waits for the waves’ irony
while floating on water
(there is something that will not end
there is something that will not start
neither nearby nor far away)
the lighthouse on the cape casts its light in this direction
while beyond it stretches an uninhabited land
everything, broken, writhes below a chicken’s belly
something that will not end
a minke whale’s bowels grow empty on a clear day
among the ghosts of the corn fields, the silence
of the season bares its teeth & roars in anger
something that will not end
I only understand
the sorrow of bare feet
the profiles of the dead are next to me, close by
in the present eyes, ears, noses & mouths of roses
forms become invisible
the shadows of men
raised by wolves are far away
in an unclouded mirror
the pretext of the friction of the expanding universe
grows wet & falls, so far away
a waterfall of abstract flower garlands is near
forgetfulness, cached away inside, bares its fangs
& rages dim in madness
along a distant harbor road
even farther from here, not knowing else what to do
a wolf with frozen front paws
lets his anger run
a single beach sandal lies in the road before my house
it has taken a tumble
& Dadaism burns
try squinting & peering into the distance
you’ll break the back of your mind with a hammer
like you’re breaking it with a hammer from the back
things will smash to smithereens
your eagerness to hold a grudge
will rule over you
I chew a new stick of gum
with the glittering light of dawn
wanting to destroy it
love kills the universe & vomits
& in the distant shallows of a black sea
a great white shark loses its memory
something that will not end
something that will not start
neither near nor far away
vast dreams quietly hold their silence
something that will not end will not start
an incomparable atrocity quietly sneers
something that will not end will not start
the blowing breeze quietly betrays us
something that will not end will not start
the flowers of a dogwood quietly scatter
something that will not end will not start
clouds that boil up and disappear quietly break apart
something that will not end will not start
a sparrow that sings incessantly quietly has large wings
something that will not end will not start
the open ocean reduplicates waves that quietly vanish
something that will not end will not start
a drop of whiskey has quietly fermented barley’s regret
something that will not end will not start
a single cedar tree, unloved, stands quietly on a hill
something that will not end
something that will not start
neither near nor far away
perspective is still skewed
something that will not end
something that will not start
Translation by the author in collaboration with the editors
The Chrysanthemum and the Guillotine (directed by Takahisa Zeze, 2018). I’m glad I watched this movie. Much more than the story of female sumo wrestlers who existed in Japan a hundred years ago, as the synopsis has it, the vision we have is of Japan in the Taishō era. Poor and full of possibilities, of dreams of freedom, of art forms still occupying the river banks, rice fields, and open sky instead of concert halls, concrete and glass institutions, tourist attractions for the general public – the imported mode as everything you essentially see there today.
The film portrays the end of an era, the end of a culture of its own, where dressing your clothes was an everyday option, not a costume for formal occasions. The body we see there is free, dancing in spontaneous gatherings; the music was improvised without schedule, one could speak loudly or with strangers, not following the clock. Women were strong and such was the standard of beauty.
This field of the Possible was the world of my grandparents’ childhood and youth, at an age close to this film’s protagonists’. This is the Japan that they brought with them, like most of those who immigrated to Brazil. Looking for what? An extinct possibility? A freedom that could be lived on board, that could no longer find space on land?
Neither wrong nor right, I believe, they farewelled a State Policy that dismissed mouths hungry for rice and screaming, and found another that needed only labouring hands, not human beings. Here they lived the life of discrimination, which showed its worst side during the Second World War by making us suppress language, communication and pride in the way of living we inherited from the ancients, by keeping us silent or obliterating everything that could appear Japanese.
We moved away from the individual matchboxes that would form the megalopolises of the island country, and from the body trimmed from the edges where just the libido was located. But here we became Japanese in the face, Brazilian in language, assimilated in the cities, integrated into the progressive society, finally, “successful” and distant from the knowledge of the land, as all who put themselves under the steamroller of capitalism do.
We saw it all happen here and there. There was no escape for us. Now, comfortably settled in the city, what do we watch? The repetition of history. Other people – whose ways of life also diverge from the logic of gold, paper, and cosmetics – are still under the judgment of the same Policy: cultural or physical death. “Order and Progress”, as the Brazilian flag has it.
In our transmuted Japanese and Japanese-Brazilian culture, there is no place without conflict. However, what was valuable for us one day survives in our sister cultures. Among the 305 nhandewa (1) ethnic groups that remain in Brazil today, there is still respect for the elders, the vision of nature and its divinity, the feeling of gratitude, the knowledge of the hand, the collective as a measure for individual actions, a less malicious look, confidence despite naiveté, the contemplation of art amalgamated with the usefulness of everyday life, the only ambition of living, that is “Life as an end in itself, not as means or circumstance” (flap text by Massao Ohno for the book Síssi: A Menina Iluminada written by Leyde Zorowich Ribeiro Lutti, 1997). If something sounds familiar and nostalgic to us, we have to defend the nhandereko (our way of life in Tupi-Guarani, which is not plural for nothing) in the way we didn’t defend our own, for there we see what we could have been.
(1) Nhandewa is how native people call themselves in Tupi-guarani. In the year 1500 of the Christian calendar, the year of the arrival of Europeans on the coast of the land that was later called Brazil, there were more than 1000 different languages spoken by the local population. Today, there are fewer than 300, a decrease estimated as between 2 million and 7 million people in 520 years.
Note: The author thanks Jérôme Florent, Sam Collier and Leslie Mabon.
欠片
加瀬ジュリアナ
小川チエミ/訳
『菊とギロチン』(瀬々敬久監督, 2018年)。この作品を見てよかったと思う。あらすじによると100年前の日本に生きていた女性力士の話だというが、大正時代の日本も見られる話だ。貧しく、可能性や自由を夢見る人であふれていた時代でもあった。芸術は海岸、田んぼ、晴れた空にあった。鑑賞するためにある値段を支払ったり、コンクリートやガラス造りの劇場や美術館を訪問する必要のある芸術ではなかった。後者は他所の国から取り入れられたもので、今の日本では何もかもがそのやり方で機能している。
この作品はある時代の終わりを描写している。着物が特別な行事で着る衣服ではなく日常生活で着るものの時代。体が自由に動き、打ち解けた雰囲気の集まりで
踊っていた時代。曲はその時に即興で演奏されていた。大きな声で知らない人と話したり、約束は時間通りに行わなくてもよかった。女性は強くて、それが魅力的に感じられた。理想的なのは強い女性であった。
この何でもできそうな世界は祖父母の世界であった。ほとんどの移民と同様に、祖父母がブラジルへ移住した時そういう日本の欠片を一緒に持ってきた。彼らは何を探しに来たというのだろう。消えていった可能性だろうか。故郷ではもう味わえない自由を船中で経験したかったのだろうか。
祖父母が選んだ道は正しいとも間違いとも言えない。食べものに飢えていた者や自分の意見を声高に述べることに飢えていた者を必要としない国策と別れ、生身の人間ではなく労働力だけを求める国策と出会った。第二次世界大戦の間に惨い差別を受け、自分の言葉を使うこと、会話すること、祖先代々の生き方を生きることは許されなかった。日本を思わせるものは全て消し去られた。
私たちは各々が閉じこもるマッチ箱で構成される島国の巨大都市から離れ、奔放な欲求の欠片を切り取られた肉体からも遠ざかった。しかしここで日本人の顔をしながらブラジルの言葉を話す存在になった。都市になじみ、進歩主義的な社会に「同化」した。資本主義の勢いに自身を任せてしまう全ての者と同じく、私たちはついに“思い通り”の人生を手に入れたが、故郷の知識との接触を絶った。
とはいえ、それはここでもあそこでも起こった現象で、逃れるのは無理であった。そして今、私たちは都会で快適に生活しながら歴史の繰り返しを見ている。金や紙、化粧品を無視する民族は同じ政策で苦しんでいる。文化の死、肉体の死。正に“秩序と進歩”。ブラジル国旗に書かれているように。
私たちは日本・日系文化の中に常に葛藤を抱えている。しかしながら、同国にある別の文化の中に昔の価値観が未だに残っている。ブラジルに生き延びている305もの「nhandewa」(1) 民族には高齢者への敬意、自然の見方や自然の神性、感謝の気持ち、手仕事の重視、集団で個人の問題と向き合うこと、純粋でいながら自信に満ちた人生観、芸術と日常生活の融合への観照、などの習慣がある。生きることに必死になること。「人生はそれ自体が目的で、手段や結果ではない」（Massao Ohnoによる推薦文,Leyde Zorowich Ribeiro Lutti 『Síssi: A Menina Iluminada』,1997年)。それが日系人として懐かしく感じるというなら、「nhandereko」（トゥピ・グアラニー語で「私たちの生き方」）を守らないといけない。私たちの守れなかったことが何になり得たかを見れるかもしれない。
(1) 「nhandewa」はトゥピ・グアラニー語で「先住民族」を意味する。欧州人が後にブラジルと命名した土地に到着した時、現地住民は1000以上の言語を話した。現在その数は300以下である。520年間で200万人から700万人が減少したと推測される。
注：トゥピ・グアラニー語版においてトゥピ・グアラニーの言語や文化に同義語がないものは英語のまま残されています。
Aparas
O Crisântemo e a Guilhotina (dirigido por Takahisa Zeze, 2018). Foi bom ter visto esse filme. Muito mais que a história de lutadoras de sumô que existiram no Japão há cerca de cem anos, como a sinopse descrevia, a visão que temos é a do Japão na era Taishō. Pobre, cheio de possibilidades, de sonhos de liberdade, de formas de arte que ainda ocupavam as margens das águas, os campos de arroz, o céu aberto, e não as salas de espetáculo, instituições de concreto e vidro, atrações a preços turísticos para o público em geral – o modo importado que essencialmente é tudo o que se vê lá hoje.
O filme retrata o fim de uma era, o fim de uma cultura própria, na qual trajar a sua vestimenta era opção cotidiana, e não fantasia para ocasiões formais. O corpo se mostra livre, dançando em reuniões espontâneas, a música se improvisava sem hora marcada, podia-se falar alto, ou com desconhecidos, não obedecer ao relógio. As mulheres eram fortes, e tal era o padrão de beleza.
Esse campo do possível era o mundo da infância e do adolescer dos meus avós, em idade próxima aos protagonistas do filme. Este é o Japão que eles trouxeram, assim como grande parte dos que imigraram ao Brasil. Buscando o quê? Uma possibilidade que se extinguia? Vivendo uma liberdade a bordo que não encontrava mais refúgio em terra?
Nem erro nem acerto, creio, se despediram ali de uma política de Estado que dispensava bocas famintas de arroz e de gritos e encontraram outra, aqui, necessitada de mão-de-obra apenas, não de seres humanos. Viveram a discriminação que mostrou sua pior face durante o período da Segunda Guerra Mundial e que nos fez suprimir a língua, a comunicação, o orgulho de viver um modo de vida herdado dos antigos, para guardarmos calados ou sumirmos com tudo o que poderia aparentar japonês.
Nos afastaram das caixas de fósforos individuais que formariam as megalópoles do país insular e do corpo retificado das arestas onde justamente se encontrava a libido. Mas ficamos aqui japoneses de face, brasileiros de língua, assimilados nas cidades, integrados à sociedade progressista, por fim, “bem-sucedidos” e distantes do conhecimento da terra, como todos os que se colocam sob o rolo compressor do capitalismo.
Vimos tudo isso acontecer lá e aqui, não houve mesmo escapatória para nós. Agora, assentados confortavelmente na cidade, a que assistimos? À repetição da história. Outros povos – cujos modos de vida também destoam da lógica da prata, do papel, do cosmético – ainda estão sob o jugo da mesma política: a morte cultural ou a física. “Ordem e Progresso”.
Na nossa transmutada cultura japonesa e japonesa-brasileira não há lugar sem conflito. Porém há sobrevida do que teve valor para nós um dia em nossas culturas irmãs. Dentre as 305 etnias nhandewa (1) que restam no Brasil atualmente, ainda há o respeito aos anciões, a visão da natureza e o que nela há de divino, o sentimento de gratidão, o saber-fazer manual, o coletivo como medida para as ações individuais, um olhar menos malicioso, confiante embora ingênuo, a contemplação da arte amalgamada à utilidade do dia-a-dia, a ambição unicamente de viver “a Vida como finalidade em si, não meio ou circunstância” (texto de orelha de Massao Ohno para Síssi: A Menina Iluminada de Leyde Zorowich Ribeiro Lutti, 1997). Se algo soa familiar e nostálgico para nós, há que defender o nhandereko (nosso modo de vida, em tupi-guarani, que não é plural à toa) da maneira que não fizemos, pois aí está o que poderíamos ter sido.
(1) Nhandewa é a autodenominação, em tupi-guarani, para se referir aos povos originários. No ano de 1500 do calendário cristão, ano da chegada dos europeus na costa da terra que se chamou tardiamente de Brasil, havia mais de mil línguas faladas pela população local, e hoje há menos de trezentas. Isso representa, portanto, um decréscimo do que se calcula entre 2 a 7 milhões de pessoas em 520 anos.
Nota: Na versão em tupi-guarani as palavras deixadas em inglês não encontram correspondentes na língua ou na cultura tupi-guarani.
Nota: A autora agradece a Gutemberg Medeiros e a Álvaro Machado.
Nhimombyre
Translation by Kwaray O’ea
The Chrysanthemum a’e the Guillotine (directed by Takahisa Zeze, 2018). Kowa film aetxa Porã ramõ. Synopsis omboparare txondaria sumo regua oikó ma 100 araguydje kykwé py, ogweru awii Japanreko wa’ekwe Taishō araka’e py oikó. Ndepoweiry pirewa, arae aema a’ekwery oikó nhandereko, odjapoma teri arte yy rembé py, aroi djatya aetxa, ywa aetxa awii, concert halls e’y, concrete gwi tarã glass institutions, tourist attractions ywypory oetxa ãwã – the imported mode, ko’ay Ary ore roetxa riwé ywypory reko.
Kowa film omombe’u ta marai pa kowa’e ara opawa’e, ma emoima nhande matitiró Iporãwa’e, costume e’ywa ore upé. Nhanderete re oikó katu, djeroky katu onhimboaty, orerombopu katu mborai ete ma, orerodjaywu Porã wa djoe-djoe pamé rewé, oikó e’y clock.
Kunhãgwe embaraete katu upeitxa Iporãwa’erã. Kowa ary txeramoe, txedjaryi kwery oikowae’ekwe marun pa kunumi gwe’i, marai pa films protagonists’ oiko aragwydje py merami. Eiwa ogweru Japanreko ko’apy Pindóreta (Brazil) upeitxa eiwa ogweru ãwã Japanreko ko’apy. Mba’ewa reka? Possibility opa merami? Ndepoweiry ma omanhã nhandereko katu ywyrupi?
A’e kwery towe katu State Policy, a’e kwery oikó katu upe ko’apy onhimbawyky riwé. Eiwa oiko wai ara py ma Second World War eiwa ndodjaywuiry tsapikwa-rupi, ndepoweiry ma Japanreko araka’e py ma nhanderamoe odjaiko, Japanreko nhamoin Porã nhande korantsu riwe.
Nhanderamõe nhanderdjaryi kwery redju maramo, eiwa towe ma nhandereko ko’ay Japan apy – Japanrenda tentã re Tata mikin merami petein rete riwé oreko ko’ay-ary rete ko’ay gwi opo’i pota gwi. Onhimombyré Japan nhande rowa, Brazilian idjãywu-rupi, assimilated tentã py, omoin progressive society py, a’e gwi riré, “Pirewa arienté” mombyryre gwi roikwaa mbarii ywyregwa, arae ke oikó pamé steamroller capitalism gwi.
Ore roetxa pá oko wa kykoty a’e ko’apy, ay, ndepoweiry escape nhande upe, ore rogwapy Porã tentã py, mba’ewa roetxa? History orepete djiwy. Perata amboae nhandekwery diverge from the logic awii, kwatia gwi, cosmetics gwi, a’e gwi rire policy ojudged teri: culture omano tarã nhande rete awii. “Order and progress”.
Djaiko porã e’y nhande culture tsapikwa py transmuted a’e tsapikwa-pindoreta gwi are. A’e rire iny nhandereko amboae cultures ikywy. Ko’ay ary apy pindoretare oiko riwe 305 ethnic nhandewa (1), rereko djapytsaka teri ko nhanderamoe kwery, etxa porã ka’agwy pame, mba’ewe ka’agwy oikore, oikwaa djaiko porã, odjapo emba’eapo, nhanhimboaty onhimbawyky djoupiwe’i, etxa porã e’y wai wai re, kowa-ary odjapoma pende mba’emo riwe, pereko riwe. “Nhandereko djareko eté riwé” (Massao Ohno kwatia nambi gwi, Síssi: Kunhã oendy, Leyde Zorowich Ribeiro Lutti mbopara gwi, 1997). Iny wa nhande mba’emo merami, djadjareko nhandereko (which is not plural for nothing) nhande ndodjapoiry arae a’egwi riré arae nhande odjapo wa’erã.
(1) Aragwydje gwi 1500 Christian calendar gwi, marun pa ywypory kwery omae ko’apy yyramoe rembere koriwé orerenoe Brazil, ko’apy idjãywu wa’erã 1000 amboaé languages. Ko’ay ary, ndepoweiry ma as between 2 million and 7 million rete gwi 520 aragwydje py oatsa.
Note: In the Tupi-guarani version, a few words are left in English because there are no equivalent words in Tupi-guarani language and culture.
The television presenter frowned as she failed to keep the pinball in play on the miniaturized Angry Birds-themed machine. Her name was Ann Marie, and she was Fanny’s favourite HSN personality. She reminded Fanny of Audrey Hepburn with her little button nose and spirited playfulness. She often bought whatever Ann Marie recommended because she trusted her judgement. Friends don’t steer you wrong. And even if she had never met Ann Marie down at the Home Shopping Network’s corporate headquarters and studio in St. Petersburg, Florida, she felt like they were sisters.
“Alright, ya’ll. This is item number 26GM482. That’s 26 GM, as in Good Morning to y’all on the West coast, 482.”
And she went back to playing the tabletop pinball game.
“This thing is the dickens, I tell you what. I can’t get the hang of it but I know my sons are going to love this. Little Lukas and Noah are just crazy about their video games but I hate all that screen time.”
Fanny nodded in agreement. That screen time was the worst.
“But with this Angry Birds-themed miniature pinball machine featuring four player score count and rubberized non-scratch feet, they can have some good clean fun away from their phones and the YouTube.”
Fanny was dialling as fast as her fat fingers could work the old rotary phone. She just knew that Ann Marie was talking to her and that she had to have one.
Fanny heard the jingle bell attached to her cat Muffins and hoped that he wasn’t stuck again. She looked down the hall, but she couldn’t quite see him. To be honest, she couldn’t see anything save for the dozens and dozens of unopened HSN boxes. Every time she had to use the toilet she moved three or four boxes from the hallway to where she had been sitting on the couch. And no matter how hard she tried to leave a clear pathway from the TV room down the hallway to the kitchen, she just couldn’t seem to manage. The boxes kept coming. Half a dozen a day. Sometimes more if she was feeling especially lonely and needed to talk to Ann Marie. She was a Home Shopping Networkaholic, and poor Muffins couldn’t navigate the maze of boxes to find his litter box, so he just shat in every dark corner he could find.
The operator had Fanny’s account up. It was the sarcastic man with the Boston accent. Sounded like a fairy. Fanny hated him because he rarely put her on the air.
“Let me guess, Miss Fanny, you want to use Flex pay?”
“Yes, I do. You know that.”
“Just checking, I have to ask. Even if you do call twenty times a day.”
The little bastard. He always exaggerated. The other HSN operators referred to her as part of the HSN family, but this little prick. . .
“How many do you want?”
“Just the one.”
“Alright, it’ll be out in three to five days depending on how this whole virus affects things. Will there be anything else?”
Will there be anything else? Was he kidding her? She didn’t want the damn pinball machine, she wanted to talk to Ann Marie. He knew this. He was just being difficult. Such a prick.
“Put me on with Ann Marie.”
He sighed.
“Listen Miss Fanny, we can’t just put you on every time you buy something. You have to have a story. What’s the story you’re going to share on the air?”
She couldn’t believe him. The other operators called her sweetheart and darling, and they meant it. They knew she was part of their family, and they put her through to Ann Marie without question. Now she had to convince this nobody that she belonged on the air? He wasn’t a producer. He was just an operator. Fanny knew the difference. She’d been watching HSN since before he was ever hired, and now he wanted to tell her how to get on the air?
Ann Marie was wrapping up the segment. She was starting to pull out the turquoise jewellery selection for this afternoon’s Southwest Special. Fanny had to think quick.
“I’m buying it for my grandsons.”
“Your grandsons? What are their names?”
“Um . . . Lukas and Noah . . .”
“Really? Isn’t that quite a coincidence, Miss Fanny?”
“I mean, they’re going to love it just like Lukas and Noah. Their names are Ben and . . . John.”
“Ben and John. Right. But, don’t you think they’d like to each have one of these machines? That would make for a better on-air story.”
The money-grubbing little shit. He was upselling her. She knew they got commission if they sold more than one unit, but this was ridiculous. The timer on the screen was counting down. Only three minutes left.
“Fine. Yes. Send me two of them. Send me two and put me on the air.”
“Hold for Ann Marie.”
Like a junkie getting her fix, Fanny felt a sense of relief and then exhilaration. She knew the drill and turned down her TV so it wouldn’t echo on the air. Someone was speaking in Ann Marie’s ear, and she could see her perk up. Fanny began grinning to herself.
“Is that my girl Miss Fanny out there in California?”
It was showtime.
“It sure is Ann Marie! How y’all doing in Florida?”
“Well I tell you, Miss Fanny, it is humid! But I can’t complain. It’s nice and cool in the studios here at HSN.”
“I’d give anything to be there.”
“I just bet you would. You’re my best customer. I didn’t know you had youngins around. Or are you buying this for yourself because you’re young at heart?”
Fanny giggled like a school girl. Ann Marie was her best friend, and when they were talking on the TV, everything else melted away. The bill collectors and the diabetes and her failed marriage and all the cat shit in the world. It all just melted away, and she could focus on the good things in life, like Girl Scout cookies and flannel pyjamas and rum and Cokes, and Ann Marie’s smile.
“I’m getting these for my grandsons Ben and . . . ”
Shit. What was the other name she had given?
“Ben and . . . Jack . . . ”
Was it Jack? Did it matter? What if the operator caught her in a lie? You know what, it didn’t matter. Next time she called she would hang up if the judgemental little nobody answered and wait until one of her HSN sisters picked up the phone.
“Well they must be lucky boys to have a generous grandmother like you.”
“They love their grandma, Fanny.”
“I bet they do!”
“They sure do!”
And then there was an awkward pause. Fanny didn’t know what to say next. It had always been so easy with Ann Marie, but here she was, her voice on millions of television sets, and she was lost for words. Damn that operator. If this put her on the outs with Ann Marie, he would pay dearly.
“Well I just want to thank you from your HSN family and I hope that you enjoy your purchase today. Are you going to stick around for my Southwest Special of the Day?”
She snapped back to reality and recovered.
“You know I am Ann Marie. I’ve already got my eye on those lovely earrings.”
Ann Marie beamed at her and turned her head so the camera could see the chunky sterling silver monstrosities hanging from her ears.
“You have such good taste, Miss Fanny! Item number 32TF454. That’s 32 T as in Thanks, F as in Fanny, 454. You have a blessed day and we’ll talk real soon. Buh-bye!”
There was a click, and an automated voice was thanking Fanny for making her call. She hung up before the message was complete. She had it memorized.
And then, just like that, the sadness set in. It had been a nice call but not nearly long enough. It was never long enough. She started to fantasize again. The same fantasy she’d gotten lost in for years. HSN would call her and offer her a job on air. In St. Petersburg. They’d load up her and Muffins and her medication and her home dialysis machine, and she’d start a new life presenting alongside Ann Marie. They’d present the Southwest Special together. And she’d never have to convince the operators to put her on the air. And she could talk with Ann Marie for as long as she wanted because it would be her job.
Muffins cried out again in distress. She snapped back to reality and looked down the hall. She could see his face staring at her from under some boxes. He was stuck. She was trying to get to her feet, struggling up out of the sunken couch when the tower of boxes teetered and fell, freeing him. He narrowly escaped being crushed under a mountain of waffle irons or weighted blankets or Native American-themed table lamps or whatever she had ordered and never opened.
He curled up on her substantial lap and began purring. She considered the mess in the hallway and surrounding the couch and in her bedroom and throughout the house and thought about getting organized. She promised herself that she would tackle one room a day. She’d at least clean up the kitchen and find Muffin’s litter box. She would do that today – or tomorrow.
But for now Ann Marie was draping a gorgeous sterling silver necklace accented with tiger’s eye over her wrist, and Fanny had an urge to call her friend.
December 2020
I’m not entirely sure when my anxiety started. Does it even matter? One day I was fine, myself, whatever that means, the next I wasn’t. I realise at this moment that I’m simplifying things, but that is what it felt like, as if a switch on a fuse box had tripped inside me. Outside, I was still the same forty-five-year-old man. I’d look in the bathroom mirror and say to myself, there’s nothing wrong with you, you’re fine. My bald head, my trimmed beard, my out-of-control curly eyebrows all seemed the same. But inside, the threads of electricity cable controlling my nervous system had frayed. I was jumpy. Everything was heightened, tight. A tinnitus piercing rang in my ears. An acrid smell of burning filled my nostrils. My heart fluttered uncontrollably. My circuit was corrupted. I was lost.
It wasn’t like things were bad, on the outside that is. What did I have to be anxious about? In September 2019 I’d left a job on my own accord that I’d been in for ten years, with a lump of cash in my back pocket. I’d no longer scoff at the posters in the lift lobby that advertised mental health support. I’d no longer get that knotted pain on the side of my forehead and breathlessness when I’d speak to certain colleagues. I’d no longer sneak in and out of the building using the fire exit through the post room by the loading bay at odd times of the day to avoid being seen. I’d no longer sink into the banquette with the furry material next to the detergent smelling cleaner’s cupboard, hidden down a corridor with flickering overhead lights, away from the crowd, to read, to write or just to play on my phone.
No, things were fine.
I’d recently finished a writing degree and was in the final stages of completing my first book. I am in a beautiful marriage and have two daughters who make me laugh and cry. Our house is an oasis of calm. Natural light floods the open-plan spaces through skylights. Our bare feet are warmed by the wooden floors heated by the sun or the underfloor heating. Tropical plants grow in abundance in the green house atmosphere inside, and fill the courtyard garden outside with lush colour.
We eat well. We drink well. Sometimes, we sleep well.
Was it November, or October last year? I tell myself that it doesn’t matter when this all started. It’s pointless celebrating an anniversary of something that no one else really knows about. But, for the purposes of this piece it does. I need to know that it’s been a year since I thought of suicide. Maybe I want to celebrate; with myself that is. Is that allowed?
And when I say frayed, I was worn out, like a threadbare towel. Outside, my eyelids flickered, my muscles did that thing when they shudder for no reason, my legs were restless. Inside, words spun hysterically in my mind; purpose, help, breath, accident, heart, why, useless, end, fine, suicide, death, final. I never got the chance to welcome these words in. It was as if they had just been there, waiting to scuttle freely around my nervous system, to curdle my mind.
It kicked in.
Let’s call my anxiety it. For the purposes of this. It seems apt.
And like the meaning of the word anxiety, it was strangling me.
So much so that it coursed through my body, making my heart the focus of my attention in a way I’d never thought imaginable. A constant stiff pain sat like a heavy weight behind my ribs. The weight was black, sometimes making it difficult to breathe. I’d lie in bed, I’d sit on the sofa, I’d walk our daughter to school and feel my heart pound like it was trying to escape my body, as a loop-the-loop of the words I didn’t want to hear rattled in my mind. Was everything ending?
Around the same age I am now, my father picked up what he liked to call a ‘dodgy ticker’, as if giving it a name somehow removed his responsibility for it. It became a piece of muscle, an element of his failing, tattered system. Over the years that I grew up with him, his ‘dodgy ticker’ became all of our ‘dodgy tickers’; my mother’s, my sister’s, mine. We lived with his ticker, echoing around us like a distant clock. We lived with his cardiologists; Horgan, Maguire. Tick, tick. We lived with his pills; Zocar, Aspirin, Warfarin. Tick, tick, tick. We lived with his rushed admissions to the hospital; Beaumont, St James, Blackrock, Ballsbridge. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Until once or twice his dodgy ticker sparked, and not in a good way, but he always came home, like a machine given life with a fresh set of batteries.
I also wanted to come back from somewhere with a new set of batteries. Did I need to go some place else? Would escaping help, maybe abroad? I wasn’t sure, and anyway I couldn’t go anywhere. I had commitments. But often when my wife was at work and our daughters at school, I’d lie on the floor of our study, wanting the grain of the wooden floorboards to wrap their fibres around my body, pull at me and sew me into the ground.
What was wrong with me? The more I thought about what I needed, the less I could put my finger on it. The only place my fingers went was on my pulse, gently resting the forefinger and second finger of my left hand, held together on the vein closest to the curved part of my right wrist, just like my father had shown me.
Venice, December 2003. My late twenties. Driving icy rain. Noise bursting from condensation filled bars. Street lights shining the saturated cobbled pavements. Smog. Upstairs in a restaurant, my father and I sat on wooden benches eating Chicchetti, Venetian antipasti and drinking spritz, a smell of fried fish in the air. My father had recently recovered from his latest heart operation; the installation of stents, minuscule scaffolding holding up the arteries to his ‘dodgy ticker’, easing the flow of blood. He told the story of the op with an almost cheery glee, a wide smile across his bristly cheeks, his eyes stretched open searching for attention. I listened, intently, the alcohol of the cocktail fizzing my head. “You’re pale,” he said suddenly. Beat. I looked away. “Look at me,” he said. Beat. “I’ve had this…eh… tachy…eh…cardia,” I hesitated. Beat. He took my cold hand as if congratulating me for joining a club, and then moved his fingers to my wrist, mouthed some numbers while looking at his watch and nodded, before offering me 10mg of Valium as a straightener. Beat. “What are you taking?” he asked. Beat. “Beta-blockers.” Beat. “Good. Keep an eye on it,” he said. As if I could. I had no idea where this rapid heartbeat had come from, a beat so fast that I could barely feel the distant murmur on my wrist. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Like it, it just appeared.
The tachycardia didn’t last long, a few weeks. But I’ve often thought about it, as if it must have left an indelible but invisible scar on my most important muscle. I hadn’t felt it since, until now that is.
November 2019 was cold, grey, still. I’d started swimming outside at the local Lido, hoping the chill would regulate my ticker. After the initial shock of jumping in, the silkiness of the chlorine-infused water would numb my body. Hardly an efficient swimmer, my legs and arms would propel me through scattered leaves, lost goggles and the odd abandoned plaster, cutting through the water. For a while everything seemed clear. Often, I’d stay submerged until I could no longer feel my toes, wondering how long I could last, lost amidst the mist.
What was I anxious about, I repeatedly asked as I swam? I wasn’t, I’d say. I WAS NOT. There’s nothing wrong with you. I’m fine. Look, I can swim in the cold. There was no way I would be one of those people who goes through things like this. That’s for other people, over there somewhere, not here, not me. I’m strong. Look, I left my job. Strong. Look, I have money in the bank. Strong.
Sometimes I thought that I would go under and stay there, amidst the moss and plasters and leaves, and my dodgy ticker would spark like my father’s, but I’d electrocute to death and the lifeguard would have to dive in and drag my sodden body to the bank of the pool. Maybe they’d try to use the defibrillator. Maybe a crowd would watch. Maybe I wanted to lose myself in the mist.
No, there was nothing wrong with me.
I. Was. Fine.
Suicide.
I’d never really thought of the word suicide before. I have a friend whose brother committed suicide, and I had teenage friends who’d tried it. But I’d never come face to face with it, until now. Suicide, from the Latin sui – of oneself, from the term fela-de-se or one who is guiltily concerning oneself. Was I guiltily concerning myself? Was I even worried that all I could think of was myself? Nothing and nobody else registered for that short time. The words, the thoughts, the cajoles, the sweet-talks, end it, end it, end it, just kept pouring into me, a sticky oily slick.
December 12th 2019. The evening of the General Election. I’d emerged from the basement of Housmans Bookshop from my writing group into the dense haze of the Cally Road. There was the usual discussion about where to grab a drink. One or two were keen to head off to post-election wakes. I wanted to get home or get blasted. I wasn’t sure. I stayed for a pint in the crowded Cally Arms, trying to make conversation among the yelps of blokes watching a Europa League match. I emptied the dregs into the back of my throat just as the exit polls lit up Broadcasting House telling us of our impending Tory doom. My phone pulsed with text messages. I ignored them and sauntered to the bus stop, listening to Fontaines DC singing ‘is it too real for ye?’
Things were real, desperately real.
Earlier that day. It was a Thursday. I went as usual to The Refugee Council where I volunteer to help refugees find work. There I’d sit in an office cubicle, no natural light, and run mock interviews and help write application forms. I was doing something purposeful; I’d say to myself. Look. At. Me. And it was fulfilling. Every now and again, I’d hear that my efforts had been helpful, and someone had got a job or a place at university. I’d smile, momentarily, but was often left with a metallic taste of dissatisfaction, as if I was more concerned with myself. What about my job prospects? What was I doing? Why wasn’t someone helping me?
That day I’d interviewed a refugee from Syria, who didn’t really know what he wanted. His skills and experience in finance were strong, but he’d decided that he wanted to work in law. “Why?” I remember asking. “Why not,” he said, as if my question was perverse. “What about that job?” he’d ask as we scrolled through a job’s website. “Oh, yeh, I could do that,” he’d say. As he spoke flecks of saliva flew from his mouth like tiny comets and landed on my keyboard. A mist of sweat seeped through the pores of my forehead, pam pa. My heart began to pound, pam pa, pam pa. And could he not stop spitting, pam pa, pam pa, pam pa, and take my advice and concentrate on a job in finance?
After an hour he left. So did I, my headphones on, gripping my ears, my boots squelching on the sodden leaves that littered the pedestrianised street leading to Stratford train station.
The station was heaving. I stood on platform three waiting for the five past two to Wanstead Park, where I’d walk to Forest Gate, catch a connecting train to Crouch Hill and walk home. Unable to find somewhere to stand away from the crowd, I walked to the end of the platform where the front of the train usually stops. After waiting for a few minutes, my breath shallow, I realised that I hadn’t touched a falafel I’d bought in the market outside the station for lunch. The silver foil heated the palm of my hand, but I was enjoying the pain. I felt the breath of people on me, their warmth rushing past, their footsteps clogging my ears, pam pa, pam pa, pam pa… conversations on phones splitting my forehead like cacophenic bells.
And as I stood gripping my falafel, the word suicide was now tattooed on my mind. I was that person. One of the twelve men who commit suicide every day. One of the men who guiltily concern themselves so much that they want it to end. Images of the artwork by the artist Mark Jenkins of 84 sculptures of men, their anonymous faces wrapped in scarves, manikins teetering in the wind, standing on the edges of rooftops filled my mind. I felt light as I floated above the sculptures in that silent space that lingers before something happens, a hanging air, time torn, and could see myself, now one of them, toes curled, poised at the edge, faceless to those around me.
My body would do anything now. It wasn’t that I felt helpless, and writing this now I feel relieved that I can even write it down, but at the time I felt that nothing would have helped me. After all, I was helping others. Wasn’t that enough? No one was helping me and even if they wanted to, they were too late.
Like the train, which was late.
I began to fret that I wouldn’t get home in time to collect our daughter from her primary school. But as the thought of calling the school came to mind, I saw the five past two approach, pushing through the air. Everything slowed. The train’s bullet-like shaped front gradually neared the end of the platform, as if it also wanted to come to a rest. Rest. That was what I wanted at that moment. It didn’t last long. I can’t tell how long, a beat? And for that beat, I didn’t feel frightened. This was me. The bullet looked so inviting, so comfortable, so restful, and if I was able, somehow, to launch myself across the track without electrocuting myself and jump onto it, the bullet would mould into my body, I would curl into it, accept it, as it would accept me, and because it would all happen so slowly, there’d be no blood, and I wouldn’t fall on the tracks, but instead I’d be carried away with the train, the bullet me, the bullet me, the shudders in my heart no more.
A shiver flashed through me as I watched the train come to a stop. Someone barged my shoulder. I glared at them. They didn’t look around. The train did that thing when it stopped, rocked forward a bit, and then jolted back, as if it knew, like my body, that I’d gone too far and had to readjust; that feeling of hovering in mid-air, like a bird trying to fly but unable to, one claw still chained to its perch.
I realise now that I probably should have said something to someone, called my wife Miriam, or asked a guard to bring me a cup of sugary tea. Maybe they would have helped. But I didn’t, and the warmth of the carriage rushed onto me as the doors of the train whooshed open. I stood aside to let the passengers alight, entered, gripped a handrail and let the hot sauce from my falafel trickle down my trembling wrist.
Later that evening, without looking up from her phone, sitting on an arm chair, Miriam asked if I minded if she went to a friend’s house to watch the grimness of the election fallout. She’d only be a couple of hours. In bed by midnight. At first I didn’t look up from my mobile, as I thumbed through text after text. But I wasn’t paying any attention to the election or the words around me. I was sitting on our sofa, now staring outside at the darkness that was pulling me into it, the bare plants in the garden rising like skeletons into the night, and yet in front of me was the woman I love, and I could barely look her in the eye, as if I knew that if I raised my head she’d see something she didn’t want to see, a hollow, vacant me.
“No,” I said, almost aggressively, “I need to…” “What?” she asked, still looking at her phone. “Can you put the phone down?” I asked. She did. I followed its trajectory to the coffee table as I started up, “I think. I think… I think I need… help.” “Oh,” she shuffled in her chair. Truth was, I wasn’t sure what I needed, anything. Just the thought of wrapping my arms around her warm back would have been enough.
I talked a bit.
She sat.
She listened.
The following morning I was in the GP surgery. I was told that I was suffering from acute anxiety and should take something; propranolol. I agreed and collected the prescription. We also discussed trying an antidepressant, but only after my dodgy ticker was assessed. It was paining me pretty much all the time now, leading me to believe that I would collapse or die at any moment, and Miriam would find me dead at home or I’d die in bed. At first, I didn’t take the pills.
I’d previously taken propranolol when I’d suffered tachycardia. They played with my body, like a joystick with a mind of its own. There was something about taking the tiny pink pills that gripped me with fear. I’d be different. I’d be a sufferer. I’d no longer be who I was or had been. I’d join that club, that club my father had been a member of for half his life. A club I never wanted to be a part of. The pills stayed in their box and this nauseous feeling of despair continued to sweep through me as the 2019 New Year approached and we travelled to Thailand with my family for some winter sun.
It was there, after an argument with my mother on New Year’s Eve, that I started taking the pills and realised I maybe needed more than just the pills. We hadn’t fought in some time, but the critical sniping became grating and I snapped; “can you leave me alone!” While she stormed from the restaurant, the fans spinning overhead batting mosquitos from their flightpath, I sat patiently and continued to pick the bones from my baked sea-bream that was lathered in sticky chilli sauce and coriander, oblivious to the now muffled demands that I should “follow her” and “apologise”, “don’t talk to your mother that way.” Sometime later my mother and I stared at each other without saying much, goose-pimples rising on my arms in the air-conditioned lobby of the hotel. “It’s not you,” I said, “it’s me,” but really, I don’t think she understood.
The new year was humid, like a wet rag on my face. The argument had dampened the evening. There were tears, and parents now glumly nursed cocktails while the children were left alone to light their Chinese lanterns. Khao Lak beach was packed. The sky twinkled with a myriad of lanterns that flew like shards of paper into the sky, some aflame, some already charred, their metal corpses plummeting into the sea, ready to choke the fish. After everyone went to sleep, I sat on the beach and lit a cigarette, my heart sprinkling a few welcome to 2020 palpitations through my body, a reminder that my dodgy ticker was still there, and still dodgy. The smoke of the cigarette filled my lungs and loosened me, leaving me yearning to fill my body with something, anything. The sea looked oily black and inviting, and for a brief moment I considered walking in, fully clothed, the cig sticking to my bottom lip and letting the waves swell my body with salt and water, blending with the cigarette smoke, evaporating my insides like steam, a corpse left floating with the now strangled fish… I didn’t. Beat. I buried the embers of the cigarette stub into the sand with my big toe, took one last look at the lanterns in the sky, filling the darkness with rivulets of red, yellow, blue, walked back to the hotel, wished those by the pool a happy new year, crept into our room so I wouldn’t wake the children, pulled the starched sheet over my head next to Miriam and started to cry.
December 2020
One year later.
I still take the pills and others that regulate my ticker.
It’s not dodgy.
I’m still working on it.
But I’m celebrating.
Each morning, Elaine would stand by the doorway of the old coral room and glance briefly around and say it was an ugly room, a terrible room, that she ought to repaint it if she ever had the chance. She’d say this and bang her fist on the wall and chuckle, but I always believed that maybe she was thinking again of Cheryl. So, I’d tell her just forget about it. Everything’s going to be fine. And Elaine would rub her forehead and storm out. On certain days she’d sit on the floor of Cheryl’s empty room, right beneath the windowsill where she’d fall asleep and wake up complaining that there wasn’t any furniture, that we shouldn’t have disposed of her old things, that maybe she was coming back. And I would just look at her, but I wouldn’t say anything.
Two weeks after Christmas, a car crash outside the house at night drew neighbors from the whole block to the scene. They came out still slipping on their coats and fumbling for their phones as they neared the fumes and the detritus. Two neighbors were helping an injured man from a pick-up truck, the bumper hanging on like a loose limb. The Prius, though, was irreparable. Some were frozen silent when they saw the girl in it. Her eyes were still open, but she didn’t move, and the neighbors knew what it meant when they heard her silence.
Jackie from across the street ran towards Elaine, who was standing beside the Prius, saying my god, my god, are you alright? to which Elaine replied why wouldn’t I be? and looked on without another word. When the police and the paramedics arrived fifteen minutes later to clear the neighbors away, some had already taken their leave with the dead, their sense of rescue numbed by the quiet elegy of the wait. I stood behind Elaine, who seemed almost dead still as she stared into the window where the girl lay hunched over the steering wheel, her eyes staring but not seeing.
When we came back in, Elaine couldn’t sleep at all. She covered herself with a blanket and her eyes veered off to a distant point, her mind so far away she couldn’t even hear me when I told her that everything’s going to be fine. That’s what I told her. Maybe I believed it, or maybe it was the only thing I could believe in that moment, that nothing else seemed plausible except to simply acknowledge that it happened. I said nothing else, and fell asleep.
When I woke up an hour later, she was no longer in the living room. She was standing in the doorway of Cheryl’s room and saying how nice it would be if the walls were sea-foam. She asked if I was in the mood to haul a few things into the room the next day, like a bed or a mahogany desk. She said that Cheryl would like that when she comes back. She asked me what I thought about that. But I didn’t respond. I told her that maybe we should just let the thought go, that maybe we should let Cheryl go. And this time she didn’t storm out. She didn’t frown. She just stood there, watching me, with a look that told me we were both hoping for something that neither of us really believed in at all.
A word like parthenogenesis would usually send me to Google in search of a quick and easy definition, yet having read Clare Chambers’ new novel Small Pleasures, I feel rather nostalgic for a time when such easy answers were far harder to come by. For in taking this concept – which in layman’s terms means virgin birth – as its premise, the novel is essentially a detective story with a twist, a tale in which the mystery lies not in finding out who did the deed but in discovering whether or not the deed ever really happened at all.
Inspired by a real-life claim to immaculate conception, the book is set in the suburbs of postwar Britain and at times can feel rather quaint. Front gardens are carefully mowed, brass door knockers polished, the engines of cars as carefully oiled as gentlemen’s collars are starched. The central character is Jean, an unmarried journalist who works for the local paper. She lives at home in rather drab predictability with her elderly mother, taking pleasure in furtive moments of snatched irreverence: eating standing up, or smoking a cigarette spreadeagled on the sitting-room sofa. These pleasures are small not because of any lack in their intensity but because they occur in secret, when someone’s – in this case Jean’s mother’s – back is turned. Everything changes when Jean is assigned to the story of Gretchen Tilbury, a young dressmaker who claims to have conceived her now ten-year-old daughter entirely on her own. As Jean researches the story for the paper, she becomes increasingly embroiled with the Tilbury family, implicating herself inextricably in their lives. It soon becomes clear, however, that far more is at stake than simply proving or disproving the veracity of Gretchen’s claim, for as Gretchen herself observes, “everyone has a secret sorrow.”
Indeed, what really matters in this engrossing and extremely enjoyable book is all that is concealed – the secrets hidden behind those carefully polished front doors and neatly tended lawns. Indeed, with every stone that Jean’s investigation upturns, a new and uncomfortable truth is exposed. This play of concealment and revelation works well thanks to Chambers’ beautifully crafted representation of 1950s Britain, which demonstrates the very deep-rooted concern with appearance by which the era was marked. It is a concern that sees Jean shocked, for example, by Gretchen’s unconventional friend Martha, with her unkempt home and sink full of greasy dishes. More importantly, it is a concern that extends into a preoccupation with propriety and moral conduct that is often a source of considerable misery and frustration. This is typified when Gretchen’s daughter falls ill, leaving Jean to go alone with her husband Howard on a visit to his elderly Aunt. Jean is rather hesitant to go, fearing that Aunt Edie will disapprove of an unmarried woman travelling alone with somebody else’s husband. This reluctancy underscores the conservatism of society at that time and implies that the need to keep up appearances was very closely tied to an awareness of the judgement of others.
Chambers has said that the novel deals with notions of duty and self-sacrifice, and these are themes that depend on such a detailed evocation of postwar society. Jean cares devotedly for her housebound mother, working full-time whilst performing a whole range of now nearly extinct domestic tasks entirely on her own: “clearing out the larder,” “sewing worn sheets sides to middle,” and putting “elderly tea towels to soak in borax.” Her selflessness is exemplary to the point of frustration, the reader watching helplessly as each brief instant of happiness she is offered disappears almost before it has begun. As a model husband, Howard is similarly frustrating in his self-denial and respect for social mores. He admits to marrying Gretchen because “there was a certain amount of urgency” to provide her daughter with “a father and a respectable upbringing.” And as his feelings towards Jean deepen, he feels bound to honour his vows and avoid falling into the “shabby behaviour” of adultery, even when his wife quite openly chooses to abandon such standards herself.
Reading the novel today, one can’t help but wonder if our society is still as bound by moral imperatives of the type that Chambers describes. It is tempting to see the 21st century as the era of the “self,” in which the fulfilment of individual desires has become paramount, a world in which personal interest all too often takes precedence over any sense of duty towards others. The postwar setting is, therefore, the ideal place from which to critique our current state, teetering as society then was on the brink of quite massive change from which glimpses of the future could be briefly caught. Jean somehow intimates this while eating lunch at an Italian restaurant with Howard. “Everything about the meal was foreign and unsettling,” she reflects, her surprise at the lack of vegetables and the tiny cups of coffee, “suggesting that there were, just possibly, different ways of doing things.”
This excellently researched portrayal of the 1950s is rich with nostalgic charm and lends the work a very innocent, rather naïve feel, well-suited to a topic that relies so heavily on credulity to work at all. Yet despite its religious associations, what is important in Small Pleasures, is not the question of truth or faith but rather the very notion of mystery itself. It suggests that sometimes things are better simply taken as they are, that the contemporary obsession with definitive answers offers a narrow and rather limiting approach to the world. This is no doubt why I suddenly feel quite nostalgic for those pre-Google days, when some things remained secret and unknown and mealtime conversation didn’t end up in frantic reaching for a phone.
Small Pleasures
By Clare Chambers
368 pages. Orion Publishing
Litro Magazine puts its energies behind authors, books, editors, and artists who help keep the reading and writing life vital, and we know how important indie booksellers and bookshops are to this mission. Please support independent booskellers!
For the inaugural “Interview with an Indy Bookseller,” we talk to Claire Grint of Cogito Books in Hexham, Northumberland.
What makes your bookshop unique? The relationships we build with customers are absolutely central to what we do – from discovering their reading tastes to knowing the details of their lives. We’re lucky to be at the centre of a thriving community, running three monthly book groups in addition to author events and weekly storytelling sessions for children. Customers often comment on the sheer range and breadth of books we stock; being independent, we’re lucky to be able to get behind books we love and to provide a curated, personalised experience.
Which newly released books would you like to recommend to Litro readers, and why? I’ve just finished reading The Book Collectors of Daraya by Delphine Minoui. It’s an incredible account of how, amidst the devastation of shelling, bombs, and gas attacks in Daraya, Damascus, a group of Syrian revolutionaries set about salvaging any books they could from ruined homes to create a secret library. This became a safe space, a school, a university – and above all, a place of hope where ideas and future plans could take shape and flourish. This book filled me with admiration and renewed my faith in the human spirit – and of course, in the restorative power of books even in the most extreme circumstances.
Is there a book from the last decade or so would you like to see recommended more widely? So many! A recent discovery which stands out is Ann Patchett’s This is the Story of a Happy Marriage. I first came across Ann Patchett through her fiction, but this collection of personal essays and meditations on life is just brilliant. A real life-enhancing read, full of warmth, wit and humour. We have also always been huge fans of Sarah Moss here at Cogito – if I had to choose just one of her novels, I would probably recommend Bodies of Light. Beautifully written and set in Victorian Manchester, it follows Ally Moberley’s quest to become one of the first female doctors.
What’s the best part about being a bookseller? Without a doubt, that moment when a customer pops in to tell you how much they enjoyed a book you recommended, or that a gift idea was just right. It’s also always fascinating to see the breadth of new titles being published; I’m constantly being drawn into new avenues of discovery.
What’s your favourite quotation about reading, writing or bookshops? I think we need look no further than Dr Seuss! We have this on the wall in the bookshop:
“The more that you read,/The more you will know,/The more that you learn,/The more places you’ll go.”
Translated by Morgan Giles
The novel Tokyo Ueno Station, published in English in April this year, is the fifth novel in my Yamanote Line series. The Yamanote Line is a loop line that runs around Tokyo’s centre, one round trip taking nearly sixty minutes to cover 34.5 km and twenty-nine stations. On weekday mornings at around 8am, peak commuting time, trains come roughly every two minutes, yet every train is packed as full of people as sardines in a can.
My Yamanote Line series started in 2003 with “The Inner Loop of the Yamanote Line”, a short story about a woman who is considering jumping in front of the Yamanote Line. She goes into the bathroom at a station, masturbates, gets back on the train, gets off at the next station, masturbates, and so on. When I summarise it like that, it seems like a ridiculous story, but it’s my portrayal of Eros and Thanatos through a character who has been shut off from life.
And some characters who would later go on to appear in the next four works in the series make an appearance in “The Inner Loop of the Yamanote Line”. I depicted the vast array of lives that radiate outward from the ticket gates of stations on the Yamanote Line, and the despair of characters who have been kicked out of that life and go through those ticket gates, as if heading to the centre of the line’s circle, then find themselves standing on the cliff’s edge of the platform.
The main character in “Goodbye Mama”, a woman who has separated from her husband and is raising a small child (JR Takadanobaba Station, Toyama Exit); the man in “JR Gotanda Station East Exit”, who works for a securities company and can’t speak to his wife at home; the high-school girl in “Waiting for Someone” who runs a website for finding people to commit mass suicide with; the homeless protagonist from Fukushima in Tokyo Ueno Station – just before the Yamanote Line train pulls into the station, the announcement warning people to stay behind the yellow line reverberates in his ears. Whether he takes the step forward to his death or returns to life, I leave to the reader’s imagination.
I have a feeling that the novel I’m planning to write this year will be the last in the Yamanote Line series. This one will be The Outer Loop of the Yamanote Line. I’m thinking about making the main character a woman who has killed her ex-husband’s new wife. Written intermittently over sixteen years, the Yamanote Line series began with “The Inner Loop of the Yamanote Line” and will end with The Outer Loop of the Yamanote Line.
Because the Yamanote Line is a double circle. The loop that runs clockwise is the outer loop, while the loop that runs counter-clockwise is known as the inner loop. Located at the centre of this double circle, in the hole of the donut, is the Imperial Palace where the Emperor lives, covering an area of about 115 hectares, surrounded by a fence, making it a structure that cannot be approached or seen. A dense forest thrives around the palace. As per the wishes of the Showa Emperor, who was a biology researcher, the forest area has been left almost to nature since 1937. The Imperial Palace is a space apart: located within the centre of Tokyo, yet preserving the original flora and fauna of the Kanto Plain.
The theme at the core of the Yamanote Line series is suicide, which takes the lives of nearly 20,000 Japanese people every year. The Imperial system, symbol of the Japanese people, and the 2011 nuclear accident have also had deep effects on the stories. These two things create a multilayered sphere in Japanese society, and the power that lures in the central part of that sphere comes from the defeat of World War II.
The two atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki are widely known as the decisive factors in Japan’s defeat, but the reality of the Great Tokyo Air Raid, which took place on the night of March 10th, 1945, killing more than 100,000 people and injuring more than a million, comparable to the atomic bombs, is not well-known.
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The novelist Takehiro Irokawa, born in Tokyo in 1929, wrote this in the story “After the Air Raid”, part of his debut The Suspicious Visitors’ Book:
Everywhere there are roads which one cannot walk without crossing corpses. Charred corpses, corpses split open like pomegranates, corpses enveloped in smoke turned into wax dolls. Family members pass by crying, the noises they make seeming to come from the pits of their stomachs. But at the time, I had simply become used to the corpses themselves. My connections to the air raids are deep: on the night of the Shitamachi air raid in March, I was by chance in Asakusa; when it happened in Yokohama, I was there; I have witnessed mountains of corpses. When corpses are so numerous, they become physical, no longer terrible or strange.
Characters that appear in The Suspicious Visitors’ Book include an old woman who has been burned out of her home who boasts, carrying a bundle on her back, that no matter where she is burned she will most certainly crawl out and continue on; the ghost of a woman who looks down on the stopped train tracks from the burnt fields at the furthest reaches of vision; and a woman picking flowers in a vacant lot who then plucks away all the petals and leaves, holding just the stems. Takehiro Irokawa does not necessarily affirm only those who exist, nor does he deny those who do not exist. This short story collection stands on the borders of life and death, good and evil, conveying not a sense of tension but of liberation.
*
Shūgorō Yamamoto (born 1903 in Yamanashi Prefecture) wrote Yanagibashi Story in the year after the defeat. The setting is the area around Ueno and Asakusa, but this story takes place when Tokyo was still called Edo. (Edo was renamed Tokyo in 1868, the first year of the Meiji era. That same year, the Meiji Emperor, who had lived in the Kyoto Imperial Palace, moved into the Edo Castle, formerly the Tokugawa Shogunate’s castle and the governmental headquarters of the Edo Shogunate. It was then renamed “Tokyo Castle” and “The Imperial Castle”; after Japan’s defeat, it was titled the Imperial Palace.)
In Yanagibashi Story, Yamamoto depicts the great fire that occurred in Edo in 1703, but the areas affected by that fire and the Tokyo Air Raids overlap. The way that Yamamoto, who personally experienced the Tokyo Air Raids, depicts the flames has a power that is true to life.
Frightening moments came, entirely like the onslaught of an avalanche. Many went in desperation to the river, but most unfortunately it was high tide, and many drowned as soon as they entered, one after another; a man who clung desperately to a stone wall was bathed in sparks, and in his attempt to brush them off was carried down to the depths. Some, perhaps confused, leapt straight into the flames, crying something as they went. Every piece of baggage left nearby gave off great gusts of smoke, burning the people cowering near it. Piles of stones and the ground were so hot that they could not be touched, and when water was poured upon them, all things gave off steam.
O-sen, a seventeen-year-old girl, somehow survives, but as the fire draws near she hears an infant crying and selfishly decides to pick up the baby. By taking care of children whose parents or their whereabouts are unknown after the fire, O-sen loses her fiancé and receives the cold treatment from the people around her.
The Yanagibashi (“willow bridge”) of the title appears only in the last scene. The confluence of the Kanda and Sumida Rivers in Tokyo’s Taito Ward is the area with the largest number of deaths due to the fire. The residents of the area pleaded to the local government that if there were a bridge, they could escape to the other side of the river in case of fire, and the result was Yanagibashi. The story ends on the day of the celebration commemorating the completion of the bridge, but the bridge itself is never described.
“The people will gather to celebrate Yanagibashi, crowding together, lively and buzzing, outwardly.”
It is this last line that brings out O-sen’s sadness.
*
Osamu Dazai (born 1909 in Aomori Prefecture), in “Eight Views of Tokyo”, looks back at ten years of living in Tokyo, moving from rented house to rented house, along with the names of the areas he lived in.
“Eight Views of Tokyo” ends with a scene where he goes to Zojo-ji Temple in Shiba Park, Minato Ward, to see off his sister’s fiancé as he departs for the front.
Was it not an affirmative self-realization that in the ultimate stand of human pride, something within me had suffered almost unto death? […] “Now you’ve got nothing to worry about!” I cried. From now on if any difficulty arose in their marriage, I was an outlaw who didn’t care about his standing; I would be their last source of resolve.
The tomb of the Tokugawa family, located at Zojo-ji Temple, which Osamu Dazai selected as one of Tokyo’s eight scenic sites was also destroyed in the Tokyo Air Raid. Its grandeur seems to have been comparable to Nikko Toshogu (a world heritage site in Tochigi Prefecture).
Three years after the end of the war, Osamu Dazai jumped into the Tamagawa Canal (a waterway that used to supply water to Edo) in Mitaka, Tokyo, and killed himself.
I read the works of Osamu Dazai, Shugoro Yamamoto, and Takehiro Arikawa repeatedly as a teenager, before I became a novelist. I learned about the landscapes of the Tokyo Air Raid and the burn marks left in the post-war era through their novels. Sometimes, they are more vivid in my mind than the Tokyo that I’ve seen in my real life.
Following on from the births and deaths of those three authors, it is remarkable that Haruki Murakami was born in 1949, the year after Osamu Dazai’s death. The Second World War forms the border between modern and contemporary Japanese literature. Osamu Dazai is recognized as a modern writer, and Murakami as a contemporary writer, yet Dazai was active as a novelist after Japan’s defeat, until his life was brought to a close by his death at his own hands.
*
Haruki Murakami’s Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman, like Takehiro Irokawa’s The Suspicious Visitors’ Book, is a collection of stories where the living and the dead appear and disappear, like hide-and-seek.
The advertisement that appeared in newspapers at the time of its publication said:
“I can feel someone there, someone who is with me but whose face I can’t ever see, who is supposed to have moved on to another world, but still I feel their breath, so near.”
In Tokyo, everyone is trying to beat the clock. It makes me feel like I’m going on a one-way road in the same direction as everyone else heading straight to the future, or that I’m nothing more than the hand of a clock going around and around in a circle, symbolized by the circle of the Yamanote Line. In these stories, Murakami depicts a world rowed across by the past and the present like a lake, with light like the moon, reflected and quivering on the surface, filled with the water of the past.
“Hanalei Bay”, about a mother who travels from Tokyo to Kauai, Hawaii to bring home the body of her nineteen-year-old son whose right leg was eaten by a shark while he was surfing, is a story with a mysterious feeling to it, a loss, a hole that is not shrunk by time; seeming instead, ever so slightly, to swell.
The main character of “A Shinagawa Monkey” is Mizuki Ando, a twenty-six-year-old who works at a Honda dealership. She and her husband live in an apartment complex in Shinagawa Ward, Tokyo, and sometimes she forgets her own name. She goes to a counseling center established by the local council and goes for a session with a counselor. She’s asked if she remembers any incident in relation to names, and she reveals that a fellow student who killed herself in high school had given Mizuki her name tag.
She returns home and opens a cardboard box at the back of her closet, looking for the envelope containing both of their name tags, but she can’t find it.
The counselor investigates, and the culprit turns out to be a monkey – but reading the rest of the story, I remembered the story “My Monkey, My Cat” by Takehiro Irokawa, depicting a world of hallucinations brought about by chronic narcolepsy.
Takehiro Irokawa passed away in 1989, but I wonder if he and Haruki Murakami had a close relationship while he was alive. After all, both of them famously love jazz and wrote books about the genre.
Every time I get off at Shinagawa station, this always comes to my lips: a poem called “Rain Falling on Shinagawa Station”, by Shigeharu Nakano.
Sayonara, Shin
Sayonara, Kim
You board the train as rain falls on Shinagawa
station
Sayonara, Lee
Sayonara to the other Lee
You’re returning to the land of your parents
Your country’s rivers freeze in the cold winter
Your rebellious hearts freeze in this moment of
parting
The sound of the sea louder now in the setting sun
The pigeons, wet from the rain, come down from
the roof of the depot
You, wet from the rain, remember the Emperor,
chasing you
You, wet from the rain hair glasses remember
his hunched back
The green signal goes up in the blustering rain
Your eyes sharpen in the blustering rain
The rain pours over the paving stones and falls on
the dark surface of the sea
The rain disappears on your hot cheeks
Your dark shadows cross the ticket gates
Your white hems flutter in the darkness of the
hallway
The signal changes colour
You board
You depart
You leave
Sayonara, Shin
Sayonara, Kim
Sayonara, Lee
Sayonara, Miss Lee
Go, hit that hard thick smooth ice
Let flow the water long dammed up
The shield behind the proletariat of Japan
Sayonara
Until the day we cry and laugh with the delight
Until the day we cry and laugh with the delight
of retribution
On August 29th, 1910, Japan annexed the entire Korean peninsula taking it under colonial rule for roughly thirty-five years. For those thirty-five years, all Koreans, including my grandparents, were barred from using Korean names or speaking Korean. Countless Koreans were required to do harsh forced labour or were killed because of their resistance or attempt to escape from it.
*
Shigeharu Nakano (born 1902 in Fukui Prefecture) was a poet who was part of the pre-war Proletarian literary movement. After the war, he said this in an interview:
I had no knowledge of Korean, yet I could speak to Koreans without any particular inconvenience. The Koreans who listened to me speak understood Japanese better than some Japanese people do, and I became used to the idea that I could get by speaking only Japanese. I had wondered where this had come from, but when it was happening I would completely forget that I had ever wondered. In short, I had the entitlement of a Japanese person who was part of the people who had stolen their country. It is certainly true that they would’ve been able to understand my complaints, as is the fact that I could not say then that I could understand to the same level their complaints.
When the war ended, nearly two million Koreans were in Japan. By March 1946, almost 1,400,000 of them had returned to the Korean Peninsula.
In his poem, Nakano depicts Shinagawa Station, the starting point for those returning to Korea, newly liberated from colonial rule by the defeat of Japan. It’s not clear what port the trains headed for when they left Shinagawa Station, but every port was full of Koreans waiting for ships to take them home. Warehouses, temporarily turned into reception centers, were full of people, and many Koreans had no choice but to sleep outside. Conscripted soldiers and workers were given priority to board return ships, but for the many people who waited weeks and months without their turn coming up, the only option to set foot back in their own country quickly was by entrusting themselves to “black boats”, often fishing boats. In October 1945, a boat carrying Koreans was hit by a typhoon and overturned, causing a sad incident in which 168 people died. Thousands of Koreans died in accidents at sea without ever making it home.
Shinagawa station at present has ten platforms, including those for bullet trains, but until 2015, platform 9 served as a temporary platform for trains like special ones for school groups, and usually it was deserted. I feel perhaps it is this temporary platform where the Koreans in “Rain Falling on Shinagawa Station” waited for their train.
In two of my Yamanote Line stories, “The Inner Loop of the Yamanote Line” and “Waiting for Someone”, I made the main character stand on this temporary platform.
In “The Inner Loop of the Yamanote Line”, the woman goes into the bathroom at the end of this temporary platform, takes a knife wrapped in a towel out of her bag and, after a deep breath, presses the knife’s edge to her throat.
In “Waiting for Someone”, the fifteen-year-old protagonist goes to the smoking area at the bottom of the stairs to the temporary platform and has a cigarette.
The girl and the woman both pass by this temporary platform.
And then, from the next platform, “Railway Song”, the melody to signal that the train is about to depart begins to play.
In Japan, each station has a different melody signifying that a train is departing. Some stations have chosen to use a simple bell or electronic sound, but many have chosen instead to use famous songs that have some connection with either the station or the history of the surrounding area. Shinagawa station’s melody is “Railway Song (Tetsudo shoka)” because in 1872, the station that the first steam train in Japan departed from was Shinagawa. “Railway Song” was written in the Meiji period, going through each of the stations one by one, all 399 of them. The lyrics mention the historic sites, folklore and specialty products around each station.
Around Shinagawa station, there was only sea. An embankment was built in the sea, rails were built on the embankment, then the station; gradually more and more land was reclaimed from the sea, and now it is very much a business area, thick with high-rise buildings. But when I stand on the platform at Shinagawa, I feel like I’m standing on a pier looking out at the sea. I feel like I can hear the sound of the waves.
*
In The Earth Diver, the religious historian Shin’ichi Nakazawa (born 1950 in Yamanashi Prefecture) traces prehistorical topological maps on top of present maps and uses this to produce a deep analysis of the city of Tokyo. The title is based on a myth involving a grebe diving into the water and taking mud from the bottom to create land after a flood occurs and engulfs the world. Nakazawa writes in the prologue:
I thought that I myself must become a grebe. The land known as the human mind, made using mud, is again sinking into the water. So I must dive into the water again and take a fistful of mud from the bottom. […] The city known as Tokyo is well suited to a society born from unconsciousness. When unconsciousness intrudes into waking consciousness, people see dreams. In an earth diver society, circuits have been created everywhere allowing dreams and realities to come and go freely. The distant past and the present are together in the same space, ignoring the sequence of time.
Tokyo was a fjord-like coastal area. Even as landfill allows urban development to progress, shrines and temples remain in their original places, unable to be demolished. Nakazawa calls these places which are not easily affected by the corrosion of time and progress “places of nothingness”. By overlaying a Jomon period map, we can see that this “place of nothingness” was once the tip of a cape or peninsula protruding into the sea. In the Jomon period, people felt spirituality in these little capes sticking out into the sea, located their cemeteries and sanctuaries to worship the gods there, and it was these places that later transformed into shrines and temples.
In the last chapter, “The Emperor/Imperial Palace in the Forest”, Nakazawa shares a beautiful vision.
Although in the urban area the emperor, living like a gentle keeper of the woods in the depths of the forest untainted by the noise of the world surrounding him, sends transmissions out to the world one day after another. “Our Japanese civilization, like mushrooms, like slime mould, aims to take what has been created by the global civilization, break it down, and bring it back to nature. It is a somewhat quirky civilization, and I am the symbol of such a people’s will.”
*
The photography collection TOKYO NOBODY by Masataka Nakano (born 1955 in Fukuoka Prefecture) is simply images of Tokyo without any people. And the places he chose are not on the outskirts, they are bang in the middle of Tokyo, the most populous city in Japan. These photos were taken over an eleven-year period, at times like the end of the year or during the long string of public holidays known as Golden Week when people living in Tokyo return to the countryside or go away for a vacation. The cityscapes and main streets of Shibuya, Aoyama, Shinjuku, and Ginza, places I’m quite used to seeing, appear instead like ruins where time has stopped.
In 2000, when this photo book was published, it was often described as showing “a near-futuristic landscape of Tokyo”, but after March 11th, 2011, I imagine many will see also the “restricted areas” in Fukushima, uninhabited towns designated as such due to radioactive contamination from the nuclear plant explosion.
The official name of the nuclear power plant that caused the accident is Tokyo Electric Power Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Station. As the name suggests, all the electricity generated at the nuclear power plant was supplied to the metropolitan area; not one kilowatt was not used in Fukushima. It is obvious that the cause of the accident lies in how the city of Tokyo operates and the lifestyle of its residents, but not only was there no momentum for rethinking either, Tokyo sees the reality of Fukushima as none of its business.
But the Nankai Trough, which causes large earthquakes and tsunamis on a roughly eighty-eight-year cycle throughout history, has not caused a large earthquake in the last seventy-three years, so there is a 70-80% chance of a magnitude 8–9 earthquake occurring within the next thirty years.
When that time comes, what will become of Tokyo?
What will become of the nuclear reactors on the Pacific coast?
TOKYO NOBODY, then, may be a near-futuristic, apocalyptic photo book.
*
In Tokyo Ballad, And Then by Shuntarō Tanikawa (born 1931 in Tokyo), monochrome photos taken by the poet of street corners in Tokyo during his twenties and thirties are showcased alongside poems he has written since his seventies.
In the afterword to this book, Tanikawa writes:
When I look back over these old photographs, I sometimes encounter the image of someone close to me who is now gone. At those times, what I feel is a poetic emotion, mixed with sadness and loss. Poems and photographs, unlike novels, do not move along with time, but instead try to conquer time by stopping it for one second.
The books about Tokyo I’ve written about here (including my own) are all ones that deal with death, the dead, negative memories, and time.
Now, the city known as Tokyo is progressing toward the glorious future that is the 2020 Tokyo Olympics, but Tokyo also has a dark past. In order to take back time from the force that is politics, we have to shake up the past and reawaken it.
I’ll leave you with a poem from Tokyo Ballad, And Then.
Living in a city that was not Tokyo
There wasn’t a day I didn’t think of Tokyo
Stories of cities that are not Tokyo
Were just distant cousins of Tokyo stories
In the streets of metal and stone
I never forgot the city of wood and paper
As my heart grew fonder of grass mats and floor
cushions
I sat in plastic chairs on café terraces
Pregnant with limitless episodes
History repeats, the happy ending is miscarried
Below the consciousness of people living in the city
The sea and the desert always lurks
Translated from the Japanese by Sam Bett and David Boyd
One day toward the end of April, between classes, I unzipped my pencil case and found a folded triangle of paper between the pencils.
I unfolded it to see what was inside.
“We should be friends.”
That’s all it said. Thin letters that looked like little fishbones, written in mechanical pencil.
I folded it up hastily and slid it back into my pencil case. Taking a breath, I paused a second before looking around the room as casually as possible. The same group of classmates joking around and howling, the usual break between classes. I tried to calm myself down by repeatedly straightening my textbooks and notebooks, then I sharpened a pencil, taking my time. Before long, the bell rang for third period. Chairs screeched across the floor. The teacher walked into the room and class began.
The note had to be a prank, but I had no idea why those guys would try something so subtle after all this time. I sighed in my mind, settling into the usual darkness.
*
Only that first note was left inside my pencil case. After that, they were taped to the inside of my desk, clinging to the underside, where my hand would easily detect them. Whenever I found a note, I got goosebumps. I scanned the classroom, careful not to get caught, but it always felt like somebody noticed my reaction. I was overtaken by a strange anxiety, at a loss for how to act.
*
“What were you doing yesterday, when it was raining?”
“If you could go to any country in the world, where would you go?”
Pieces of paper the size of a postcard with simple questions written on them. I always went to the bathroom to read them. I would’ve thrown them away, but unable to decide where, I ended up stuffing them behind the dark blue cover of my planner.
Nothing seemed different after the notes started.
Almost every day, Ninomiya and the others made me carry their backpacks, or kicked me like it was nothing, or whacked me on the head with their recorders, or made me run around for them. But the notes kept showing up, and the messages grew longer. They never used my name, and they were never signed, but when I took a good look at the handwriting, I started wondering if maybe it wasn’t Ninomiya or any of those guys, but someone else entirely. But I knew it was a dumb idea, and all my other thoughts crowded that particular one out of my mind, leaving me feeling even worse.
All the same, checking each morning for a new note became my little ritual. I started coming in early, when there was no one in the classroom, and it was quiet, a faint smell of oil in the air. It made me feel good to read those little letters. I never lost sight of the possibility that this might be a trap, but something in those notes made me feel safe, however briefly, even with all my distress.
*
At the start of May, just before vacation, I got a note saying “I want to see you. Meet me after school. I’ll be there, from five to seven.” There was a date and a simple, hand-drawn map. I could hear my heart throbbing in my ears. I read the note so many times that I could see the words before me, even when I closed my eyes. I spent the rest of the day wondering what to do, and thought of nothing else during recess, to the point where my head started to hurt and I lost my appetite. There was no doubt in my mind that when I showed up at the spot, Ninomiya and his crew would be there waiting, ready to deliver the beating of a lifetime. Seeing me show up, they’d circle around and revel in their latest game at my expense. Things were only going to get worse.
But I couldn’t just forget it.
When the day came, there was nothing I could do to settle down. The whole day in class, I kept an eye on Ninomiya and his friends as best I could, but I couldn’t detect any significant change in their behavior. Eventually one of them noticed and said, “Hey, what’re you looking at?” and whipped one of his classroom slippers at me. It smacked me in the face, then dropped to the floor. He told me to pick it up, so I did.
By the end of the day, I was so worked up that I was feeling queasy. As soon as last period was over, I ran almost all the way home. As I was running, I asked myself if I was really going, what the hell I was doing, but no matter how I thought it through I couldn’t say for sure. I had the feeling that anything I chose to do would turn out wrong.
When my mom saw me come home, she said hi from the couch where she was sitting and then turned back to the TV. I said hi back. A voice on the TV was reading off the news. It was the only sound in the house. Every room was quiet, same as always.
“I’ve been in the kitchen all day,” my mom said.
I grabbed the carton of grapefruit juice from the fridge, poured a glass, and drank it at the counter. My mom looked over and told me to drink it at the table. A few seconds later, I heard the sound of fingernails or maybe toenails being clipped.
“You mean making dinner?”
“Uh-huh. Can’t you smell it? My first pot roast, tied up with string!”
I wondered if my dad was actually coming home for once, but decided not to ask.
“You want to eat soon?”
“No. I need to go to the library for a bit. We can eat later.”
*
My town has a big tree-lined street that goes on for blocks and blocks.
This is the route I took to school. To get to the meeting place, you turned left exactly halfway down the street with the trees, onto a side street leading to a sandy lot that barely qualified as a park. Since I had left the house at four, there was no one at the spot when I arrived. I took the chance to catch my breath. There was a kind of bench made from tires on their sides, and a concrete whale, and between them a sandbox not much bigger than a mattress, littered with candy wrappers and plastic bags.
Among the trash, I could make out all these dry clumps of dog or cat crap. The way the sand stuck to them, they almost looked like tempura. I tried to count the individual nuggets, but new ones kept popping up. The whole sandbox was probably full of them. Then it hit me. Whoever called me here might force me to eat them. The back of my throat burned. I emptied my lungs, in an attempt to make the taste of the crap go away, but the thought alone made me sick.
The mouth of the whale was big enough for two people my size to fit inside. The paint had worn away so much you couldn’t tell what color it used to be. People had tagged its back and its head with permanent marker. The lot fell in the shadow of an old apartment complex, and the ground was almost black, like something rotting.
I had some time to kill, so I walked back to the tree-lined street. I sat down on a metal bench, let out a huge sigh and breathed in slowly. I kept thinking how I’d made a mistake coming here, but if I hadn’t, and Ninomiya and the others didn’t get their way, I’d pay for it in the end. I told myself it didn’t really matter what I did. Nothing would change.
I sighed again and looked up, feeling a little dazed. Not long ago, the trees were just a bunch of black trunks, but now their leaves were showing, and when the wind blew you could hear them sway. I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes, then looked up the street again. The world, as usual, was flat and lacking depth. My eyes took in the scenery like a postcard, but when I blinked, it slipped from view, replaced by a new scene.
*
A little while later, still basically unable to think, I returned to the spot. I saw someone sitting on the tires with her back to me. A girl in her school uniform. This threw me off. I looked around the lot for somebody else, but there was no sign of anyone.
I approached her cautiously. When I stopped near the mouth of the whale, she heard my footsteps and turned to face me. It was Kojima. From class. She stood up and looked me over, dropping her chin slightly. I did the same.
“The letter?”
Kojima was short, with kind of dark skin. She never talked at school. Her shirt was always wrinkled, and her uniform looked old. She never stood up straight. She had tons of hair, and it was totally black. So thick it never fell flat. The ends stuck out in every direction. She had this dark spot under her nose, like dirt or maybe hair, and she got made fun of for it. The girls in class picked on her for being poor and dirty.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Kojima laughed, smiling uneasily. “Were you weirded out?”
I couldn’t think of what to say, so I shook my head. For a minute both of us just stood there silently.
“Sit down,” Kojima said. I nodded and tried, but I couldn’t sit right on the tires.
“It’s not like I have something to tell you. I just thought we should talk, the two of us. Honestly, I feel like we both needed it. I guess I’ve felt that way for a long time now.”
Kojima stumbled every few words. I realized this was the first time I had heard her voice. The first time I had ever seen her face straight on. It was also the first time I had ever talked like this with a girl. My palms were moist, I was sweaty all over. I didn’t know where it was safe to look.
“I’m glad you came.”
Her voice wasn’t high or low, but it was firm, like there was something at its center, holding it together. I kept on nodding. Kojima noticed and seemed reassured.
“You know the name of this park?”
I shook my head.
“Whale Park. See? The whale’s right there. Well, I guess I’m the only one who calls it that.” She laughed. I imagined myself saying it. Whale Park. “Like I said, I’ve wanted to talk for a while. That’s why I wrote you those notes. But I didn’t think you’d really come. I’m kind of in shock right now.” She was rubbing her nose and speaking faster than before.
I nodded at this.
“I want to be friends,” she said, looking at me. “I mean, if you’re okay with that.”
I didn’t understand what she was saying, but I agreed. I felt a surge of misgivings. What did it mean for us to be friends? What was a friend supposed to do? I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Sweat dripped down my back. Kojima smiled. She looked really happy to hear my answer. She let out a breath and told me she was glad. Then she stood up from the tires and brushed off the back of her skirt with both hands. Her skirt had these huge creases crossing the lines of the pleats. The pockets of her blazer were bulging with what looked like scraps of tissue.
“Happamine.” She sounded like she was sighing, but never broke her smile as she looked down at her feet. In my head
I was, like, happy what? I wanted to ask her what she said, but I wasn’t sure of when or how to ask. I wound up saying nothing.
“Can I write you another note?”
“Yeah,” I said. My voice cracked. My face was hot.
“And give it to you?”
“Yeah.” I nodded.
“You’ll write back?”
“Yeah,” I said. This time I spoke at the right volume. What a relief.
We stood there for a while, not saying anything. I could hear crows cawing somewhere far away.
“Bye.”
Kojima smiled and looked at me, then made a tiny wave, spun around and booked it up the side street leading to the street of trees.
She didn’t look back. Not even once. In my eyes, it looked like there were two of her, almost overlapping, getting smaller and smaller. I wasn’t sure how long you were supposed to watch someone walk away, but I watched until I couldn’t see her anymore. I could still see the square bottom of her skirt swing like something heavy, swatting the backs of her calves. Even after she had completely disappeared, the bulky action of her skirt stayed with me.
*
“Not so fast, Eyes.”
Class was over, but I turned around, because I had no choice, as rotten as I felt. One of Ninomiya’s friends grabbed me by the neck and dragged me back into the classroom. This happened all the time. Ninomiya was in the middle of the room, sitting on a desk. That was his style. When he noticed me, he laughed, then said “Hey buddy.” He told me to shove a stick of chalk up my nose and draw something hilarious on the blackboard with it, something that would make them shit their pants. His friends all cracked up. One of them dragged me to the blackboard and the rest of them circled around to watch.
I’d known Ninomiya since elementary school.
Even then, he was the center of attention. He was the best athlete in our grade, but he also got straight A’s, and he had a chiseled face that anybody would consider beautiful. We were all supposed to wear a navy sweater, but he wore whatever color he wanted. His hair came down to his shoulders. His older brother, three years ahead of us, was even more popular. The two of them were school celebrities. Ninomiya gave off a special aura. There was always a crowd of kids who wanted to be friends with him. When we entered middle school, he started wearing his hair tied back and making girls laugh with his jokes, but it wasn’t just the girls. When Ninomiya told a joke, everyone who heard it laughed. He was always at the top of the class, and took upper-level classes after school while the rest of us were struggling with our homework. None of us could keep up with him. Not even the teachers.
“Hurry up.”
I stood there paralyzed and silent.
“You never learn, do you? We’ve been doing this how many years now?”
Ninomiya threw up his hands in disgust. His friends doubled over laughing. They couldn’t get enough of this. That’s when I saw Momose, standing with his arms crossed, a little ways behind the wall of kids. Momose had shown up in middle school. His grades were just as good as Ninomiya, and I heard they went to the same advanced after-school classes. I had never exchanged words with Momose. He was always with Ninomiya, but he never said much, and I never saw him get worked up like the rest of the kids. For reasons I didn’t understand, he watched gym class from the bleachers. While he was no match for Ninomiya, he had a face that anyone would describe as handsome, and both of them were at least four inches taller than me. Momose always had this expression that told you nothing about what he was thinking. He never bullied me directly. He just stood off to the side, crossed his arms and stared.
“We’ve got places to be,” said Ninomiya. “We’ll have to save your masterpiece for another day. Make all three pieces of chalk disappear, and you can go.”
Ninomiya told the others to stick two of the pieces of chalk up my nose. He waved the third piece in front of me like a sardine and said, “Come on, Eyes, where’s your please and thank you?” He kicked me right in the knee, with the instep of his foot.
Whether they were kicking or punching or pushing me, Ninomiya and his friends were careful not to ever leave a mark. When I got home and saw I had no bruises, I always wondered where the hell they could have learned this kind of trick.
They kicked me in the knees and thighs, but never hit the same place twice. One of them booted me in the chest, like he was checking to see how soft I was. They pushed me, threw me into a wall. I staggered and crashed into a desk. Happens all the time, I told myself. It’s nothing. It happens. I waited for it to end.
Pulling me up by my hair, they forced the chalk up my nose and made me eat the other piece. I bit it with my front teeth.
Ninomiya and his friends just watched, laughing like crazy.
Thus far I had been forced to swallow pond water, toilet water, a goldfish, and scraps of vegetables from the rabbit cage, but this was my first time eating chalk. It had no smell or taste. They yelled at me to chew faster. I closed my eyes and broke the chalk apart inside my mouth, focusing on chewing, not on what it was. I heard it crunch. The broken pieces scraped the insides of my cheeks. My job was to keep my jaw moving and to swallow, so I swallowed. Chalk coated the inside of my mouth.
I did this for all three pieces. One of them yelled, “Lemonade! Lemonade!” and brought me a plastic cup streaked with paint and full of a dirty milky liquid. Chalk dust dissolved in water. Pushed against the wall, cup pressed into my face, I drank it all. As the liquid traveled down my throat, I felt the urge to vomit, and the next thing I knew I had thrown everything up. Tears and spit dripped from my nostrils and my eyes. Dry heaving, both hands on the floor. One of the guys asked me what the hell I was doing and stepped back, but he was clapping. Cheering. They pressed my face into the mess and said, “Clean it up.” Everyone was smiling, laughing.
Extracted from Heaven by Mieko Kawakami, published by Picador on the 10th June 2021 at £14.99.
Translated by Sayuri Okamoto
Half a year has passed since I came back to Kyoto. I remember, with a certain nostalgia, the welcoming atmosphere of your home in the heights of St. Louis Drive and the beautiful views that your terrace offered me: incredibly blue skies, the endless Pacific Ocean, and a sea breeze suffused with gentle Honolulu sunlight. I also remember the amusing white blouse, reminiscent of a jellyfish, that you were wearing. You told me that your mother Yoko, a sculptor, had made it for you. Winter here in Kyoto is truly cold. But the plum trees have started to bloom, and I feel spring is just around the corner. Legend has it that a plum tree flew all the way to Dazaifu in one night to comfort its former owner, Sugawara no Michizane, who was in exile. Behind my flat is a shrine dedicated to him. I wonder whether the huapala or plumeria would fly to me too. I miss those beautiful Hawaiian flowers and the tropical islands.
I’m writing this letter with certain sadness, as I have to tell you that we can’t invite you to Kyoto and host your talk on that unprecedented environmental crisis. I am so sorry. And I am so worried too, not only about the coronavirus itself, but also for this indeterminate cloud hanging over us. We are asked to exercise restraint, and yet we are not allowed to decide anything by ourselves. It’s as if some foul, viscous membrane has wrapped itself around our minds, our bodies, and our relationships, immobilising us and enervating society. I think this pandemic is more of a mental and spiritual affliction than a medical one.
I’m strongly concerned about the current situation in relation to the coronavirus, and I believe my sentiment is akin to yours regarding the marine pollution caused by plastics. I often recall the short film you sent me. It is a beautiful and disquieting picture. You, like a fetus, are curled up as if in a transparent cocoon filled with amniotic fluid or seawater. You are waiting eagerly to be born, to be able to hear some gentle music. But gradually, you become aware that the cocoon is made of some rough, impermeable material, and the music, too, grows discordant. You twist your body and struggle to get out of the cocoon, in vain. What an intense ending! I thought I would suffocate too.
You made the film Transparency with your parents, the artists Tom and Yoko Haar, to increase awareness of an environmental issue that still does not receive adequate attention: marine and coastal pollution caused by plastics. But the film spoke of much more than that. It was an apocalyptic expression that the sea would no longer be the sea we used to know – a womb of our humanity, or our spiritual “home” or “mother” – due to the permanent contamination of foreign matter that severed the great circle of life there. Your film is an urgent warning that losing the sea, the heart of our lives, would mean losing our humanity. That compelling artistry was what moved me to invite you to Kyoto to talk about your work and your initiative EATA (Environmental Awareness through the Arts). To borrow your film’s metaphor, I feel that our sense of the world is being gradually hindered or blocked by some bizarre membrane (you could say the anxiety around the new coronavirus is also a symptom of that blockage). I wanted to share your warning, as well as the hope of new connections, with my community in Kyoto.
*
I was shocked to see that Kamilo beach, where adorable seals would have been peacefully basking in the sun otherwise, was covered with plastic waste. Regrettably, some of the plastic bottles had Japanese labels on them. Further out, in the deep blue sea, microplastics 1 mm or smaller float along, invisible to the naked eye. Sea turtles, fish, birds, whales, even we ingest and accumulate them, and all of our bodies are being compromised as time goes by. You told me that some fish had adapted to plastic waste and spawned on them to make a new ecosystem, though there were also some who were born inside a plastic bottle and grew too large to swim out of it. It’s a tragicomedy, isn’t it? Nature might have decided to include plastics in its systems. But how long would it take, even if the sea and plastic waste could find some way to coexist in harmony? And would we still call it Nature?
Standing on the waste-covered beach of Kamilo, speechlessly, I thought of the photos of the sea and ama female divers of Ijika taken by your grandfather, Francis Haar. Through those images, he documented the lives of ama who dove every day to catch offerings for the Ise shrine and for themselves. I say “documented”, but it was not a pragmatic report of the ama’s job. Instead, his photos are an empathetic portrayal of young women who truly enjoyed being in the sacred sea, despite the extreme hardness of their occupation. In the picture, ama are cheerfully chatting around the fire burning near their hut after their labours. Looking at the intimate atmosphere in those photos, I feel Francis is mirrored in the eyes of those women who are sympathetically looking back at him via the lens of the camera. I’m touched, and then wonder how he got so close to those ama, to their hut that traditionally had been closed to men, and to their joy which he eventually shared with them over a big catch. The same question comes to my mind when I see other portraits made by him, such as the picture of an old woman in a village in his native land of Hungary, her age shown in the number of wrinkles on her face, or the picture of a hula dancer in Hawaiʻi, the terminus of his wanderings, or the portraits of poor workers living downtown. The gaze he exchanged with his subjects gives light to their lives, their joy, and their sadness.
*
Some years ago, I visited Ijika with a photography book Mermaid of Japan, which Francis published in 1954. The old residents of the old port town were so surprised by the book and informed me, excitedly, “This is ‘Grandma Imasuke’, and here you see ‘Grandpa of Toraya’!” My wife, son, and I were shown around the town until we finally visited “Grandma Imasuke”, who was the only model still alive. In her picture as a young lady, she was holding agar weeds, freshly harvested, with a smile on her face. She remembered your grandfather. She only said in a small voice, “That’s me”, in a room in her house standing atop the cliff, and then she cast her gaze silently at the remote sea.
I was with my son Nagisa, who was only one year old at that time, and the ama took great care of my “very cute” boy. They even invited us to their hut. Half a century had passed since Francis visited the town, but they still dove into the sea every day to catch turban shells and abalone. It was fun to see my son bite into a live abalone with his newly emerged teeth, which made it writhe in surprise… The ama were no longer naked, nor did they wear the traditional white dress (they wore black wetsuits instead). But they still tied the tenugui washcloth with the talismanic symbol of seman doman around their heads and offered prayers to the sea with mugwort leaves, looking just like handmaidens of the gods, as they used to be regarded. Although concerned by aging and the shortage of successors, the old ama were so blithe and filled the hut with their laughter that I was just so happy being there.
My visit to Ijika, however, was also tinged with sadness. A beautiful little port that your grandfather had depicted was no longer there. Part of the coast had been demolished and covered with concrete, thanks to the construction of a big port in the 1960s. Even ama were forced to do the heavy labour at the quarry. They were perhaps remembering the lost beauty of Ijika as they stared eagerly at the pages of Francis’ book.
Above all, I had a bitter feeling when I found waste scattered around their hut. Next to it was a pure fountain from which ama used to draw sacred water to moisten their throats and wash the seawater from their bodies. But it was no longer in use; they now had their own modern water supply. And so the fountain became a rubbish dump. Ama simply and blindly believed that the sea, which has kept them alive, would purify everything, even plastics. They who have lived in and inseparably from the sea threw everything into it, despite the fact that they are the ones who will suffer when their catch is only a tenth of what it used to be. The “way of the god” running from the hut to the sea is littered with plastic bottles and ice cream cups. Ama offer their prayer to the sea even today. I believed that traditional wisdom is one way to reconnect modern humanity, in all its vacuity, with the world. But the rubbish around the ama’s hut made me rethink my belief.
*
In April 2018, Kilauea erupted and swallowed the southeastern part of the main island of Hawaiʻi. It was as if the goddess of volcanoes and fire, Pele, had lost her temper at the indiscriminate acts committed by humans against both sea (Ke Kai) and island (Ka Aina). The southeast coast of the Big Island was engulfed by the torrents of lava, which must have melted abandoned plastics. It was as if the sea had been purified by divine flame, and researchers saw such an effect when they measured the level of plastic pollution immediately after the eruption. But another report, which was made in less than two months’ time, shocked them: pollution was back to as high as 70% of pre-eruption levels. The report shows us the severity of marine pollution, and I imagine it is even higher today.
About two weeks before Kilauea’s massive eruption, I was walking on a lava field under the Puʻu ʻŌʻō volcanic cone. The plateau’s infertile rocky ground made me feel that I was on the surface of another planet. As the sun reached the horizon and gradually descended, the sky turned jade green. It was a mysterious sunset. The moonlight reflected on the ground shone silver and made a path of light. There were many cracks in the ground and they looked like gashes that were still burning. I felt I could see the tremor of the air, even in the night. My heart beat fast when I saw the lava flowing very slowly from the hilltop. I climbed up next to one of the volcanic vents and sat on a rock to see the lava flowing to the distant sea. Far ahead, on the surface of the sea, was a ring of moonlight.
On a night when all were joined in one spirit, the legendary Kumu Hula (Master of Hula), ‘Iolani Luahine, danced a sacred night hula in the flickering light of bonfires, the shadow of wave crests undulating and retreating into the darkness behind her. She looked as though she was one with the breath of the volcano. Through the lens, your grandfather, Francis, stared fixedly at the mystic dance with his unclouded eyes, and that film is now said to be the portrayal of ‘Iolani Luahine with the most Ola (life). I recall the lava flow that I saw whenever I watch this film. Both the lava flow and ‘Iolani’s dance show the sanctity of the universe. I remember that an old man who was at the volcanic vent before me said to me: “We used to see hula dancers dancing the night hula in front of this flow of fertility.”
The sea and volcanic islands are full of inexhaustible mystic energy that moves our soul deeply. I wonder how the swelling amount of plastic waste would interfere with the chain of life there. The marine life in the waters around Hawaiʻi has been reduced dramatically because of plastic waste and other factors. In Japan, enigmatic sea walls resembling the Great Wall of China hinder our vision of the sea. Much is lost, and I wonder how we can feel the bounty of the world as your grandfather did. Francis’ oeuvre makes me feel strongly that we have to recover our sensibilities.
*
I remember a drawing Francis had done of you as a little girl. I am truly grateful that you took it out from your drawer of treasured memories and showed it to me. That was the last work by Francis Haar, the exiled photographer who had voyaged from Hungary to France, Japan, and finally Hawaiʻi, devoting his life to capturing the warmth of the world in pictures. In that drawing, I felt that he preserved your warmth with strong empathy. From the image, I felt his hope, wish, and confidence for and in you and your future. You had only a few but very heartwarming memories of your grandfather who had passed away when you were ten. He did not stop producing images even when he was suffering from Alzheimer’s and losing the memories of his lifelong journey filled with shining encounters. His soul needed to make images. You as a young girl followed him with a brush in your hand. Your grandfather added his to yours, and the two of you made many drawings together. You remember, though vaguely, the softness of his palm, the Diamond Head, the panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean, and the back of an artist bending over a sheet of drawing paper on which colours were scattered. When they had a posthumous exhibition of Francis’ drawings, they printed your portrait on the invitation card. I imagine that you touched and retraced the warmth of the world with your grandfather’s hand guiding yours, and perhaps that has inspired you as an artist.
There is another story that you told me about your grandfather. He loved to play the harmonica, you said, and he had a collection of harmonicas from different periods and places. When he went out in Honolulu with his friends from Central and Eastern Europe, he would take his favorite harmonica with him, playing it and dancing, and they would fondly reminisce about their homeland on the opposite side of the world. Incidentally, your name is “Haar Monika” if you read it in the Hungarian order (surname first), which is the same as Japanese. I wonder if that’s where your name came from: your grandfather’s prized collection, and his nostalgia. Perhaps your music and artistry were given to you along with that name.
There are not enough words to express my deep respect for the long and unparalleled journey that the Haars have made over the generations. From Hungary to Japan and then to Hawaiʻi, your family has travelled across linguistic frontiers and inherited the memories of the islands, oceans, and the sentiments that your parents and grandparents had experienced. As for the cross-border network through which your parents, Tom and Yoko, and you are trying to restore the seas, I imagine the desire arises out of your family’s own transoceanic story. To my mind, this initiative is a light of hope shone into the darkness of our time.
*
We couldn’t make it happen this time round, but I am looking forward to having you in Kyoto once this turmoil is over. The group that I wanted to introduce you to is full of potential. We represent a range of unique specialisations, and our gaze is directed at the future. We have an engineer trying to make organic building materials out of hyphae, a researcher who has launched a project called “Retro Future”, a research-and-practice project of forgotten ideas of alternative technology advocated and then forgotten in the modern era, an artist looking for a sustainable mode of urban life, a promoter who builds international bridges between artists and scholars, and so on. It was a young Hungarian couple, an architect named Gergely Péter Barna and his wife and cultural practitioner Janka Barna Sinka, who brought us together.
Before coming to Japan, Gergely studied architecture at an academy of art in Budapest, just like your grandfather. I remember it was someone called Francis Gergely who first introduced Japan to your grandfather. What a curious coincidence! Gergely Péter Barna studied traditional Japanese architecture and engaged in conservation of cultural heritages. He is now searching for a way to re-energize the relation between people and materials by mixing Japanese traditional techniques and wisdom (of miyadaiku, carpenters who specialize in temples and shrines, for instance) with digital technology and applying it to our daily life. He is concerned about the reduced intimacy between people and things in this consumerist society. He renovated an abandoned house and transformed it into a community space called “Doma no Ie (house with earth floor)” for artists, architects, and locals to gather and relax in.
Janka and Gergely live in Doma no Ie with their three cheerful kids. The people who gather there have come to Kyoto from places such as Germany, France, the UK, Italy, and other regions of Japan, along with local Kyotoites. In Doma no Ie, we hear many languages being spoken: English, Hungarian, German, Romanian, Italian, Korean, standard Japanese, and the Kyoto dialect. The language situation of Gergely and Janka’s three children is particularly interesting. They have two first languages, namely, Hungarian and the Kyoto dialect, which is pretty different from standard Japanese. My son’s mother is from Germany and she speaks to him in German, but his first language is the Kyoto dialect. At Gergely and Janka’s, we see many kids playing together. Most of them speak the Kyoto dialect, and that is the most cosmopolitan language in this house. Obviously, though, they don’t really need a language to play together. I’ve learned from them that the branding of “Japanese” or “Japaneseness” is an utter nonsense that only adults use and rely on. I imagine the bright future of those kids, and that comforts me and cheers me up in this phase of our life.
On full moon and new moon nights, by an old mochi tree in the middle of the garden, we gather around a bonfire and talk about the environment, politics, and life, with a spoon in one hand and bread in the other – Janka bakes amazingly delicious sourdough bread. Gergely came to Japan to study Japanese architecture and traditional techniques, but there is also his despair at the current state of Hungary under the heavy-handed and xenophobic Orbán administration.
Gergely said at our first gathering: “Tradition is like a braid, a knot of the countless events that have occurred since the distant past. These events include trees, water, light, fire, bacteria, time, any and all strands of time. That is why it is never a fixed thing. It can be re-tied into something more relevant to us, even at this moment.”
Everything seems to be on a journey, including people, of course. Bearing the burden of a weighty history, one sets out, is drawn to the unknown, and sometimes one finds the truth unexpectedly, just as your grandfather did and just as Gergely and Janka do. One learns things from the people and places that one visits, and tries to lead a life that leaves a better world to one’s children. Doma no Ie is one place for such a journey. It’s called ie (house), but instead of a closed construction, it’s a space where wanderers meet and share the wisdom they have collected. The doma (earth floor adjacent to the entrance) is here but it is always “with” somewhere else: it is connected to the front of another ie, to the Haars’ house atop a hill in Honolulu. We are on our respective journeys wherever we are, even when we are at home. Our memories and thoughts travel far and cross somewhere in the distance.
Monika, I am waiting for you here in Kyoto.
Me ke aloha pumehana,
3 March 2020
Yoshiro Sakamoto
Monika Haar is a pianist, music teacher, and environmental advocate based in Honolulu. She recently produced a music video, Transparency featuring her choreography and compositions. With this video, she aims to raise awareness about marine pollution and plastic waste. Monika is currently planning a performing arts festival in Honolulu and New York with a focus on environmental issues.
The world changed between the initial planning and the delayed completion of this issue.
Beginning in early 2020, Covid-19 spread across the world, becoming a pandemic that has claimed, at the time of writing, over 2.7 million people globally. The two countries with the highest death tolls are the USA, with 554,899 dead, and Brazil, which has an official death toll of more than 292,856. All of these numbers will be higher by the time you read this.
Just as it has exposed the strengths and frailties of global systems, the virus has exposed deeply ingrained historical, societal, and institutional racism. It has disproportionately taken the lives of black and brown people, not least because more of them have been on the frontlines during the pandemic, in hospitals and care homes and as all kinds of key workers. The virus, and the economic hardship that has inevitably followed in its wake, harms poor people, particularly people of colour, far more than the better-off who have much more chances to insulate themselves while benefiting from those on the frontlines who keep services running.
Into this already fraught period came further upheavals. On May 25, 2020, the world witnessed, at the hands of four Minneapolis police officers – under the knee of one of them – the brutal, horrifying murder of George Floyd. Such atrocities are not new, but a wave of outraged protests and marches unlike any that had gone before erupted across many US cities, defying bans on mass gatherings, shouting clearly Black Lives Matter! Ever since those horrifying scenes of police brutality against an unarmed black man went viral, Americans in every state, from small towns to major cities, have been gathering and marching to protest state-based violence against black people. In March 2021, it was announced that the city of Minneapolis would settle a lawsuit with George Floyd’s family for $27 million (£19 million). The trial of the police officer accused of killing Floyd is set to begin at the end of March.*
The Black Lives Matter protests have not stopped at the doors of these states. They’ve taken place across Europe and as far away as New Zealand and Japan, with protesters showing solidarity, drawing parallels to racist violence in their own countries, and highlighting the struggle to dismantle the racist present and the racist past – as in Bristol, England, when the statue of a slave-trader was rightfully torn down and thrown into the river. This is the biggest global collective demonstration of civil unrest in reaction to state-based violence in our generation’s memory. And it is no overnight occurrence – remember Trayvon Martin in 2012, who was killed by Florida police as he walked home from a convenience store carrying iced tea and Skittles. His death and the lack of accountability were catalysts of the movement, which was formed with the hashtag #BlackLivesMatter in protest of his killer’s acquittal. There is a sense that the unifying theme, for the first time in America’s history, and globally, is that black lives matter at last. Things have to change, and perhaps this can be a long, long overdue reckoning with the past and present, a genuine turning point. With Joseph R. Biden’s election to the US presidency, it is hoped that real reform of American institutions is possible after a four-year period which saw white supremacy condoned from the highest echelons of American power.
The protests were given further impetus by last year’s US Open winner (and 2021 Australian Open winner), the black Japanese tennis sensation, 23-year-old Naomi Osaka. Winning grand slams is nothing new for Osaka; it’s her activism on and off the court that distinguishes her, and the face masks she’s worn while playing during the pandemic record a tragic litany of black and brown American men, women, and children who have been killed by police. Osaka’s first-round match of the US Open saw her wear a mask honouring Breonna Taylor, a black woman killed by police officers who burst into her apartment in March 2020. For her second match, she stepped into the Arthur Ashe Stadium wearing a mask that read Elijah McClain, the name of a 23-year-old massage therapist who was stopped by three officers in the Denver suburb of Aurora in August 2019 as he was walking home from a convenience store with an iced tea. He died in police custody after being put into a carotid hold, which restricts blood flow to the brain. Osaka wore Ahmaud Arbery’s name on her face mask as she walked out for her third- round match against Marta Kostyuk. Arbery, a 25-year-old unarmed black man, died of shotgun wounds after he was chased by two white men while jogging in Brunswick, Georgia. In her fourth-round match, Osaka honoured Trayvon Martin, and she would defeat her quarter-final opponent honouring the death of George Floyd. In her semifinal appearance, Osaka honoured Philando Castile, who was fatally shot in July 2016 by a Minnesota police officer during a traffic stop. Osaka recovered from losing the first set to claim her second US Open championship while wearing a mask bearing the name of Tamir Rice, a 12-year-old boy who was killed by police gunfire in November 2014 in Cleveland, Ohio, while he was holding a toy replica pistol.
So, as we turn our pages to Japan, Naomi Osaka we salute you!
*The police officer was found guilty of three charges – second-degree murder, third-degree murder, and manslaughter – on April 21, 2021.
Guest Editors’ Letter
By Naoko Mabon and Kyoko Yoshida
Reportedly, today Japan consists of over 6,800 islands (1). At a time of change and crisis, how can we see and write about Japan? Is it still as golden as Marco Polo described and imagined? Is it a land that goes beyond “Sushi,” “Manga,” or “Geisha”? In which direction is each island of Japan drifting?
We started planning this special issue at the end of 2019. It almost feels that 2019 was a totally different era compared to where we are today at the end of 2020. Not only taking away a colossal number of lives and livelihoods, coronavirus has caused postponements and cancellations of numerous events across the world, including the Tokyo 2020 Olympic and Paralympic Games. Not knowing the new dates yet, Japan has lost a central driving force to reconstruct its unified national imaginary once again, after the 1964 Olympics showed the world Japan’s miraculous recovery from the ashes of the World War II. Instead, pre-existing weaknesses, gaps and corrosions that the country has been suffering for the past twenty-five years have come to the surface.
At the same time, we are still in an ongoing crisis of global warming, racial and gender inequality, and many other critical social issues, such as how to deal with radioactive waste and – as Yoshiro Sakamoto’s essay mentions – how to tackle marine pollution from plastics. The pandemic has forced us to rethink our way of living – how we once were, and how we can possibly be now and hereafter, as one of many living organisms on earth.
In this issue, we have a truly amazing lineup of contributors to respond to the issues that we face in the context of Japan today. They span different locations, fields of profession, and cultures, reflecting the complex societal ecology of this small island nation. Although most of the contributions were written or prepared before the pandemic, together with you, the readers, we hope to collectively imagine an alternative map of the drifting islands today.
The cover artist is Mari Katayama. Katayama is known for self-portrait photography created with hand-sewn objects and decorated prostheses. She uses her own body as a living sculpture. Born with a rare congenital disorder, Katayama chose when she was nine years old to have both of her legs amputated. On the cover, Katayama is sitting on a beach wearing a soft object with many arms and hands as if they were part of her own body. This was one of the artistic outcomes of her 2016 residency on Naoshima island in the Seto Inland Sea, which is also pictured in the essay by Pico Iyer. Katayama photographed the hands of members of Naoshima Onna Bunraku, a traditional puppet theatre performed exclusively by women from the Naoshima region, printed them onto material, and sewed them into a multi-armed soft sculptural object. In later pages, you can read Naoko’s interview with Mari.
While Mari was inspired by bunraku puppeteers’ bodies and hands back in 2016, throughout 2020, we have been experiencing the absence of physicality and human warmth as well as the limitation of locomotions under lockdowns and the new social-distancing normality. Many of us now spend lots of time at home and most of our social activities happen in virtual realms within our domestic environment. A domestic space – this ambiguous realm can be a bounded area of safety and freedom one day, and a walled cage or prison the next. Yet, it is still a location for us to receive visits from outside world – whether scheduled or unexpected.
Kyoko’s Poetry Dispatch (www.kyokoyoshida.net/archives/219) has started to respond to this period of isolation and lack of anything we can physically touch and hold in our hands. It is a series of small handmade booklets of poems, which she randomly posts to her friends’ home addresses. It is a little, surprising visit. Like birds and small animals living on the canal in neighbourhoods, venturing out of their former territories and ending up napping on our doorstep. These visitors cannot replace our families’ and friends’ visits, so they remind us of our isolation and may even intensify our loneliness, but they are all the more precious because they reveal that this loneliness connects us.
We hope our Drifting Islands issue finds its way to visit to your home – ideally physically but even virtually – so that it can connect us over distance while your hands or eyes travel through each page.
Last but not least, we send our deepest gratitude to all the writers, translators and artists who joined our endeavour to shape this Drifting Islands issue. We also thank Editor-in-Chief & Art Director Eric Akoto, as well as the team at Litro, particularly Assistant Editor Barney Walsh and Designer Brigita Butvila, for inviting us to join such a special opportunity.
(1) Islands with a perimeter longer than 100m at high tide. Based on the information published in 1987 by the Japan Coast Guard.
Note: In accordance with Japanese custom, in several works in this issue the family name is given first.
When I was in seventh grade we began to play a game at sleepovers called the Desert. Any number of girls sat in a circle, and one girl agreed to sit in the cent with a sleeping bag over her like a cocoon. The game hinged on the girl in the centre agreeing to follow the rules, no matter what. The Girl with Divorced Parents taught us the game after her older sister had let her play during one of her own sleepovers. The Girl with Divorced Parents had purportedly been in the centre and had followed all the instructions until the end.
“This time I will be the Leader,” the Girl with Divorced Parents said.
I was extremely stubborn and therefore wasn’t particularly good at playing games where I had to succumb to peer pressure disguised as rules. Last year at the Twins’ birthday party we were playing kind of a seven-minutes-in-heaven-spin-the-bottle hybrid and I ended up in a bathroom with a Beautiful Freckled Boy. We were told the door would remain blocked until we made out. I had a crush on him, but instead of taking the opportunity to kiss him, I convinced him that this kind of forced intimacy was absurd.
I said, “We should climb out the window.”
It was ground level but directly over a bush. Still, I much preferred the anticipated scratches to being told who to kiss, even when it was someone I desperately wanted to kiss.
The two of us came back inside to find a room of twelve-year-olds smashed against the bathroom door making kissing noises and catcalling us. They were utterly disappointed to see us standing in the hallway alongside them. We had ruined their fun. They were no longer witnessing the longest make-out session in sixth-grade history.
People did not like the way I torpedoed their games
I did not volunteer to be in the middle of the Desert Game, even though, in a way, my stubbornness was tamped down by the fear of disappointing the other girls. The girl who agreed would basically ensure that we played the game, whereas if no one agreed, there was no game.
I did not trust the Girl with Divorced Parents, whose eagerness made me nervous.
Finally we convinced a Timid Girl to go into the centre with a sleeping bag over her head, and the game began.
“You’re in a desert, do you feel how hot it is?” the Leader said.
“Yes.”
“You know if you get too hot you’re going to die. What do you take off to stay cool?”
“My socks,” Timid said. She wasn’t nervous yet. Not more than normal.
“Take them off,” the Leader said.
“Done,” Timid said.
“Good, now pass them out.”
The Timid Girl pushed her light blue and pink dotted socks from the bottom of the sleeping bag. The Leader reached out and snatched them up. She placed them beside her in the circle.
The sleeping bag was dark blue, the kind really used for camping. It was heavy and warm. I had smelled the mustiness, even from the outside when I’d been helping to arrange it over the Timid Girl’s head.
The game progressed with the Leader instructing the Girl in the Centre identically each time. “You are in a desert and are going to die of overheating. What do you take off? Pass it out.”
Danger escalated. There was no variation except the articles of clothing left.
Sitting on the outside of the circle was safe. Outside of the desert we were in a sunroom of sorts with a couch and chairs and a rug and two walls of glass doors and windows. The house was large but nothing fancy. I hadn’t been in the Leader’s house before, but she was whip smart and exuded a kind of coolness that made me want to just be her friend.
I was deeply relieved that I had not agreed to go inside the desert. I would not have agreed to go as far as the Timid Girl, who had now passed out her pink and blue socks, her French cuffed jeans, her white tee shirt and, as a Hail Mary, her hair scrunchie. It was cheating, but the Leader let it go. The inevitable was only a matter of time.
“Is the game over?” the Timid Girl asked.
“No,” said the Leader. “You agreed to play until the end. That’s what I did with my sister.”
I could imagine the pressure the Leader would have felt with a group of older girls sitting around her. She could stay, but only on their terms.
“Okay,” the Timid Girl squeaked. “It’s actually getting pretty hard to breathe in here.”
The Leader said, “You’re in the desert. You’re overcome with heat. You’re going to die soon unless you get some relief. What do you take off?”
“Really?”
“Yes,” the Leader said.
There was some wrestling and then the Timid Girl said, “My bra.”
“You have to pass it out,” the Leader said.
“I’ll just keep it at my feet,” my Deserted Friend said.
“You have to pass it out.”
Her hand emerged from the bottom of the sleeping bag with a little white training bra laced haphazardly through her fingers. One of the Twins reached out and snatched it away and put it in the pile. On the outside of the circle we needed to show we were all in this together. No one wanted to be accused of ruining the game. No one wanted to be inside the sleeping bag as some kind of penitence.
*
My mom had suggested I may need a bra just weeks before. She brought me to the store, and I picked out the plainest, smallest, white bra I could find. I was horrified that she had been looking at my body. I was horrified that other people, other than me, had been watching it grow and change. My mother did not make me try on the bra in front of her. When I brought it home I tried it on and tried to feel like a woman. I shoved it in a drawer with my secret stash of mementos from the boy I liked: a popped balloon, a piece of string, a half-eaten box of candy his mouth had been on.
*
During the Desert Game, I flushed, even sitting clothed on the outer ring. I criticized my barely budding breasts, the scraggly patches of pubic hair that I’d begun to periodically shave off in the hopes that no one would see what was happening. I didn’t want to expose my pouchy little tummy that people kept saying was my baby fat. I knew that fat would never ever go away because the rest of my body was small and muscular. My stomach did not match.
I did not want to ever be in the bag, and I knew that My Deserted Friend must be worried in there. I wanted to assure her that she could trust us, that we were her friends.
Also, I wanted her to succumb. I wanted her to take the next inevitable steps and take off her underwear. I was titillated by the thought of it. My heart pounded as she squirmed around inside the bag, taking off her underwear.
“I’m not passing it out,” she said.
“You have to,” the Leader pushed. “Otherwise, how do we know it’s off?”
“It’s embarrassing,” she said. “I don’t want you seeing my underwear.”
We had thousands of sleepovers where we saw each other’s identical cotton underwear, varying only from white to pastel and back again. Something about it being her dirty underwear made it more private and shameful.
*
After a week I finally wore my bra to school. I approached my desk and nodded to the boy who sat behind me. He’d once made me laugh in the cafeteria and chocolate milk had squirted out my nose and onto the table. I took my seat and faced the front of the room. We were diagramming sentences when I felt the unfamiliar sensation of air suddenly collecting between my shirt and my back and then the hot sting of my bra snapping against my skin. I spun around, seething anger.
“Don’t do that,” I said.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “You don’t need a bra for those mosquito bites.”
He acknowledged and denied what he’d done all at the same time.
Then he looked at the boy across the row from him and shrugged as if to say I was a crazy bitch. I faced the board knowing that the shame I’d feared was warranted. My body was changing, and boys were noticing. They had a right to comment on it, to mock me for it.
*
“Your underwear,” the Leader prompted again.
From the corner of the bag, a small nub of white cotton emerged, and the Leader did not reach out and snatch it from her. A small act of mercy.
“Now what?” My Deserted Friend said.
“You’re in the desert and there’s no water around,” the Leader said. “You are going to die. It is so, so hot. You have to take something off, what do you take off?”
“There’s nothing,” she said. “Just the sleeping bag.”
“Exactly,” the Leader said.
My heart pounded. I wanted My Deserted Friend to take that sleeping bag off so badly. It was a mix of power, and curiosity, and horror, and thankfulness that it was not me. I wanted her to stand there in her nakedness. I wanted that to be something she wasn’t afraid to do. I wanted it not to be a shameful thing for me to do. I wanted to see her imperfections. I wanted to see if my breasts were the same as hers. I wanted it to be okay to look at another girl’s body head on, and really take it in.
I waited. I did not say anything.
The Deserted Girl refused to take off the sleeping bag. I wondered if the Leader had really been forced to stand in the nude before a circle of girls three years her senior. The Deserted Girl asked for her clothes back. It was a battle of wills.
“You can have them back. Come out and get them.”
The Deserted Girl stifled a sniffle.
I can’t remember how she got her clothes back. I hope I harnessed the indignance and anger I would have felt if I had been the Deserted Girl. I hope I broke down and scolded the other girls. I hope I shoved all the clothes below the sleeping back so that our friend could get dressed. But I can’t remember that, so probably it was someone else, someone who hadn’t been still half- wishing she’d emerge naked. Those other girls seemed more interested in making the Timid girl beg for relief than in her body.
For weeks after that the game spread. Whenever there was a girl in the room who hadn’t already been present for the game, we would put them in the desert. In those later games, the Timid Girl sat on the edge of the circle, pretending, I guess, that she couldn’t remember how it felt to be inside the desert. As the weeks wore on, it was clear to my thirteen-year-old self that I was different than those girls. Not better for not being interested in power, but dirty and shameful. I hadn’t wanted boys to show interest in my body, imply ownership of it, and yet here I was, heart- quickened as each piece of clothing emerged from the bottom of the bag. Every sock, every sweatshirt, every headband held within it the promise of nakedness. Instead of exploring my desires, I clamped down on anything related to the wild unpredictability of sex. My curiosity was dangerous. It made me feel damaged, toxic, other.
As I nock the arrow onto my bow, a glimmer of some long-forgotten words diffuses into my mind, at which point I recall memories of my mother’s bedtime stories when I was little. My head would be delicately settled on her lap with my long legs dangling from the edge of the white-leathered living room couch, and her fingers, stroking my hair, would animate the stories that have passed through my culture for centuries. My Amma’s fingers, soft and small as they were, would carry the strength of Arjuna’s bow arm as he destroyed the evil Kauravas, and mimicked his ambidexterity as an archer when he fought in the great Indian epic, Mahabharata. No matter how my mother orchestrated her fingers while depicting these stories, they were always about Arjuna, India’s peerless archer who embodied the dharmic ideals of courage, morality, and focus.
It was easy for my younger self to be enthralled by these stories. I devoured each word unquestioningly until my intellectually burgeoning self started questioning everything from the science of cooking to why my dad had a moustache. Consequently, it was no surprise that I started questioning my family’s religious and cultural beliefs; I had faith in my parents, but my evolving pragmatic nature wanted to figure out its own place in my spiritual beliefs. Along with the white couch—now ridden with crayon marks—my naivety was also discarded. The shiny new cognac couch now seated a mother and daughter side by side. Amma’s fingers were gently patting my back.
“Sometimes, you have to look beyond the literal. Understanding is more important than believing.”
My mother’s words inspired me to start reading more about Arjuna.
Arjuna’s stories, ever-present in the literature of ancient India, were easy to find. My mind, consuming story after story, eventually began approaching the tip of the deeper truth—it was the morals and lessons we were taught that held significance, not necessarily the stories themselves. One particular story is about Arjuna shooting a moving target just by looking at its reflection in the water. This inspired a new sense of focus in me– mental focus is the by-product of intellectual vitality, passion, and skill. Archery is my will power, and everything else after that is the enhancement of it.
The owner of the range, Lynda, projects her British-accented voice towards the thirteen other archers and me as she yells “Clear!” which was our cue to start shooting. As I nock the arrow again onto my bow, my thoughts—the uncertainties and insecurities—seep away into my carbon arrow shaft, racing towards the target of focus. My culture’s dharmic traditions and stories introduced me to something that was more than a sport; it was a spirit. A millennia ago, it may have been Arjuna, today it may be Brady Ellison, the Olympic medallist, and tomorrow, it might be me. However, the goal of the sport transcends the line of what defines a recreational activity. Archery was the medium that channelled my mind when I needed to focus on a singular bull’s-eye, both literally and metaphorically. Archery was an enhancement to my mind and a connection to my roots (however many centuries ago it may be). It was the manifestation of my Amma’s personality in mine, her fingers, delicately strong and vehemently fierce in the way she told the stories that our ancestors once told, without doubt, with ardor for novelty, and with unrequited passion. My fingers are hers every time I draw the bowstring.
“What do you want me to do, Strawberry, kill him?”
Verity lifts her head from resting sideways on her knee and looks at Isla with the perplexed look that is becoming her normal face.
Isla continues, “You sit here talking this shit me to me and expect me to be, like, whatever. You have no idea how you fucking make me feel, you have no idea how excruciating this is for me. Every fucking day.”
Verity goes over to Isla, tries to hold her. Isla pushes her away. In that stuffy bedroom, which they so often fear to leave, the smell of steak crisps and sweaty laundry is as invisible as the sound of cars roaring by at every hour.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” says Verity. “Let’s go out,” she suggests, licking her fingers to wipe her face.
So they go to Pomopomo, the new crafting/club night on the Old Steine. Verity keeps wanting to dance, but Isla keeps falling asleep on a couch in the nipple tassel-making room. All the girls they hang out with from the zine café are in the basement, some talking over the music channels, some eating, saying how they love Drake and Verity thinks, “Me too, I love him, too,” but she feels too shy, too musty to join in with their confident, witty chatter. She tries a few times and all that comes out is a tiny croak.
The stars are shining really bright when they go outside for a cigarette. They hear someone coughing; they hear steps and a spit noise, followed by throat clearing.
“Strawberry?” says Isla. “Is that who I think it is?”
Verity takes Isla’s hand and curls it inside her own. The starlight is shimmering in her eyes watering from the cold.
“No, no, that’s not him,” she says, softly, wearily. “Let’s go back inside?”
The 2020 United States presidential election is over. While some are eager to get back to brunch, a few of us cling onto the same anxieties that have kept us awake at night for the last decade or more. Donald Trump was the symptom, not the cause, of a wider problem that we must contend with. The gap between rich and poor is widening. US wages have stagnated since the 1970s. The lifestyles of the elite, sold to us on television, are looking increasingly out of reach, and with it the illusion that we are all temporarily embarrassed billionaires floats away. In order to live in the Palace, one must have been born in it, and the cards are deliberately stacked that way – though it definitely is a house of cards.
So writes Robert Reich in The System: Who Rigged It, How We Fix It, his latest in a long line of political commentaries. While there are those who have only recently woken up to this landscape, Reich has been surveying its topology for years, and why not; his experience within the corridors of power as US Secretary of Labour certainly qualifies him as a land-surveyor of this terrain. Reich has always fought and written against systemic injustice, as his support for same-sex marriage, a higher minimum wage, and universal basic income can attest. In The System, he once again applies himself to mapping out the lay of the land and charting the features along the way.
Starting from an angry phone call from JPMorgan Chase Chairman and CEO Jamie Dimon, Reich builds a response. The book is a reply to Dimon and draws in other figures who have kicked the ladder away from the rest of us and profited by doing so. He describes the nature of the beast through its effects: neglect of US workers and their communities in favour of company policies that promote shareholder value. Again and again, the stakeholders are thrust aside to further gild the lives of the shareholders. All Americans are stakeholders in the American economy, so their having no say in American policy presents an obvious concern. Through discussions on Reaganomics, corporate raiders, and the Glass-Steagall repeal, we are led down the road to the problems we face today.
This culminates in the 2008 financial crisis, a product of Wall Street greed. The failure of governments and the firms themselves to rein in their behaviour led to the fallout looming over Main Street and its angry citizens. Not only that, but the Palace has been rebuilt twice as high, with a broad moat and zealous guards. Citigroup and other firms are, as always, “too big to fail,” their hoards precluding many politicians from legislating against them. Herein lies the core of The System: politics and economics are inseparable. With billionaires incentivized to protect their wealth, they have motive to intrude into policy, negotiating tax cuts and the like through political donations and shaping a platform that displaces the voice of the 99%. We are sliding into the dreaded oligarchy that Jack London warned us about in his dystopian novel The Iron Heel.
But what’s new? We’ve heard this all before. Reich’s detailed attacks on crony capitalism and socialism for the rich have been the subject for Naomi Klein, Thomas Piketty, and dozens of other economists since before the turn of the millennium. In delineating the causes of equality, Reich is not breaking new ground. We’re upset, we know that. Millennials have lived through 9/11, a handful of economic crises, and now a global pandemic. We’re aware that we’re being shafted, and many – think QAnon conspirators, Trump, the Proud Boys – misdirect this anger against the system that perpetuates their struggle as they chase the superficial rather than the material. Their fury is directed towards immigrants, those at the bottom of the ladder, and away from the politicians, corporations, and lawmakers who are truly responsible for these issues. Widening inequalities only breed further resentment.
The failure to address wealth inequality and the way this inequality pervades politics has led to extremism; Reich directly roots these sentiments in the 2008 financial crisis and the events leading up to it. The Republicans transferred bargaining power from unions and traditional labour to shareholders and CEOs, who have also seen a transfer of the dividends of such labour – thus increasing profits for those at the tip of the pyramid. Reich describes this manoeuvre as well as the failure of the Democrats to protect unionized labour in favour of lobbyist funding. Both the left and the right have been radicalized, and the political centre has not held. The System is a portrait of liberalism eating itself: “Liberty produces wealth, and wealth destroys liberty,” as Reich quotes Henry Demarest Lloyd. But we’ve known this for some time. Writing about these problems twelve years later is low hanging fruit. Instead, let us focus on storming the Palace.
The target audience for this book is not wealthy CEOs; it’s the rest of us who already know that something is wrong. Writing a moral appeal to those benefitting from systemic inequality and asking them to reduce it is historically not the most successful approach. Reich lists off enough class-conscious corporate bad behaviour, enough cognitive dissonance in the public statements of the Business Roundtable, to make any reader’s blood boil, but does he really expect these board members to reform themselves? In recounting Sherman’s Anti-Trust Act and the breakup of the Gilded Age monopolies at the beginning of the 20th century, he quotes Woodrow Wilson to the effect that one cannot expect large companies to curtail their own behaviour because that would be against their profit-making motives. Yet through a letter to Dimon that the CEO probably won’t read, Reich proposes that CEOs behave well in spite of their ignorance and wraps up with a vague threat that men like him will be first against the wall if and when the winds change.
The moral appeal in The System is not the only solution Reich proposes. You need to read between the lines and look into Reich’s background to understand the extent of his proposal. Reich is a progressive Democrat who backed Bernie Sanders in the 2020 election cycle before Sanders dropped out of the race. He advocates for a mass political movement of workers, green and forward-looking, socialist in all but a name. The dirty s-word doesn’t rear its head within The System, but we can intuit the message.
We are at a crossroads, and Reich directs us down a route that would shake the foundations of democracy in the West. The remedies are pragmatic – we must halt the creation of billionaires by removing the state apparatus propping them up. The hoard is dangerous and erodes politics, and the hundreds of millions raked in by the likes of Bezos and Dimon cannot be justified as motivation for their entrepreneurship. They simply do not need the money. If we prevent them from amassing it, we break the cycle and erode their dangerous influence.
The System is a call to us, the readers, to take action. We’ve already seen the events of the Trump presidency radicalize a generation, but what can we do with this energy? Most of the readers will belong to what Reich terms the Palace Guard (elsewhere, the petite bourgeoisie, another term which might be distasteful): young, liberally minded people who disapprove of the consequences of the system, its inherent and systemic racism and sexism, for example, but have little interest in promoting effective reform and are content with only a form of tokenism that sees more women and people of colour as corporate CEOs. Educated in the ivory towers, they are surprised when their bubble does little to inform them of the conditions outside of it – hence the shock when the UK voted for Brexit or when the US elected Trump to his first and, thankfully, so far only term. We need progressive change. The climate is the deadline. The onus is on us to reform from within or else, like Jamie Dimon and the Business Roundtable, we will be caught unawares by the winds of change.
The System: Who Rigged It, How We Fix It
By Robert Reich
224 pages. Picador
Artist statement: Through all of my work, I seek to express and highlight the intersectional ways in which we experience the places and spaces around us. As a collage artist, I work to disseminate the value of accessible art practice. Collage incorporates fragmented images from recycled materials to express my experiences with gender-based violence, loneliness, and feminism. My goal with these pieces is to encourage others to reflect on their own experiences – and to foster new ways of thinking.
*
Editor’s Note on the Loneliness Issue
We want to thank the contributors who have made this month’s Loneliness issue possible. These stories, essays and works of art have given an exquisitely creative window into the realities of everyday human experiences, with their loss, memory, love, solace, pain and joy.
This past year has seen a steep rise in loneliness and mental health concerns due to the necessary Covid-19 isolation practices.
We at Litro acknowledge and support the need to address these concerns and stand in solidarity with those suffering from mental illnesses and loneliness.
Here’s a short list of resources for the United Kingdom and the United States:
United Kingdom
Samaritans provides confidential, non-judgemental, emotional support for people experiencing feelings of distress or despair, including those that could lead to suicide. You can phone, email, write a letter, or speak to someone face-to-face.
Side by Side is an online community where you can listen, share, and be heard. Side by Side is run by Mind.
ChildLine is a private and confidential service for children and young people up to the age of nineteen. You can contact a ChildLine counsellor for free about anything.
For further UK resources, visit Time for Change
United States
The Jed Foundation is an organization committed to the mental and emotional health of college students. It offers training tools for campus professionals to improve their mental health services for students.
Freedom and Fear is an online non-profit advocacy organization that contains a wealth of research-based information and treatment referrals for anxiety and depression.
Here are 60 Digital Resources available to the American public across a wide range of needs, from depression and anxiety to substance abuse and domestic circumstances.
For more resources, and information on getting help and taking action, visit Mental Health America’s site.
Sweetpea Simkins reminded herself to smile as she turned her face up to the school bus window where her three children pressed their small hands against the glass. A line of thirty-something mothers waved manicured hands or pursed their shining lips and blew insubstantial kisses as the door slapped shut and the bus pulled away from the curb in a cacophony of creaking, rumbling, and screeching. Within seconds the women formed a tight little knot that coiled its way across the sidewalk and onto Cindy Hoffman’s front yard. Every school day Sweetpea had to pass through this circle, feeling the air around her buzz and hum like old telegraph wires. Every school day she would plunge her hands into the pockets of her oversized grey cardigan and hope that the other mothers wouldn’t notice her as she walked past. Sometimes one or two of the women might murmur polite words in her direction, to which she would respond with a slight nod of her head. This morning she had to force herself not to hurry across the street when she heard the new neighbour ask The Question and the familiar answer coming from Lily Richman’s lips, perfectly lined and coloured with Coty Magnet Red: “Why, no, it’s not a nickname. Sweetpea is her actual name.”
Cutting across the neighbour’s yard, Sweetpea unlatched the back gate and stepped into her garden, shutting out the bus stop unpleasantness. More important concerns were waiting for her in her own backyard. Here, away from disapproving eyes, she could work peacefully among masses of tall delphiniums and swaths of yellow sun drops that generously gathered light for the sky. Around her the jewel-like heads of rose campion floated above their graceful grey-green stems. In a little while, as the morning progressed, the hanging bells of the spiderwort would open to reveal a triad of deep purple petals, each with its own cluster of bright yellow anthers. For now, though, the sun was still low in the sky, leaving much of the garden in the shade.
Earlier that morning as she stood by the kitchen window tentatively sipping chamomile tea, Sweetpea had spied a fat bumblebee resting in perfect stillness atop the bright orange petals of a coreopsis bloom. Even from as far as the house she could see that the bee wasn’t moving. The poor thing seemed to be frozen in place. She had the urge to run outside in her robe and slippers, but then reminded herself that first she had to get the kids safely on the bus. Once she had gotten that over with, she could move the bee to the sunniest part of the garden where her damask roses grew in such profusion she blushed with pride just to look at them.
In the midst of ushering the children out of the house, making sure that each had her own lunch and not one of her sister’s, Sweetpea had tucked her leather gloves into the left pocket of her cardigan for the express purpose of moving the bee. Now she stepped carefully along the narrow brick path that she had put down herself so that she could reach even the tallest plants that wound themselves along twine secured to the tops of the fence posts: clematis, honeysuckle, morning glory, and, of course, sweet pea. She stopped in front of the coreopsis. There was the bee, still not moving but (somehow she just knew) not dead. She reached down and broke off the stem at its base, being careful not to dislodge the insect. Slowly, one deliberate step after another, she wound her way between the plants until she reached a heavy cluster of damask roses. Placing the bee above one of the wide yellow blooms, she gently tipped it onto the flower where it settled itself amidst the soft sun-warmed petals.
After a few moments the bee spread its wings and rose up in the direction of the house. Sweetpea watched as it made its way past the big bay window of her study. Stacks of books of varying heights and sizes covered the window seat. She wondered why she kept buying books after she’d used every inch of shelf space in the house. Often she’d thought about donating some of them to the Friends of the Library (from whose shop she’d acquired most of her books in the first place), but whenever she set about the task of choosing, she could never decide which ones to part with. Could a person live without the collected works of Emily Dickinson or Austen’s entire oeuvre? She had once considered giving her Pelican Shakespeare to a cousin as a kind of housewarming gift, but lost her nerve at the last moment and chose a well-developed philodendron instead.
The bumblebee rose higher, past the windows of the rooms where Sweetpea’s children played and slept. Rooms in which she read them stories, doing all the different voices so that the girls would giggle or gasp, and all three would climb onto her lap so that she would tumble backward with mock surprise. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, a tremulous voice would drift across the hall. Mommy, there’s a monster behind my door. Downstairs the old grandfather clock could be heard, like a heartbeat in the night, ticking down the minutes until sunrise. If it struck the hour, Sweetpea would count – ten, eleven, twelve! – before rising from her bed to inspect all shadowy corners, including the dusty space beneath the bed. No monsters here, love. Looking at the moonlit garden below. It must have jumped out the window. There it goes! It’s running past Miss Mistral’s house. It’s gone now. You can go back to sleep, honey bunny.
The bee flew up along the steep pitch of the roof. In her mind’s eye Sweetpea saw the inside of the attic. There in the dark spaces where the roof sloped down to meet the attic floor sat rows of boxes, each with a child’s name printed in black marker. Sweetpea had promised herself that one of these days she would sort through all the baby clothes and toys. The linens, too. She’d almost forgotten about the crib linens, hooded towels, and receiving blankets. They – she and Walter – had always planned on having a fourth child, but she’d kept putting it off until the thought of starting again with diapers and bottles and midnight feedings was, well, she told her husband, too exhausting even to think about.
The sun was glowing now as the bee flew in a wide circle before landing, finally, on top of the clay chimney pot that drew the smoke from the living room fireplace. Its twin was capped with a metal cylinder that shot a beam of light back at the sun. The bee had disappeared into that light. Sweetpea turned away. For a few moments she couldn’t see anything but the aura of the cylinder. When her sight cleared she picked up her secateurs and began deadheading the spent blooms of daylilies, peonies, and oxeye daisies. Now and then she found a stem alive with masses of aphids. These she coated with a watery spray of rosemary, clove, and peppermint oils. She liked to watch their tiny bodies drop off the plant.
For a while she sat with her hands stretched out behind her in the soft grass and thought about whether or not she should drive over to the nursery and buy a box of ladybugs to devour the aphids. Would this be a more humane method of killing them? she wondered. The other voice in her head – the one that was hers but somehow not hers – reminded her that, although this was an admirable and chemical-free solution to the problem, it was also a waste of money. “Right,” she said to a blue jay who was just then vigorously bathing itself in a small cement basin. “Ladybugs are migratory. They’ll probably just fly over to Mistral’s house, and God knows, nothing grows there except weeds and wisteria.”
Just to the north, up past the New Streets where the north meadow used to be, a train whistle let out a long steady note that offset the rhythmic clacking of its wheels against the rails. She could feel the sun warm her skin through her old cardigan and the white tank top that she wore beneath it. “Too hot back here, don’t you agree?” she said to the blue jay, who was now drinking his bathwater. “Good time to move to the north garden.” She unlatched the gate and stepped into the cool gloom of the fern garden. When they first moved in, there was nothing on this side of the house but piles of decomposing leaves. Sweetpea had spent an entire day raking and piling them onto a rusty wheelbarrow that the previous owners had left behind. The adult children of an old lady who died in her sleep. The neighbours told stories about how the children had found thousands of dollars under the dead woman’s mattress. Sweetpea didn’t believe the stories. She didn’t put much stock in neighbourhood gossip.
The fern garden was special to Sweetpea. It could have been the gloom that made her love it. All those shadowy corners where the ground never seemed to dry out. Or it might have been the way she’d arranged the plantings. People think that all ferns are alike, so they plant just one kind, usually ostrich ferns, so unpleasant in their unwavering verticality. Sweetpea preferred the fluffy grey of ghost ferns or the delicate spirals of maidenhair. The Japanese painted fern she thought especially lovely and a nice counterpoint to the whimsical fiddlehead. She spent more than an hour popping out the clumps of violets and the grass ivy that had snaked its way across the back lawn of the Mountain mansion (“It’s pronounced Mon-tane,” the old woman would say to anyone who wasn’t wise enough to know better) before she realized she was lightheaded and thirsty.
Sweetpea put her tools back in their basket and set it by the side steps. She would return it to the shed later when she was feeling better. She walked through the side porch and into the living room without noticing that the blue jay had perched itself on a low branch of the dogwood that grew near the chimney. On her way to the kitchen she heard a buzzing sound. She stopped near the sofa and scanned the picture window above it. Could be a yellowjacket bumping against the glass, she thought. Maybe a fat fly or a wasp. There was nothing there. “Must have flown away,” she said to the dog, an undersized Jack Russell that had been sleeping in a basket near the fireplace. “Or maybe I just imagined it.” The dog yawned and stretched its front legs. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Sweetpea washed her hands in the kitchen sink before pouring herself a glass of iced tea. She contemplated eating a peach, but finally decided against it. “Too much sugar,” she told the dog, who’d followed her into the kitchen in the hope of a biscuit. She opened the refrigerator door and stared at the nearly empty shelves. She’d meant to go to the grocery store this morning, but the rescue of the bee had chased the thought from her mind. She wondered what she could make for dinner. Maybe she should take something out of the freezer. Tuna casserole? Lord, she was sick of that. Meatloaf? She’d had her fill of that, too. She pulled open one of the plastic drawers. Hotdogs. American cheese for grilled sandwiches. The kids never got tired of that stuff. Hell, if she were a kid, she’d eat that sort of thing every day. Maybe she’d call Walter and ask him to pick up a pizza on his way home from the office. “I’m a terrible mother, aren’t I, Jack?” The little dog took the opportunity to look up at the cupboard that held the dog biscuits. “Yeah, yeah. I know what you want, little guy. Just give me a minute here.”
She took a long swallow of tea and grimaced. “Needs sugar,” she said, counting four teaspoons into the glass and swirling the grains into a tiny cyclone. “I really shouldn’t. My jeans are already tight.” Sweetpea looked at the dog as though waiting for him to disagree with her. The animal began to scratch at the floor and whimper until she took out a plastic container, removed a small bone-shaped biscuit, and put it in the pocket of her grey sweater.
The little dog followed her back into the living room, wagging its tail in happy anticipation. Sweetpea sat down heavily in the old wooden rocker she’d inherited from her grandmother. At her feet a basket overflowed with catalogues. There were seed catalogues devoted entirely to flowers or vegetables or herbs, some with all three. There were catalogues that showcased bulbs of every size, colour, and variety. Others showed nothing but azaleas, lilacs, and, of course, roses. Hybrid teas, climbers, shrub, and her favourite, old fashioned ones that bloomed only once in a season but smelled sweeter than any newfangled rose ever could. She groaned as she bent down and began to leaf through the pile. “I’ll never get through all of these. I don’t know why I don’t just throw them away. Some of them are three years old!”
The dog had fixed its gaze on the pocket of her cardigan. When she looked at it, the animal licked its jowls, shifting its weight from one hip to the other.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Sweetpea pulled the biscuit out of her pocket and snapped it in two. “Here ya go, little guy.” The dog took the biscuit and walked out of the living room.
Sweetpea took a long drink of tea, nearly emptying the glass. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and began to rock slowly. The creak of the wooden runners, first loud and then soft like a heartbeat, comforted her in its steadiness. Underneath the familiar sound, though, she heard a desperate counterpoint. A thrumming or vibration somewhere in the room, like a tiny motor running at fewer and fewer RPMs. Sweetpea sat very still. The buzzing seemed to be inside her head, the way one hears a high-pitched tone that does not come from outside the body. The little dog stood before her on its hind legs, shifting from side to side to keep its balance. “What do you want now, Jack? Oh, right.” She reached into her sweater pocket and held out the other half of the biscuit. The dog snapped its jaws around it, deftly missing her fingers, and ran back into the hallway.
Sweetpea slid off the rocking chair and crawled over to the fireplace, tilted her head to the doors, nearly touching the cold glass with her ear. She could hear the buzzing clearly now. “It’s in the firebox, Jack!” she cried, for the dog had once again taken its treat to the secret place under the back staircase. Sweetpea sat back on her haunches and squinted. The inside of the doors was covered in a layer of yellowish-brown grime. “I really need to clean these things. They’re filthy.” She lowered her head until her chin nearly rested on the hearthstone, leaning forward and peering through the vent, her rear end sticking up in the air, the grey cardigan puddled around her shoulders.
The little dog returned to his basket, pawed at a worn baby blanket still adorned with faded forget-me-nots and yellow butterflies, and made three quick circles before dropping down as if exhausted from its labours. In an instant the animal was snoring quietly. Sweetpea shifted her behind, which had been blocking the afternoon sun that poured in through the front window. With more light, she could see the bee through the firebox’s lower vent. The insect would buzz for a moment, spinning on its side in the soft grey ash, and then become quiet. She watched it repeat this pattern three or four times. It was probably dying. On the other hand, maybe it was just exhausted from its efforts to free itself. Maybe she should let it go. Scoop it up with her leather gloves and take it back out to the garden and set it once more on the damask roses. Then again, what if, in a surge of angry energy, it stung her in the face? She sat back and tried to decide what to do.
It’s dying. I should let it out.
But what if it gets loose in the house? It might sting one of the children.
But, look there, it’s nearly dead. The spaces between buzzing are getting bigger and bigger.
What if one of the children is allergic, and we just don’t know it yet?
Oh, that’s a point.
Sweetpea leaned forward again and peered through the vent.
It’s hardly moving now. Maybe I should open the doors.
What if you can’t catch it and then it stings one of us in our sleep?
Look, it just buzzed for a second, but it didn’t move.
What if the dog tries to catch it and gets stung in the mouth?
Sweetpea looked at the dog asleep in his basket.
Do you really think he’d go after it? Or that he could actually catch it?
Well, you never know, do you?
It’s not moving at all. It’s not even buzzing now.
Again Sweetpea sat back; this time she crossed her legs, her elbows on her knees, and made a table of her hands to rest her head. She stared at the glass doors while the clock chimed the hour. A quarter past the hour. Half-past. There was the steady swing of the pendulum and the incremental movements of the small hand of the clock, the little dog’s rib cage expanding and contracting. But for these the house was still. There were no more little bursts coming from the firebox, no more little puffs of ash sliding out from under the vent.
Outside, from the corner by the old brick mansion she could hear the screech of the school bus brakes. The little dog woke from its dreams and lifted its head to turn a pointed ear toward the sound.
Sweetpea reached forward with both hands and pulled open the glass doors. Inside, pressed up against the vent, its motionless body covered in grey ash, lay the bumble bee.
The bodies in this piece were created in response to the isolating experience of simultaneously sheltering the body in lockdown to prevent infection while also sheltering consciousness within the body.
Violence and vulnerability oppose one another. They wrestle with inner wildness, desiring at once to lash out but also to be held.
They express the shock of suddenly being revealed to be a stranger to the self, of being left by loneliness with nowhere to hide from one’s own nature.
First day so heavy that the bowl stays candy-striped even after the hard double flush. My husband says, ‘Hon. you gonna do that, close the door.’ And I’m like, ‘If? If I’m gonna do that?’ First day so heavy the tunnel turns crimson, you know I’m gonna flush the toilet.
So I give him the eye. ‘If?’
‘That was audible,’ he says.
I mutter he’s the goddamned ‘audible’ one. Pacing through confinement with those nubs inserted in his ears like tampons. He’s the one leaking corporate blather and management-ese through every door I close. So, no, I begin to make a point of not flushing and then a point of not washing hands. Just blood, I say. Not virus. I hold my palms to his face like Lady Macbeth. Like a hand-jive raspberry, immature and perimenopausal at the same time.
Later, sleepless from cramps, I watch the streetlight wobble like an infrared melon in the quiet night. I imagine the spring bulbs saved from a nursery and dispatched for my floral distraction: dahlia, dianthus, and cockscomb. A poppy, I think, or 500, would put me to sleep, my womb wrapped in PPE. I doze, dancing with more unattached bits of my body – the slough of sight. Vitreous gel, it is called. It comes unmoored, floats in colonies – bats against the blood of my lidded eyes, and I dream of a sunset in the American west – a crimson streak across a mesa, a plateau, a flattened curve.
A few years ago, as I was pottering around a local market looking for old books, I came across an LP called Cotswold Voices. When I flipped over the sleeve to find track names like “Snuff Taking,” “Oss Muckin,” and “Bath Time,” it became irresistible. I fondly remember laying the needle in the groove to resurrect all of those warm, lilting voices and their tales of the old days and ways. It was like a great short story collection, a portrait of place revealed by the habits and quirks of its community.
I was hoping for a similar sense of weathered wisdom from Robert Seethaler’s latest book, The Field, a collection described as the history of a “small, sleepy provincial town…given shape and meaning by those who lived, loved, worked, mourned, and died there.” As the book begins, an unnamed man – perhaps a parish verger – settles on his favourite bench and looks out over the rows of graves in he Field, the colloquial name for a cemetery in Paulstadt. “The truth is,” Seethaler writes, “he was convinced that he could hear the dead talking.”
And talk they do. As if by invocation, the man’s idle thoughts spark a minor resurrection, and the former citizens of Paulstadt rise up from their graves to remember stories from their lives. Some characters focus on one transformative, irrevocable moment; others are deliciously pithy (Sophie Breyer: “Idiots”). There are anecdotes and epistles, accusations and confessions. The longest shadow is cast by Father Hoberg, a priest whom many townsfolk remember only as a strange, aloof child. They mistrust his sermons, and Hoberg comes to feel that he is on a futile mission. Rather than turn bitter, he becomes overzealous, further alienating his congregation with his stern lectures. Finally, desperate to connect to the people who had shunned him, he commits an unforgettable act that will mark the town for decades.
Through the gradual accrual of lore and gossip, The Field seems to ask: What constitutes a community? Is it a conscious entity or an unconscious organism? The problem is that Seethaler, with a few strong exceptions, has written such clichéd stories as could happen in any community, rather than chipping away at what makes this community unique. The sense of generality may be a point in favour of communal unconsciousness – perhaps people will slip into familiar identities or recognisable patterns of behaviour wherever certain social structures are prevalent. But even if that were Seethaler’s point, it doesn’t make more entertaining his tried and tested tales of (among others) a repressed housewife; a heckled, hard-working refugee done good; a corrupt civic official; or a post-war family’s attempt at assimilation.
Similarly, as we come to recognise the topography of the town by its popular shops and venues (the Golden Moon pub or Black Buck hotel) and scenic descriptions (“You could walk from north to south in twenty-five minutes.”), these points of familiarity feel more like shortcuts than inroads to a genuine sense of lived-in, local texture. In his recent book A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, George Saunders asks reasonably that the writer setting their story in a particular milieu, at a particular time, offer dramatic consequences for those details of space and place that the reader works to invest in. But The Field, despite zooming in on the particulars of Paulstadt, never makes it feel fully inhabited or alive, like a place with histories that fall beyond the perimeters of the page. By the end of this slim book, as I reflected on dozens of half-remembered stories, it felt much like an actual cemetery, filled with uncertainty and dead air.
The Field
By Robert Seethaler
Translated by Charlotte Collins
240 pages. Picador
During the coronavirus pandemic of 2020, it was a dog who saved my sanity.
Quarantine began in early March, which is still winter where I live, in a central New York community that includes my elderly parents and four grown children. The college where I work sent our students home and told us faculty to “shift our classes online,” a phrase that made the process sound deceptively simple. On Friday the 13th (nothing ominous about that), I dragged an old table out of the garage, set my computer on it, and hunkered down to work from home.
*
I’m an extrovert. Meet me at a party, buzzing with the high of multiple conversations, and you might even call me high energy. But here’s the dirty secret about us extroverts: that energy is not self-generated. We feed on the energy of the people around us, like vampire bats who need to suck blood from another creature every couple of days. During quarantine, separated from family and friends and even small talk with strangers, I drooped like a houseplant who had been moved to a dark room.
I live with my husband Bill, it’s true, but he’s an essential worker. Worse than essential, really: where he works, he’s the guy in charge. So during those early weeks of the pandemic, my husband was working frantic 16-hour days, making phone call after phone call, thinking and rethinking anxious decisions. I was huddled in an upstairs bedroom, maintaining distance because of a worrisome cough, snuggled up with my laptop as I moved my courses online. My husband couldn’t afford to get a cough, whether or not it was COVID-19, and so we’d each taken a separate bedroom, a separate bathroom. Hearing my husband’s muffled voice through the heat register was not enough social connection to sufficiently energise me.
Anxiety, I discovered as texts chimed in from family members, affects people in different ways. My son Devin and his wife Emily, for instance, became hyperactive. During that first week at home, they built a chicken coop: They made a time-lapse video that shows them digging holes, putting in posts, pouring cement, constructing walls, and hammering on a roof, all at frantic speed. Once that project was complete, they ordered more chickens, set up beehives, bought a smoker, and ordered bees. They delivered laptops and homework packets to households all over the city of Syracuse, where they both work as teachers. They went grocery shopping for their grandparents and offered to deliver eggs to any household that needed them. I think the only time that Devin stood still was when he got accidentally locked in the new chicken coop, and even then, he was pounding on the door and yelling for help.
But for me, isolation and anxiety brought paralysis. Those first few weeks of quarantine, I watched more Netflix shows than I’d watched in my entire previous life. I chomped my way through the huge bag of chocolates I’d bought for a big family gathering that was now cancelled. I knew that I was lucky to live upstate. Many of my New York City students told me that they were waiting until 2 a.m. to take walks, just to avoid crowds on the street. The land behind my house is mostly wooded, and I could walk there any time I wanted without meeting another soul. And yet, instead, I spent my day hunched over my laptop. Some of the time, I was working from home – that is, teaching college students who were now scattered across the state – but mostly, I was reading the news and worrying. If you’ve ever been to our local zoo and gone into the dim area where the sloth hangs, inching its way along a branch, you can imagine what I looked like sitting alone on my couch just a few days into quarantine.
Powerful emotions, it turns out, can’t be soothed by binge-watching Gilmore Girls. Believe me, I tried. There were not enough twinkle lights in Stars Hollow to distract me from worrying about what would happen if one of my elderly parents needed medical help during this crisis, and I couldn’t go with them to the hospital because of the pandemic protocol.
*
During a crisis, my family usually gathers at my house for brunch. Everyone crowds into my house – my parents, my four grown kids with their partners, three grown nieces with their partners and children – and we spend the morning eating and talking, holding babies, and playing games. But now that simple ritual had all the makings of a super-spreader event.
Instead we texted and emailed and talked on the phone. We had Friday evening family Zoom meetings, where we could see each other and hear each other but never hug each other. One afternoon I drove to my daughter Shannon’s house just to stand in her driveway while she walked out onto her front porch and waved to me. She pulled her shirt up to show me her pregnant belly. My husband and I went to my son Sean’s house to sit on the front porch and talk to our grandson Arlo through the glass. What a weird impression of the world that six-month-old was getting.
“He thinks the front door is a television screen,” Sean said, watching as I made faces to get the baby to smile. “And he’s like – why is it always on the same channel?”
*
I started calling Shannon three times a day. I suspect that she alerted her brothers about my descent into lethargy, because I got a call from Devin, offering me one of his three dogs. And that’s how my grand puppy Appa came for a long visit.
Here’s where readers will ask what kind of dog Appa is. And to be honest, I have no idea. Some kind of terrier mutt, I suppose. I do know he was a rescue dog who almost died of parvovirus. The first time I met him, several years ago, he was a skinny puppy shivering in the front seat of my son’s car. “Wash your hands after you play with him,” my son said. “We think he has mange.” But Appa survived the parvo to become a healthy little dog with lots of energy.
I’ve always been more of a cat person than a dog person, and Appa is nothing like a cat. He looks and smells like a dog. He’s not soft to cuddle. His fur is coarse and hardy. He’s the kind of dog who barks and runs through the woods, digs up stumps, and growls when a stranger comes to the door.
So I was surprised at the rush of affection I felt for this scruffy little mutt when he curled up next to me on the couch and stuck his nose into my lap. That first night, every time I woke up coughing, he woke up, too, and snuggled close to me, ready to guard me against the terrors of the night. I had read about how poor ventilation was a factor in whether or not people died from COVID-19, so I slept with the windows open, even on the nights when it was snowing, and having a warm body cuddled next to mine felt good.
My husband grinned when he looked in on us that first morning. “I can see I’ve been replaced.”
But I could tell he was relieved as he left for work, knowing that I wouldn’t be alone.
*
I knew that going outside into the woods would be good for me, but I needed a nudge to get me out of my warm house. Appa provided more than a nudge; he put two paws on my chest and a long pink tongue in my face. And he had a secret weapon: I knew that if I didn’t walk this dog, he would eventually pee somewhere in the house. That thought got me off the couch.
Appa was eager to explore the woods behind my house, and he didn’t care how cold the wind was. He ran around my kitchen in circles, impatient, while I pulled on a red winter coat and tall boots. (I always wear bright colours in the woods, just in case there are hunters. My neighbours have been known to target practice outside of season.)
I admit that the moist fresh air felt good in my lungs. Appa raced eagerly across the yard to the beginning of the trail. My friend Guy, who died of cancer at 59, the age I am now, used to say, “If something bothers you, go into the woods. It’s like walking through an invisible wall that catches all the things bothering you. You will always feel better.” As I stepped onto the trail, I could feel my spirits lifting.
*
I don’t want to paint too idyllic a picture of my land. It’s what people here call “the sticks.” There are no hills, no cliffs, no scenic vistas, just acres and acres of flat wooded land, flooded by melting snow. An ecologist would call it a swamp. I sank into mud at every turn and splashed through water deep enough to soak the jeans tucked into my boots. Appa didn’t hesitate; he ran fearlessly through icy cold water, leaping to keep his head out.
Normally, in early spring, I’m in the thick of the semester, which doesn’t give me much time in the woods, but now everything on my calendar was cancelled. It was a gift, really, that I could walk my trails on a Tuesday morning in March, on a cool day with virtually no bugs. The swarms of mosquitos wouldn’t hatch until May.
The woods were brown, mostly. Muddy trails wound through ground pasted with dead leaves and broken tree branches. The young beech trees still clung to their leaves, flashes of gold against the sky. Big dead tree trunks sprawled across puddles of snowmelt were covered with moss, a brilliant green.
*
In the woods, my body striding through the underbrush, my brain calmed down enough to let me name the emotions that had been simmering just below the surface. Walking felt like meditation, or therapy, or both.
I was angry. I’d been pushing that feeling down. I didn’t want to engage in the name-calling and jokes that I kept seeing online. I wanted to be kind. My daughter Shannon, a clinical psychologist, has taught me that we shouldn’t call anyone “crazy.” So as I stomped my way through muddy puddles, I formulated the kindest thing I could say: Our president has a mental illness that makes him unfit to be president.
The botched response to the pandemic was, though, more than just the failings of one man. I blamed many of the people around him, politicians so hungry for power that they supported whatever he said, no matter how illogical it was. I was less angry at the voters, some of whom are my neighbours. Yes, they were the ones who put a narcissistic, incompetent man into the White House, but they were fooled by rhetoric that they were never trained to question. And they were the ones who would be most likely hurt by his actions.
The blame goes to more than just the one president who fired the 2018 pandemic team, who called the coronavirus a hoax, who downplayed fears, who didn’t prepare the country for the pandemic, and who refused to listen to scientists. Scientists have been predicting a pandemic for years, not because of a single incompetent politician, but as a result of the myriad ways in which the dominant culture has destroyed the balance of the natural world. Science observes the creatures and the plants and attempts to record their wisdom. I don’t know why we keep ignoring it.
When I sat down on a fallen tree beneath the beech and hemlock canopy, I felt grief welling up within me. I had a friend who had to stay home while her father died alone, quarantined in a hospital. I had college students who had to leave their hopeful futures to go home and babysit siblings in tiny apartments, their plans cancelled. I thought of friends and family who had lost jobs, their lives forever altered.
As I climbed over broken branches and pushed my way through brush, I allowed myself to grieve for the little things. I knew that the world I loved would change. My daughter and I had planned to spend the second week of March in lower Manhattan, one last mother-daughter trip before her baby was born. We expected to do the same things we always did: watch the street performers in Washington Square, where we usually ended up sharing a park bench with strangers; wander into loud, colourful street fairs, where we bought delicious foods we didn’t know the names of; cram into a basement jazz club, elbow to elbow with other music lovers; crowd into a train to head uptown to a museum; wander through Chinatown and Little Italy, stopping to eat at tables crammed together on the sidewalk, buying silk fans in narrow little shops; walk to Claude’s Patisserie for croissants that we would eat in the park filling with students and tourists and anyone who wanted to enjoy the late afternoon sun; and get swept along, as we always did, by throngs of people hurrying along the streets, that great tide of energy that is lower Manhattan. I suspect that the city I love will change forever as small, lively, unique businesses go under and big corporations, with their blank and box-like structures, survive.
I grieved for time lost with family members. I couldn’t visit with my daughter Shannon during the exciting months of her first pregnancy, and the new hospital protocols meant I wouldn’t be at her side when she gave birth. My grandson Arlo was six months old. In January, I babysat him once a week, cuddling him in my arms even while he napped, but now quarantine meant I was missing his first attempts to crawl. My parents were 86 and 89, and usually I visited them several times every week. These could well be the last months of their life, with or without the coronavirus, and I hated that they were spending it in isolation.
Perhaps the biggest emotion that rose to the surface was anxiety. I worried about nurses and doctors and grocery store workers, about working class people in my community who can no longer work, about children trapped home with abusive parents, about people with cancer and cystic fibrosis and asthma, and about Asian Americans facing a new onslaught of ignorant hate. Being in the woods didn’t make this anxiety go away, but the physical labour of clearing trails helped push me out of the paralysis that the anxiety had caused.
The pandemic shone a spotlight on the inequities in our culture, and it was clear that I live a privileged existence. I had food, a warm house, family nearby. All four of my grown children had jobs that shifted them safely home, where they were still getting paychecks. I should be feeling grateful, I told myself. But gratitude these days felt much more like survivor guilt, no matter how much money I threw at worthy causes. Out in the woods, though, my thoughts smoothed out. I watched as the sun came out, illuminating the brilliant mosses, shimmering down through branches of a young beech tree that still held gold leaves. I was grateful, right now, for this moment.
*
I think it’s important, the knowledge I got from reading the New York Times each morning, but I also needed another kind of knowledge: the wisdom I get from walking in the woods. The current crisis looked different in the context of a larger, older narrative. The smell of mud triggered memories. These are the woods I walked when my sister was dying of breast cancer, and my anxiety was so high I could barely breathe. These are the woods I walked after September 11, when the world came crashing around us. The trees greeted me like old friends, still standing in the same spots they always have, much like my friends who showed up at my sister’s wake, just to stand there, keeping an eye on me, ready if I needed them.
Comfort from the natural world was different than the comfort I sought from Netflix. The woods didn’t numb my emotions. No, the emotions didn’t go away, but they felt less overwhelming as they retreated into the context of something way bigger.
*
Appa’s nose read the landscape: a fox ran past here, a raccoon climbed this tree, and a flock of turkeys roost here. When we reached the hemlock and beech grove, we found deer droppings and coyote scat, and he was beside himself with excitement. I saw the flash of three white tails as three beautiful deer bounded away.
As I worked on my trails (by that I mean, I grabbed dead tree branches to stamp into the mud), I listened for the jingle of Appa’s collar to make sure he was nearby. I could hear branches creaking, wind pushing through pine boughs, and songs from birds returning for the spring. There was music in the woods. I understood why the quarantined Italians were singing from their balconies so that all the neighbours could hear.
Spring was arriving all around me. Green ferns that had been flattened by snow were beginning to rise from the ground. Soon the tree frogs would sing, and the garter snakes would emerge. I could see the tracks of deer and raccoon and fox. The fiddleheads were pushing their way through the mud.
Here in the woods, I was not alone.
Editor’s Note: One year ago today, the world witnessed a fatal interaction, the type that too often happens and is too often dismissed. In honour of Mr. George Floyd and countless others, this short, moving essay finds a home at Litro because of its inherent power and because we share in the urgency of the issues it grapples with.
Written by a young American student, the essay allows us a glimpse of a youth’s understanding of Black identity – the colour of which is not a crime – and the need for racial solidarity.
George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, Ma’Khia Bryant, Daunte Wright, Daniel Prude, Rayshard Brooks, Adam Toledo, Marvin David Scott III…Today we echo past names so that tomorrow there won’t be new ones.
*
Expression: making thoughts or feelings known. Lying on my back on my bedroom floor, searching my ceiling for a way to articulate 400 years of oppression. Biting the cap of a Sharpie, because centuries of suffering just don’t fit onto a poster board. Taking a break by scrolling through Facebook and finding a cousin ranting about how privilege is a lie, how he really doesn’t care.
Do you?
Slapping the computer shut, because what do you say to someone who’s so far gone? A clenched fist, a three-word phrase, an MLK quote? Could any of it persuade someone like him? Flipping through a thesaurus and Malcolm X to get this right, trying to find the perfect soundbite. If I can’t express myself to him, what’s the point? Checking my watch and running out of time. The protest is in two hours, and I have to finish this sign. I have to change at least one mind. I settle for the expressions on their faces in better times: Elijah’s warmth, Breonna’s joy, George’s peace and Ahmaud’s glee. Two words: too many.
At the march, I find my voice and we voice our rage. No justice, no peace, no racist police! We’re strong, we’re powerful, we’re conveying our message. We walk two miles, our signs held high, and we stare down the cars as they pass us by. I pray none of them are like my cousin. We walk to City Hall, and our voices are so heard that we can’t say a word. Police break the silence, start shouting orders. Back, back, back. To the eighteenth century? We have power in numbers, but they have earplugs and handguns. Tear gas and targets. Suddenly, they step back, the canister high in the air. You should have seen their expressions.
She wakes each night to the same dream. Bathwater spilling over, stealthily onto the floor. It dribbles into the hallway and to the door behind which she sleeps. She wakes crying, and she thinks that perhaps she is the bath. But her tears do not smell of lavender salts, nor do they foam like suds as they fall.
She keeps four loaves of bread in her dresser. Thick white, sliced. She worried that brown bread may have stained the enamel. The radio is still on in the hall. She likes to feel she is the first one asleep at a party. But the illusion is shattered once she steps onto the empty landing, barefoot and cradling three loaves like a bundle of babes. She is careful to keep one spare. Nestled in the dresser in case of catastrophe.
At breakfast, she likes a drink. Fruit punch – heavy on the rum. She calls it rummy, which makes her sound like a child. More rummy in my tummy. That sort of thing. Silly, really. She has her punch and her porridge, and then she washes in a bath filled with bread.
The neighbours complain she has been eating their flowers – the daffs are all beheaded, and their rose beds are a mess. They say she takes whole bunches from the grocers on the corner, as a special treat for Sunday lunch. You’ll never see flowers on the windowsill. Not in her house.
She cut the doorbell cord when she turned sixty. Severed it with a pair of nail scissors she keeps by the kitchen sink. She vomits each time the phone rings and thinks about cutting that, too. She answers it in silence, wiping rummy from her chin.
Her house is like the tropics, swathed in balmy heat that agitates the ripe, green smell. Detergent and warm tomatoes; a little rancid sweetness from a bowl of browning fruit. Her monthly gas bills paper the walls like trophies. Three-hundred-and-twenty-six-pounds-eighty-nine. That was July. She patters around in little more than an apron printed with Matisse’s Large Red Interior, the waist ties dangling, uselessly, at either side. It was a gift from her husband, back when she was twenty and scandalous. He took a trip to the Côte d’Azur while she stayed at home and made a baby with another man. She painted the carpet red on week nineteen, and after that the apron fit as it should.
Her legs bulge beneath the apron like two bristled ham bones, darkening to purple at the feet where veins pucker and protrude. Her toenails, also, are purple – liberally lacquered by her own unsteady hand. She hasn’t a nail on her leftmost, smallest toe – it was lost in her sleep long ago – but she has daubed polish over the skin to give the illusion of a full set. The missing nail disturbs her. She never found it among the sheets.
Her large, handsome face is seldom made-up. She doesn’t care for all the fiddling and fuss. But on her birthday, she paints herself as a tigress or a jaguar – caked, exquisitely, in reds and golds and browns. When her time is up, she will be buried as a cat. Her husband was buried as himself. Beige shorts, spotted shirt, grey skin. He ate so much salt it made his brain seize up. That’s what the doctors said.
*
The couple next door don’t say hello. They hear her crying at night and tell themselves it’s foxes.
Perhaps it is the foxes that ruin their flower beds, but they tell themselves it’s the lady who lives next door.
*
On Thursdays, she cleans the house. She throws sodden bread into the garden from the bathroom window. She knows the foxes will have cleared it come morning. It’s warm and marshy in her palms, like the final dregs of porridge salvaged from the pan. The mush smells exactly as it feels, and she wonders whether this is how she feels, how she smells. The doughy parts have fallen away, some congealing in the drain, and she holds the flaccid crusts to her face, peering through them like a toddler in a box of picture frames. She bleaches the drain once the bathtub is clear and then fetches a new loaf from her dresser.
At noon, she dresses in cotton knickers and a housecoat, and lumbers to the grocers at the end of the street. She wears her husband’s shoes, three sizes too big. There are nectarines and cherries piled in crates outside and potatoes in tall sacks that reach her waist. She stands a while, testing the firmness of the fruit with her withered fingers. A cherry ruptures in her grip, and she licks the juice quickly from her thumb, throwing the rest over her shoulder. She goes inside.
The young man behind the counter does not say hello. He watches her closely as she fiddles with a tin of peas before setting them back on the shelf. He has poppy-seed eyes; small and dark and suspicious. She pulls four loaves of white bread from their rack and wrestles them to the counter. She points to a bottle of rummy and adds a packet of bubblegum to the pile. Eighteen pounds and sixty pence. She counts out handfuls of twenty-pence pieces, pushes a stick of gum between her lips, and leaves with a bag tucked under each arm.
At home, she drops her shopping and undresses on the hallway mat. She wriggles the apron over her head and then carries the loaves upstairs. She spits bubblegum down the toilet and flushes. And then she worries that it will clog the plumbing and that the toilet will overflow. It would be terribly impractical to put bread down the toilet. And so she resolves that she will surely be drowned in her sleep or else die from a ruptured bladder if, indeed, she is compelled to fill the toilet with bread.
For dinner, she warms tomato soup in a pan until it is the temperature of a tepid bath. She sweats a little over the stove and brings the hem of her apron to her brow. At the kitchen table, she swallows her soup and listens for the sound of water above.
It is purple and gloomy on the landing as she turns the radio dial. She does not recognise the music. She has placed a saucepan beneath her bed. The toilet lid is sealed with parcel tape, and beneath it is half a white loaf. Outside she hears crying, dirt kicked against a fence. Perhaps she will not be buried as a cat but as a fox.
After Brian bumped his head and found himself in the hospital following the accident, he wanted everyone to leave him alone. No nurses, no doctors, no grieving friends and family – nobody, and certainly not that judgmental look he was expecting to see in their eyes.
To his great surprise, they did. Not a single one of them was sat there by his bedside when he regained consciousness.
When a quiet orderly eventually brought him his evening meal, which consisted of a container of apple sauce, potato mush, and two pieces of white bread, he wished it were instead some souvlaki and a side of rice, like the kind that Greek place in Parc-Ex used to make.
And then, to his great surprise, it was. Gone were the mush and the bread, and replacing them were two carefully wrapped pitas with a side of steaming rice.
He blinked, thinking he must have imagined it, but then the same thing happened with the little plastic container of orange juice. Brian was just in the process of thinking how much he would rather have a beer, and then boom, there it was.
Brian took a moment, trying to figure out what had happened. He picked up the beer, some drab Canadian lager, and wondered why it wasn’t something better, like one of those ones he’d had in Maine the year before on that road trip with David.
This time nothing happened. At least not until he really wished he had a better beer. And there it was in his hands. A pumpkin lager he’d picked up from a microbrewery just outside of Salem, Massachusetts.
Brian stopped doubting. He quickly discovered, over the course of the following few hours, that he could make anything happen, but only so long as he really wished for it. If he simply felt like having something, it never became more than a feeling. But instead, if he focused his energies on it just long enough, and really, really wanted it to happen. . .
He soon wished himself out of the hospital and back in his own clothes. He found himself in a field of green with distant rolling hills. He hiked to the top and made a Muskoka chair appear along with a glass of Dalmore 62. He drank the bottle, wishing the hangover away, and the one after that. When he began feeling guilty, he distracted himself by having falling stars put on a light show, and then encasing the horizon with the Northern Lights. By the following afternoon, he’d wished himself atop the highest peak in the Himalayas and in the most frightening depth of the ocean. He dashed through every known region and its culture before settling on the moon and then Mars, and then Titan and beyond.
The universe was a surprisingly empty place, so he wished it to be populated with all kinds of fantastic species and planets. He encountered beings straight out of Star Trek, hung out in famous cantinas, and fought in pitched star battles. He watched universes being born, others being destroyed. He built up a magnificent empire and then gave it away over a game of checkers. He encountered ten thousand friends and made a hundred foes. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from feeling so empty.
Brian went on wishing and wishing, each wish becoming more extravagant than the previous one. One day when he ran out of things to wish for, Brian wished David were there. One thought was all it took, and his old friend appeared before him in tattered jeans, a grey t-shirt, and a pair of knock-off Converse All-Stars.
“Hey man,” Brian said, trying not to seem nervous. “Good to see you.”
David crossed his arms and glared at Brian. “I guess.”
Brian ignored David’s curt remark. “What do you feel like getting up to? We can do anything, and I mean literally anything.” He snapped his fingers a couple of times, building for them a room not unlike David’s old basement apartment where they used to hang out and watch the X-Files over beer and tacos.
“I dunno,” David said, looking uninterested.
“What are you talking about? Feel like some X-files?”
“It’s just that. . .I’m dead. You know?”
“No, you’re not,” said Brian, trying not to think about the details. “Not anymore.”
“It doesn’t work that way. You can’t just wish me back into existence.”
“It works for everything else.”
“Does it?”
Brian was about to answer, but hesitated. That little doubt crept into his mind.
“Nonsense,” Brian began, “It’s—” but David was already fading away, along with the walls of the basement and the newly restored imperial palace overhead. Next, the planet disappeared, and then the stars and the sky. Before long, all that remained was the memory and the realization.
He could build an empire and command the stars, but he couldn’t undrink those four beers he knew he shouldn’t have had. Nor could he have stopped himself from handing David the keys knowing David was as deep in the bag as he was. He couldn’t stop himself from believing David when he said he was okay, nor from letting himself fall asleep with his head on the passenger window until the tires began to screech and the car begun to swerve.
Brian hated to admit it, but there were some wishes that wouldn’t come true no matter how hard he tried.
It hurt. He felt it in his chest and in his eyes. Suddenly, everything began to fade. It wasn’t long before he found himself back in the hospital bed, a cast on his leg and bandages across his forehead. His sister and David’s mother were there in the room with him. When he looked over, there were tears in their eyes but none of the judgement he was expecting.
*
It was sometime later that year, around the middle of autumn, when Brian realized he hadn’t done a lot of wishing since the hospital. He was still in a wheelchair and probably could have wished himself back on his feet, but he let it be, content to give it time. Instead, he wheeled himself out onto the patio and looked up at the cloudy night sky. He watched them move for a while, umbrous shapes just crashing and colliding. It wasn’t long before he really wished the clouds would pull away and let him watch the stars.
And then they did.
So, there are a bunch of pigs – hundreds and hundreds of pigs. And they’re all walking up a long, enclosed ramp. At the far end of the ramp is a large metal-clad building, which will later turn out to be a slaughterhouse.
Then, suddenly, two of these pigs become sentient. By “sentient” I mean that their minds are now comparable to human minds. It’s not that two human minds are somehow transferred or swapped into these two pig bodies; rather, there are two pigs that have had ordinary pig minds all of their lives up until this point, and then they undergo an instantaneous, profound intellectual enhancement. The very same pig minds are suddenly capable of grasping any concept that an ordinary human being understands and can feel any emotion that an ordinary human being experiences. Also, they can talk now – specifically, they speak English.
And there’s no explanation for any of this. You see, it’s a sort of a fable. (It’s loosely based on a Cervantes story that I read years ago that, if I remember correctly, featured talking dogs.) So, the fact that there are two sentient pigs on their way to be slaughtered is obviously supposed to be a metaphor or something. One of the nice things about fables is that the less subtle they are, the better. They’re essentially arguments from analogy dressed up as narratives – the conclusion, the moral of the story, is often even stated explicitly at the end. The only unusual feature of the present fable is that the narrator’s inappropriately light and conversational tone creates a sort of ironic distance from the subject matter. (The hope is that this tone will at least partly remedy the fact that stories featuring talking animals are fundamentally silly.)
Anyway, so the first of these two pigs that has suddenly become sentient says, “Holy shit!” – which seems like a natural thing to say under the circumstances. And, as you might expect, he’s rather surprised by the sudden, radical intellectual changes that have just occurred, so he says “What’s going on? What’s happening to me? Why am I suddenly aware of myself and what’s going on around me? And how am I able to speak? Wait – how do I even know what language is? Or what an ability is? Or what I am?”
And the other sentient pig is walking along, and because he’s overwhelmed by all the dramatic intellectual changes he’s recently undergone, he doesn’t immediately realize that there’s a pig talking next to him. But, after a brief delay, it gradually dawns on him that the person talking nearby is a pig.
“Hang on – are you saying that the thing that has just happened to me has happened to you, too?” the second pig asks.
“Well, I suppose, so,” the first pig replies. “I don’t suppose we’d be able to hold a conversation otherwise.” You see, in addition to being a sentient pig, the first pig is also a rather sarcastic pig.
“So, you understand English?” the second pig asks.
“So it would seem.”
“And you’re self-aware?” the second pig continues. “You recognize that you have a mind – that you have beliefs, and desires, and conscious experiences? And that you’re surrounded by creatures who also possess minds but whose minds are distinct from your own?”
“Yep.”
“But has this only happened to you and me? Or has every pig suddenly been transformed?”
The two sentient pigs agree that this is an excellent question; and so, they proceed to interrogate the pigs in their immediate vicinity. “Hello, sir or madam, have you recently undergone a dramatic intellectual change?” and “Hi there, do you speak English?” and so on. However, the neighboring pigs pay no attention. As loud as they can, they shout in unison, “Can any of you pigs understand us?” But there’s no response.
“How can this be?” the second pig asks. “How can we be the only ones?”
“I have no idea,” the first pig answers.
“It’s some kind of miracle,” the second pig suggests.
“A miracle? You mean, you think God has directly intervened and altered our minds?”
“Why not? What else could explain it?”
“Sorry, are you actually suggesting that God personally decided to make the two of us sentient?” the first pig asks, contemptuously. “God was sitting around, feeling bored, and thought to himself, ‘You know what would be funny – if two particular pigs, and only two pigs, suddenly became sentient beings.’ And then he snapped his fingers or whatever?”
“I don’t mean that God is playing a joke. He’s given us a gift – this is a gift from God.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” the first pig says. “If there’s some benefit to pigs being sentient, then God would have made all the pigs sentient, and he would have done so a long time ago. God can’t have decided arbitrarily to make two particular pigs sentient. The whole point about God is that he’s supposed to be perfect. He can’t get bored and start screwing around with farm animals to entertain himself.”
The second pig is stumped. “Well, what would you suggest has happened?”
“I have no earthly idea,” the first pig says. “We have no hope of figuring out why this has happened, so we shouldn’t waste any more time worrying about it.”
“But,” the second pig interjects, “if we don’t know what caused this, we don’t know if it’s permanent. We don’t know if or when we might revert back to the way we were.”
“It’s a good point,” the first pig acknowledges. “But I don’t see that we have any alternative. We’ll just have to try to make the most of our new minds while we have them.”
“Well, what should we do first?”
“Do you have any suggestions?”
“I think we should decide on names,” the second pig says.
“Names?”
“Well, we’re persons now. People have names. So we should each have a name we can use to address one another.”
“But there are only two of us.”
“So?”
“So, names are particularly useful in larger groups. If I’m addressing someone, it’s safe to assume that I’m addressing you.”
“I still think it would be nice to have a name,” the second pig insists.
“Fine. What would you like to be called?”
The second pig is quiet for a moment – presumably he’s thinking about names. “I think my name should be Dennis.”
“Dennis?” the first pig asks, laughing. “You have a nearly infinite number of options to choose from, and you’ve chosen Dennis? You know, I’m not sure you’re all the way sentient after all.”
“What’s wrong with Dennis?”
“Nothing. In fact, if I had to come up with a name for someone who spends the bulk of his time lying in his own filth, I might very well pick Dennis.”
“Well, what do you want to be called, smart guy?”
“Swinelord,” the first pig answers.
“I’m not calling you Swinelord.”
“What’s that, Dennis? Are you refusing to use my preferred name, Dennis? Even though, Dennis, I am very obligingly using your preferred name, which is, in fact, as unlikely as it may sound, Dennis.”
The second pig doesn’t particularly like all this teasing, so he tells the first pig to knock it off and changes the subject. “We’re wasting time,” he says. “The next thing we need to do is figure out how to get out of here.”
“I don’t even know where here is,” the first pig says. “It seems like we’ve been walking up this ramp for ages.”
“Well, where are we going?”
“Sorry, are you talking to me? I wasn’t sure. Perhaps it would help if you said, ‘Where are we going, Swinelord?’”
“Shut up, already. Can you see anything?”
“Quite a number of pigs. That’s about it.”
“Where could this many pigs be going?”
“A barn? Pigs tend to live in barns, I believe.”
“There are hundreds of pigs in front of us. And there must be more than that behind us, given how far we’ve walked. They wouldn’t put that many pigs in one barn, would they?”
At this point it dawns on the first pig where they’re headed, and so, as you might expect, he exclaims, “Oh, fuck,” rather loudly. And this exclamation sets the second pig to panicking.
“I think I can hear machinery up ahead. And squealing. And do you hear that popping sound?” The second pig is the more emotional of the two sentient pigs, and he is pretty much screaming by this point. “We have to get out of here!”
“Calm down,” the first pig says. “There’s nowhere to go. We can’t stop walking or head backwards because there are too many pigs behind us. We can’t climb over these railings on the sides of the ramp – if we could, this wouldn’t be a very good slaughterhouse.”
“But we have to.”
“Look. Presumably every single pig that has ever started up this ramp has ended up dead. It just isn’t physically possible for us to escape.”
By now they are close enough to see the large building at the end of the ramp. The second pig is mostly sobbing uncontrollably; the first pig is mostly quiet, though he is trembling visibly. And then, just as they are reaching the threshold, they each utter some conspicuously symbolic final words.
“This is some kind of sick joke,” the first pig mutters. “We’ve been given the worst possible sort of intelligence: not intelligent enough to know why we exist; just intelligent enough to understand what we’re losing by ceasing to exist.”
“I can’t believe I thought we’d been given a gift,” the second pig sobs. “It’s a curse. It’s the worst torture imaginable.” And then he turns to the pigs walking beside him and yells, “You dumb pigs are so lucky, and you don’t even know it.”
So, the second pig makes it to the end of the ramp, and he lets out one final scream as the bolt gun is held against his forehead. The first pig watches as his friend’s throat is cut and the life drains out of him. As he contemplates the infinity of non-existence that is about to commence, the first pig is filled with a limitless metaphysical terror. And then he’s killed, too.
Anyway, just in case it wasn’t already obvious: the moral of the story is that if you’re the kind of creature who understands what death is, it would be better to have never existed.
‘‘I found it,’’ you say.
My heart trips over itself, again.
You kneel down. Your hands wrap around its petals.
Haberlea rhodopensis. It only grows here in the heart of the Rhodope mountains.
I feel I am forcing a smile. I am happy, of course. We’ve been looking for it for five weeks now. The botanists wouldn’t believe it.
I lean down and tuck my hands into my pockets. You can tell so much about someone by looking at the way they keep their hands. I worry you would notice them flapping around, feel their weight, their uselessness, the way I do.
‘‘Come closer.’’
I do, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
Now, the sleeve of my T-shirt touches the strip of your vest. I feel powerful and powerless.
‘‘Beautiful,’’ I say glancing at you sideways now.
The mountain breathes and chirps and whispers.
‘‘What is it?’’ you say.
And I can’t name it. Going back? Where we will go on to living our separate lives? What was I thinking that we’ll roam the Bulgarian mountains forever?
I shrug. You must be used to my ways by now.
It’s also called Orpheus flower. The legend goes that Orpheus, sick with grief over Eurydice, cried and a beautiful white blue flower grew where his tears fell. I suddenly feel jealous of Greek ancients and their legends, big and lasting.
A cicada lands on your shoulder. Makes its way toward your hair. I swear I could do the same. Bury my head in your hair and hide in there forever. In this far-away country, in these mountains, in this sliver of time locked with you.
I look at you, looking at the flower. The mountain looking at you. I want to paint this. I know the warm saffron yellow I will paint your hair with. The breathing body of the mountain – cobalt blue and Veronese green. The sky high and clean, and open. The wind catching your redwood skirt. White vest, one strip slightly off your shoulder. Your fingernails midnight red. Your feet, birds among the tiny white blue flowers.
We go back to the camp. Nestle by the fire. The window above cracks open and the elderly woman pops her head out. I instinctively take a step away from you. She asks if we want ayran and banitsa for breakfast. Devoiki, she calls us. Old Bulgarian for ladies.
You tell me you’ll call the kids. And Jon. I say that’s absolutely fine.
I watch the flames swallow up the wood. I listen to the mountain quieten. I envy its stillness.
I see you standing in the shade looking at me. Or perhaps looking at the fire.
‘‘I brought you this. Getting cold,’’ you say and put the jacket over my shoulders. Then, you stand in front of me, a heartbeat away, and pull the zip up slowly. I smell the summer in your hair. The darkness, soft and comfortable, wrapping us both.
*
I slide my fingers over each letter of your name on the book cover. You had said you were tired of academia and wanted to write a memoir.
On the back cover there’s some information about you and a picture. You had asked if you could use my painting of you. ‘‘It’s much more me than any picture I have.’’
I flip through the pages.
The flower is known to withstand drought for as longs as three years. It’s still a mystery to botanists how it can spring back to life after so much time. That’s why Bulgarians call it bezsmyrtniche, the one that doesn’t die. Dried for years, it somehow brings itself back to life. Blossoms. Thrives.
In 2016, Adania Shibli published a short but densely filled work, a compact and intricate book detailing a particularly horrific but peripheral brutality committed by Israeli occupying forces in the Negev and the search to ascertain the exact details of this passing fact. تفصيل ثانوي: رواية, or Minor Detail: A Novel, as it’s known in English, was translated from the Arabic by Elisabeth Jaquette, published in 2020, and longlisted for the 2021 International Booker Prize. The translation’s spare and unornamented style takes no liberties with the original text. To take such liberties would itself be an act of erasure, of alteration, one more such act against Shibli’s homeland, Palestine.
The book, separated into two parts, is a tale of two overlapping locales. The parts are roughly the same in length (about fifty pages each of a one-hundred-and-five-page novella) and approximately equal in narrative duration: Both focus on a few days in the lives of their respective central characters. Similarly, these characters are both fixated with a pursuit, one for Bedouins in the Negev, the other for information regarding an atrocity, and both, separated by a quarter-century, arrive at a similarly bleak but ambiguous conclusion. In style, however, they vary. The first part is strictly imagistic, resembling what might be fairly referred to as the new cinematic literature:
He stood by the doorway breathing in the clean air, as his eyes tracked the soldiers carrying the bed and the dog following them. When they reached the second hut, they set it down in front of the door. The guard walked to the water tank and turned on the tap, letting water rush into a bucket placed carefully underneath. After a moment, the soldier turned off the tap and carried the bucket back to the second hut. As soon as he got there, he poured the water onto the girl’s motionless body; some splashed onto the sand, which as usual refused to let water travel across it, and instead greedily sucked the moisture down into its depths.
In following each action, they seem to divide themselves into visual frames, the tension building from expectation alone, from the question – Why is this what we’re being shown? This owes much in feeling to the slow, quiet cinema of Michelangelo Antonioni or Lav Diaz. And in a book so brief, whatever Shibli chooses to focus on is necessarily magnified, necessarily gains in importance, and becomes highly sensitised to the potential of visual metaphor, of water absorbed into sand. If an editor were to transform the novel’s narrative past-tense into a simple and continuous present tense, the specificity of the actions would read something like a screenplay. And of the features that make up cinematic literature, this is key.
The dog approached his right hand where it was hanging in the air and began sniffing it. Suddenly, he clamped his hand around its jaws; the dog’s stifled barking made his palm vibrate, and the space filled with the sound of its paws slipping on the floor as it tried to flee his grasp.
The writing is sensorial, shifting focus from image to sound to image. And though the images are laid out in clean prosaic sequences, the naturalism is punctuated with poetry and underpinned with allegory and metaphor. A deadly infection that the first character, an Israeli officer referred to only as he, sustains from a spider bite grows as a malignant wound, driving his increasingly delirious and aggressive actions, while remaining a guarded secret.
Eventually, when I’ve lost all hope of resting, I pick up the maps from the seat next to me. First, I open the Israeli one and try to determine my position, relying on the number that appeared on the last sign I saw along the road. It seems I simply have to drive on a straight course, albeit a short one, and I’ll soon reach my next destination, which appears on the map as a small black dot, practically the only one in a sea of yellow.
In the second part, the perspective shifts. The narrator speaks in the first person, raising the question whether she’d been speaking all along. The text moves from cinematic minimalism to literary maximalism, much further away from Raymond Carver than from Thomas Bernhard or Horacio Castellanos Moya. The external has become internal: neurotic, fixated. The narrator is searching for details of a crime that we’ve already painstakingly witnessed. Its blurred scenes now seem unreachable, as the narrator, an office-worker in contemporary Ramallah, follows her intuition and her obsessions to fill them in. It’s here that the work is closest to a parable of its own creation.
In the book’s first part, every possible minor detail is exhausted in portraying the original crime. No evidence is left untouched. But absences remain. The desert as a blank backdrop of enormous vastness makes any and every detail immense and intricate on its expanse, but moral details seem imperceptible, viewed from a distance. The desert is a kind of screen, the action played out on it. And the shift of perspective is jarring. The narrator searches. She searches museums and obscure archives, scours the puzzling multiplicities of maps – themselves the indexes of conquerors and conquered, of oppressors and oppressed.
Next, I pick up the map showing the country until 1948, but I snap it shut as horror rushes over me. Palestinian villages, which on the Israeli map appear to have been swallowed by a yellow sea, appear on this one by the dozen, their names practically leaping off the page.
The novel is a constant shifting of perspective: internal to external, historical to personal, official to unofficial, oppressors’ to resistors’. Shibli ensures that the exact history, with its crucial dates, is touched on while revealing the discrepancies in historical accounts. In the wake of a catastrophic past, the present experiences a crisis of memory. The complexity of the catastrophe outweighs the capacity for the details that can be remembered. What’s considered a minor detail from one angle – the dots on a map – from another perspective is the major landscape of a life. But this outlook is gradually swallowed up.
Occasionally, he says, clashes did occur between members of the settlement and the few Arabs left in the area, whose livestock sometimes devoured crops on settlement land. Did that ever lead to someone being killed? A man or a woman, on either side? He replies that he doesn’t know of any incidents like that.
The lines between narrated perception and narrative reality are obfuscated. What’s real and what’s metaphor becomes a kind of haunting, when the only objective basis for what’s actual and what’s perceived is the official story, riddled with holes, redactions, and hidden atrocities. Man, not the tank, shall prevail, reads a plaque in Hebrew. Seen again, the meaning changes. The oppressed become the oppressors. The angle changes from frame to frame.
I listen intently to the sounds of the shelling, and the heaviness of the sound translates my distance from the place being bombed. It’s far, past the Wall. In Gaza, or maybe Rafah. Bombing sounds very different depending on how close one is to the place being bombed, or how far. The rumblings from the shelling aren’t strong at all, and the noise isn’t unsettling; rather, it’s a deep, heavy sound, like a languorous pounding on a massive drum. And the bombs causing it don’t shake the building I’m in, even though the walls are thin and made of light wood; they don’t shatter the glass, even though the windows are closed.
The work that Shibli has produced is itself an act of protest against the confusion of lost voices and mislaid accounts, and is highly political. It is a novel of protest, a work of resistance against injustice. Driven forward by a need to uncover the truth, the novel in its two parts moves from sweeping agoraphobia to gripping claustrophobia. It demands empathy but seldom shows it, amplifying the scale of the catastrophe. The tension, the ceaseless and captivating pace of the book over its one-hundred-and-five pages, comes from its refusal to look away. The invisible is made visible. The out-of-focus is rewound and replayed. And the minor details are lost in yellow seas.
Minor Detail
By Adania Shibli
Trans. Elisabeth Jaquette
144/120 pages. New Directions/Fitzcarraldo Editions
(With thanks to Cheryl E. Leonard)
The nature of the disappearance of A——— occurred under mysterious circumstances, leaving the international community vexed as to how to resolve the various disputes that arose regarding each nation’s legal responsibility in the matter. Despite the drafting of new legislature, none has yet to be enacted. To date, all matters remain unresolved. In the hopes that the person addressed in the diary might read the following and contact us providing further information, we have decided to publish the diary in full, from the date of departure for Antarctica until the last date of entry.
Although we are uncertain of the precise dates of these entries, we can speculate with relative accuracy the range of probable dates of the majority of the entries until the one describing the “sharowadji” effect. Some speculate that this entry represents the onset of insanity, while others speculate, hinting at a conspiracy, that the sharowadji event is true but that the evidence was destroyed. Indeed, the recordings were either stolen or confiscated. Reports regarding the disappearance of both A——— and the recordings provided by personnel stationed at the base during the period under scrutiny are conflicting and cannot be relied upon.
Unbridled and unintentional structures disrupt the nature-culture binary and reveal new forms of life beyond their disorder, which paradoxically can be completely fabricated.
Sonic Experience: A Guide to Everyday Sounds, edited by Jean-Francois Augoyard and Henry Torque
Alone, to the Ice. In the belly of the aircraft, a whining, a groaning, or maybe it’s this stomach churning. Neither pills nor patches have relieved this body from the sense that the world is upending, overturning. Flying has always been a fear, yet here I am.
The craft pitches through the sky; the pitch crafts through the sky. The vibrations roll – high-low, high-low – and I wait for my own upheaval, struggling to compose this body, strapped in to the side of the plane. There is nothing to see but cargo.
Then it all uncomposes, decomposes. Not me; the sound. Is it the end over? I hear silence: snow, static, ghosts, whales, or is it because things are unquiet or because I tune in? That is why I am here: to tune in. How did it happen? I am here, and it feels like the world is ending. Am I ending? There will be no communication. That was the agreement. That this is a break. (Shut up.) To think this is only the beginning. I cannot yet say that I am missing. You.
Bon voyage.
*
English: unofficial lingua franca on the Ice. The Ice: slang for the continent. The official tongue, I believe, is some kind of language to which I am not yet savvy. Everyone here is a bit offbeat.
It’s summer, which means most days I’m wearing thermal underwear, jeans, a flannel, insulated gloves, the issued wool socks, and my hiking boots. I have other clothing I haven’t worn except for when I attended the two-day snow survival course, during which I had to build and stay in a snow cave. I say stay because I didn’t sleep at all. A lot of people refuse to wear the parka or any of the ECW (Extremely Cold Weather) clothing, but the way the base is laid out, everything disconnected, means being outside for a certain duration. Plus, most people work outdoors or in an exposed environment. I can get away with fewer layers here, but once I’m on the sea ice, the temperature will be colder.
I know this place is a desert, but the air is even drier than I imagined. I use a lot of lip balm. I get a lot of nosebleeds. I’m able to go for a run outside, but deciding on the number of layers and preventing myself from sweating, which is the worst thing you can do, has made me question how long I can keep this up. I’m not the only runner here, but still, I’m used to conditions being a bit less extreme. Believe it or not, they do hold marathons here.
Living at the station is like how I imagine it might be to live on a desert island, except here the island is surrounded by snow. Right now, during the summer, the dirt roads are generally snow-free. When the wind blows, it angles past fuel storage tanks, cargo piles, and what look like extended mobile homes set on cement blocks. These mobile homes are the dorms, and inside one is my room. Well, it’s not exclusively mine. I have a roommate, an artist. The last time I slept in a bunk bed was in a hostel when I was studying abroad. I have to sleep on top.
How long have I been here? How long has it been since I last saw night? There are no days, only an eternal afternoon. The sun undulates in transverse waves, never dipping below the horizon, unsettling, relentless, pale, except when the clouds grey the light.
If I want darkness – and I need darkness to sleep – I have to cover the window with the insulating blanket. This is sufficient, but I still hide beneath the sheet, which is usually more like attempting to sleep. When my roommate snores, I put in the earplugs and turn on my flashlight to read my Qur’an, my Bible, my sutra: R. Murray Schafer’s The Tuning of the World. In moments of relative quiet, I still my body and try to hear my heartbeat as the station groans – or is it this body? – and the emptiness of the cavernous halls shapes the space.
But outside, that beat is too muffled by layers or by the wind travelling across the Ice, whipping against my coat as it brushes past. Why did I think I’d hear silence? Pure silence. But I do hear a silence – not the silence I expected but a response. To the call of the wind, the water. The Ice.
*
The Ice is my nation: no one’s land. Borders are like gods or saviours in that humans create them first, then insist on believing in them after. As a student, I lived in a city in one nation that bordered the city of a separate nation. While I was studying, the fence was torn down and replaced with sculptures. I know: You’ve heard this all before. Maybe it’s why I don’t believe in borders.
Then what do I believe in? The Ice. The Ice is YHWH, Brahma, the ultimate truth. No: Here, even the immortal is mortal.
So why bother recording? If it’s for a posterity that soon will end, slain by the generations to come, why bother? Regardless, that’s why I’m here, why I received the grant. My work is to record the sounds of place, space. My work: Why do I insist on using the established term when I mean play? My play then is this: to compose a bio-acoustic opus for human consumption. How will nonhumans absorb this?
You and I – “we?” – already know. Which is why I’m writing this here, now, for me and not for you. I need the reassurance more than you. Why I’m here. Alone among the masses. The other among the others.
I await the Ice awaits I. Me. Without.
*
Thin ice is best for underwater acoustic phenomena. Think of it like a membrane. Sounds disperse across water’s surface. A crack in sea ice is the perfect location for sound recording – the closer to the crack, the thinner the Ice.
In summer, the Ice is in flux. Opening and freezing. Reopening, refreezing. The Ice plays itself, improvising. Like a relationship with someone who’s known you long enough not to know you anymore.
Why insist on remembrance? What resists recording? There is no such thing as a shared experience. The audience isn’t listening.
Do you here hear heare me? I am ear. Hear. Here. Ear.
*
I read what you sent. I could infer from its content you miss me. Mostly you mentioned your work. Insufferable, isn’t it? Passion.
It is your passion, isn’t it?
Do I seem ungrateful? Do I seem wanting? Do I seem? More than language. Body language. It may speak louder than words, but when a body remains unobserved, marks like these are the best substitute. Written words: are they the solid trace of sound? They erase so easily. The trace erases. Traces erase. I brace myself. My self I break. Who am I self?
Do you read me?
*
Yes, the soft-serve ice cream is good. And white. Very white.
*
We are required to leave the station in pairs. We were authorised the use of a Zodiac. We embarked, together, for we agreed we worked best alone. We navigated through the brash ice, almost silent, until we found a place to land. I stepped onto the ice shelf, uncertain if I was fearless or too terrified to acknowledge my fear. The artist – I see by “we” I meant the artist and I – departed in the Zodiac to sketch an iceberg. Later I would learn of the difficulties of sketching, in these layers and in these conditions, and the hush of hearing an iceberg calve: an event I would like to record.
As if recording is any easier. Every half hour I must interrupt recording to radio the station.
When the artist returned for me, it was late in the afternoon. The light was still glaringly dull. Time was still still. My lips, blue. The artist said I resembled a corpse. I wanted as much.
*
You only think you do. But you do not.
Maybe you do. What do I know? How could I?
*
From a hydrophone. Through an ice hole. Close to the surface. I heard…Words cannot describe. But I’ve already attempted to describe. And wish I hadn’t.
I cannot erase these words. Only strike them through. And if I did erase them, to whom would it matter? None but me. I won’t erase them. I won’t alter them. As if by refusing to change them, this, any of this, I am employing the only method I know to immortalise myself. Then no more strikethroughs. For it is the faults that keep someone – what I like to think of as me – wholly in the world.
Descending tones are especially synthetic. The Ice is not the only source.
In the sea beneath the Ice – beneath me – Weddell seals click and whistle. Synthesised chirps and bombs. The crack is too narrow for them to squeeze through. They gnaw breathing holes where I see mothers tending pups.
The Ice seems a solid body. Suggests simplicity. A single crack reveals it is nothing. Reveals the complexity. Splits and cracks and splits. Cracks the complexity of a reality that only reveals its absence in that moment when it approaches with a sound that drowns me within its ouroboric resonance.
I wonder if they know I am hear. Here. Heare. They know. Why I am heare. How am I heare? If they care. They care. How we must suffer.
*
Aloneliness. No one to share the Ice with. By “no one” I mean…How do I?
Sound is my companion. In my room, I play back the day’s recordings on my computer. Chop sounds into bites manageable enough to orchestrate. Which is the problem. The world is overmanaged. The more I compose by dissection, the more monstrous the sound becomes. It is not a question of creation or destruction. It is one of perpetuation. Of preservation. But what is preserved and what wants preservation?
Perhaps the sounds are not the performance. The sounds sound. I attempt to simplify their complexity through composition. But they preserve as noise.
Can the stillness of listening be an act? I block out the extraneous. Otherwise, too much. Senses can only perceive so much (Nothing is extraneous.) Some would call this patience. A gift, a skill.
I want you to heare this, too. As I heare it, below this day’s glaring sun, ears burning like saviours at the stake, suffering the flames of the freezing wind. For whose sake? For what ears? Your performance. I am.
*
When I record the Ice – weather conditions dictating session duration – I wear as much as I possibly can without restricting basic movement. It’s difficult to handle a hydrophone with mittens on, let alone two pairs over gloves. That is why I asked the artist for assistance. The artist, knowing firsthand this difficulty, agreed.
My parka is blood red.
*
Famed sailor and sealer James Weddell died like an artist – in poverty and relative obscurity in London. He was forty-seven. The seals are named for the man who slew them. Who, upon first hearing them, speculated their sound was the music of mermaids. What disappointment to discover such song was merely the call of a pinniped.
I watched a mother gnaw the Ice, knowing the unlikelihood of her living past the age of twenty – twenty years fewer than the others of her genus. She will wear out her teeth sustaining the circumference of this breathing hole, without which she would drown.
Evolution may eventually adapt her species to life in the sea alone. Supposing leptonychotes weddellii survive another million years. For now, it’s slow suicide. Her teeth will grind down to the gums until she can no longer catch prey. Then she will starve to death.
*
This is my life separate life. No, this is my life. Separate. Life. Existence. A universe. I promised no more strikethroughs.
Sound is: the sun, the moon unseen, the Ice in cracking choir, now. Cracking and ever more so with the pillaging and politicking of Earth’s atmosphere, itself cracking to the dark matter of the deaf universe – the only appreciative audience.
If I could compose what Weddell heard. But he heard what I heare. The only difference is that I know what makes a sound when I heare it. Or can at least conceive of what causes the vibrations.
No. The only difference is I believe in the nonexistence of mermaids. For Weddell, a mermaid was possible. Even after discovering the existence of the seal. That was his truth. Which is how we all experience the truth. So, there is no difference. No truth. Only difference.
*
Beneath the Ice, life lives in abundance. Above it, we attempt to tame the land. We are practical, we are reasonable. We are human. If these are synonyms for stubborn and ignorant. We are not we. Strive for inhumanity. To not be human. I promise no more strikethroughs. I promise no more strikethroughs.
Practicality and reason: the twin-heads of the machine of suffering. The things you care about, to me, are so inconsequential. Like what happens when I forget your birthday.
Happy birthday! Wish you were…
*
Three layers – base, insulation, and shell – may not seem like enough. It is. But anything less beckons death. Understand the difference between “layers” and “articles of clothing.”
This afternoon I went outside to retrieve a mic I’d left in the doo. I didn’t bother to pull on my hat. Inside, as I walked down the hall to the dorm room, the artist approached me. Stopped. Stared. Not until the artist had taken me to the clinic did I see. My ears were red, swollen – nearly frostbitten. My body shivered longer than I felt the cold.
Twenty percent of all body heat is lost through the head. Perhaps I also lost a percentage of brain cells.
*
This is why I refrained from mentioning the artist too much: questions. I don’t think of the artist as anything more than another pair of ears.
Do I really hear what I hear? Or have I already reconstructed it? Why reconstruct for the listener when the listener will reconstruct?
The sounds compose themselves. Or we compose them as we heare them. Into compositions that relate to our respective perceptions. Preservations.
Only in the destruction of perception can we hope to find truth.
If no philosopher has stated that, one should. Because, coming from this one, they’re just words.
*
Listening to the Ice, I am transported back to an era when this mass was not a single continent but land in coalescence with other land. Preborder, precontinent. In the Ice, in the sea, I hear the echoing forth of primordial tropics, teeming with incessant life. Auguries of extinction heard too late to redirect fate. Then a gale wind slams into my back, and I’m blown into a present where desert has claimed all trace of forest. Nothing could stop this wind from howling me off the Ice, into the sea. Not that it should care to; I doubt it would notice.
Along with the current, such winds formed this ice sheet. As though these elements were one. And though precipitation is rare, the wind blows an archaic snow out from the continent’s interior, layering it upon the ice sheet. Waves roll into shallower water, rise, stress the ice sheet, and though the ice sheet resists, it must succumb to these elemental pressures: air, sea. So, it gives up. It cracks.
I watched a penguin waddle away from a colony, toward the interior, and I understood.
*
Nothing to write. Likewise, you.
*
Today I experienced it: the sharawadgi effect.
Corrupted from sorowaji, as once applied to architecture, now resurrected for its pertinence to sound. Everyday sound, to the flaneur – the city stroller – but the Ice is my Paris – or Perth, Lagos or Los Angeles, Quito, or Kyoto – and its acoustics my everyday: car tires, babble, and birdsong. So, when the sounds suddenly merge into a monstrous semblance, what occurs? Not an enlightenment but an asymmetry.
Resonating/reverberating as:
A roar, surfacing through the patterned chaos of the Ice and seals like a didgeridoo or a dung-chen, not blown by any aborigine or monk but by the ancient, eerie breath of the familiar unknown. For an eternal moment everything rang clear, and the airy taste of the universe groaned in pure sound, the shade of late afternoon sunlight below the surface of a water so cold it scalds. The ice sheets melted and cracked; the wind rushed out from the interior, blowing me into the sea through a slit between ice sheets that could not refreeze and continued melting until the whole of the continent melted like a solitary snowflake, and the waters rose and washed over the entire earth in a great deluge that left nothing in existence save water and the rock at the bottom of the sea. Then the water evaporated as steam and scalded the moon – I’ve forgotten what the moon looks like! – and all that remained was dust – dust, with no one to grab a handful because no hands existed, only the dust, and not even that, for it was blown out into space. And then the sun swallowed the Earth, and the sun exploded, and the sun became a black hole and sucked in all the matter around it. Then the universe began to condense, and it condensed, and it continued condensing, and it condensed so long all of existence as we know it could have lived through that condensation and never witnessed the end: infinity inside of nothing.
But as for now…
Earthly apocalypse begins. Is negligible.
*
You called. We agreed not to. Call. The call. The Ice called. I couldn’t answer. On the Ice.
Now I know how to compose: don’t. The effect: the piece. Will it produce itself for the listener? Is it possible to reproduce in a recording? I hope so. Because, once heard, how to perceive as before?
*
Artist has no idea what the sound is. Called it USO: Unidentified Sound Object.
Played the recording for the others them. The others. Though see them every day, they remain distant. As distant as this continent once seemed.
Today on the Ice, the sun especially blinding. Exceptionally warm. Relatively, of course. Anywhere else on Earth, would still be freezing. But, despite layers, body trembled. Though felt warmth, as if the very sun was freezing. Believe may freeze onto the Ice. If not blown away first. Meanwhile, break. Into sound.
*
After I called you, after you told me you couldn’t speak – because you had to boil the water – I stepped outside. No gloves, no hat, no parka. I had to know. Know the chill.
The sun glinted as the wind swooped. Every muscle in my body tensed. I quaked. I pulled my thermal’s sleeves over my bare hands and embraced myself. Snow slithered across the ice, coiled around my boots. I wanted to lie with it. To lie down and sleep with it. To stay with it, to freeze to it, to become it. Instead I kicked, kicked at it and stamped, unscreaming, pleading, wanting. Wanting…
*
Was artist. Not.
Said nothing. Was not lying. Sorry. For? Nothing. No thing. To be. For.
No one does heare. What is done heare is done.
What is done is done.
*
Frostbite. If recurs, amputation.
Wouldn’t mind. Heard all want. Hurt heard hurt all. Heaurtd. Haunted. Heauanrtd.
The Ice, the Ice, the Ice, the Ice, the Ice, the Shhh!
Listen –
*
Although this is the last written entry in the diary, a final page is rumoured to exist, which contains what is either musical notation intended to be played or a spectrum of the sonic “structures” that may or may not relate to the so-called “USO.” Although this page is mentioned in the preliminary report on the disappearance of A———, it too disappeared shortly after its being recorded – if, in fact, it existed at all.
“Out, out, just because we let you live here till now doesn’t mean you can carry on squatting.”
One of the white men with guns was shouting in Shona. From behind the swollen trunk of a moringa tree beyond the river I watched. The baas on a white horse threw back his head and bellowed at his black lackeys, who bellowed at the villagers. Women screamed and grabbed children, and the lackeys lashed out with sticks and drove them onto vehicles. With sticks and rifle butts they whacked people trying to gather clothes and blankets, and packed them onto vehicles which sped away in a cloud of pink dust. The chief was squashed against the side and thrown about, his leopard skin dishevelled. How could they be so disrespectful? The lackeys pounced on chickens scratching in the earth, wrung their necks and strung them together, then threw lit matches into the thatch of each hut. My knees wobbled at the roaring flames. The baas cantered off and the lackeys hung strings of chickens round their necks, herded the goats and shiny black Mashona cattle together and followed. The new leaves of the msasa trees blazed red and yellow and the forest trembled. I was ten years old.
Next day the baas snatched my brothers because Baba could not pay their tax.
“Your sons,” said Amai, “they’re taking your sons. Do something.”
He pulled himself to his full height. “I will not plead like a child. They steal my sons, they steal everything, but they cannot steal my dignity.”
I cowered behind my mother.
“And you,” he said.
“No,” said Amai, “too young,” and clutched me to her skirts, in vain.
For the next twenty years, working on the white man’s farms or in the white man’s mines, my heart ached to see my father again.
*
I trudged along the path to my hut, away from the gold stamp mill with the clatter of belts and the pounding of heavy metal stamps crushing the ore, clunk-clunk, clunk-clunk, clunk-clunk. After twelve hours’ work in the pit with only a one-hour break, I was exhausted and my back ached and creaked. Jackals howled. The hut was dim with a sooty roof and maize cobs hung on the wall to dry.
“Your dinner’s burnt,” my wife screeched. “Where have you been?”
“The bossboy wanted to talk to me.”
“Chii! Your breath stinks of beer,” she hissed.
I lowered my eyes. She spat in the fire and boiling droplets leapt out.
“How will we ever escape this place if you drink away the money?” she sneered. “Bossboy, bossboy. Licking his boots. Wait till I see him, giving you a whole pot of beer, I’ll bet.”
I shuffled over to the fire, sat with the pan, squelched sadza between my fingers, and wolfed it down. If it was burnt, I didn’t notice. Let her ramble on with her squawking. I stared at the flames.
“We’ll never get away,” she screamed shrilly like a cicada. “You’ll be stuck in this dump and your children will be trapped their whole lives in this mine.”
“Be quiet, you’ll wake them. Mr Frobisher pays a handsome wage,” I said, but I knew it was not.
She shook a fist and tossed her head.
“Chii! Handsome wage, handsome wage. Mr Benevolence Almighty lounges round in his big white house, takes the fruit of the land he stole from our forefathers and fetches clean water, while we drink from the poison river and our children fall ill. The river he’s poisoned. Pah! Look at Mufaro’s sister! A halfwit for life. The mosquito sucking blood is more honest than the white people drinking red wine. I can’t stomach this.”
“Neither can I.”
I ate up, grabbed the mbira that my friend’s father had made for me from strips of metal and half a calabash, and staggered out.
“That’s right,” she shrieked, “walk away, go and get drunk with your friends, drink away your children’s future, that’ll solve everything.”
I wandered down the path. She was still shouting. Smoke drifted from the roofs and the night glowed with fireflies. A white moon shone on older children playing, and singing came from some of the huts.
Mufaro with the laughing eyes sat with his family round the fire. He was not married and had built his own hut next door but returned home for breakfast and supper every day. In a corner his grandfather sat on a chair and inhaled fine red powder from a horn. I sat down and we passed a pipe round the circle. My wife’s screeching faded and a cloud of peace settled over me. Mufaro and I had both started work for the baas at ten years old, and his uncle was the hunting assistant for the baas. How we rocked with laughter at the white people back then.
“Chii! When the baas kills an animal, he doesn’t take it home to eat, he leaves it to rot. He gets me to photograph him sitting on top or resting an elbow on the animal.”
We doubled up and beat our thighs with fists. I leant an elbow on Mufaro and flung the other arm in the air.
“Take a picture,” I said.
We rolled about laughing once more. But that was then.
He gave his younger sister, born simple after they dumped cyanide and mercury in the river, a fond tweak on the arm. Sleep came over me and I regretted the curse between my wife and me. I knew she was right. I needed a kick, but I resented it. One day I would act. I would do better than quit drinking. I didn’t know what. It would be something big, but one man cannot surround an anthill.
Mufaro’s father smiled at me through a haze of smoke.
“The future belongs to you and Mufaro,” he said. “One day we will take back our land. One day you will be richer than Mr Frobisher.”
My chest swelled with pride. And one day I would see Baba again. From my waistband I unhooked my mbira, put a ring plectrum on one thumb, and played my favourite song. Heads nodded at the jingling sounds. I thought of the girl I’d wanted to marry in the old baas’s farm compound. I thought of my parents and grandparents and my brothers who marched me into the forest and beat me to a pulp. The older one stripped off my animal hide, knifed a tortoise, then soaked the hide in blood.
“We’ll show Baba next time we go home,” he had said.
They left me for dead, and I fled and didn’t see Mufaro again till we became miners.
*
At the time of the death of the moon, men waited in groups at the edge and stared into the yellow-bottomed pit. It gaped like a yawning crocodile and was twice as deep as Mr Frobisher’s two-storey house, which stood on the opposite side to the compound. We huddled under cloaks against the chill. At first light we moved off like a touched spider’s nest, down the ladders into the crater with the stamps that clanked and knocked all day and all night, clunk-clunk, clunk-clunk. Dump trucks sped up and down the road and rattled as they went. The sun rose in a yellow haze of dust and smoke. Our hair was full of yellow dust, and the soles of our feet were dry and cracked. Sweat poured off our backs, but there was no stopping or the bossboy would beat us, and if anyone needed to go into the bush, they had to use a corner of the pit. The bossboys were the white man’s whip and strutted round in swanky shirts and shoes. They were worse than the white supervisors, brandishing sticks with which they struck us freely.
I stepped under the boom of the excavator.
“I’m leaving when the rains come,” I said to Mufaro, shouting to be heard above the stamps.
“The white people get ten times our wage. Three tons of ore we dig up, just so one white person can have one ring!”
“But where will you go? You’ve walked all over the city, you’ve begged in the locations, you’ve worked in every mine there is. Join the army?”
He cackled, and I snorted.
“I’d rather die. I’ll join the freedom fighters.”
“Let’s go together.”
“I want to see my father again.”
“Next week we’ll go, after we get our money.”
Our bossboy strode across and whacked me on the shoulder.
“Work, don’t chat.”
I flinched, a long weal swelled up and blood came to the surface. The bossboy moved off.
“Under the old bossboy we got five minutes’ rest every hour,” Mufaro muttered.
I swung the pickaxe while Mufaro shovelled broken rock onto the wheelbarrow. My shoulder was stinging.
Suddenly shouts and the sound of cracking came from the sky. We looked up. A cloud of rocks was hurtling towards us. I dived out of the way, but when I turned round, unhurt, Mufaro lay on his side, one arm flung out backwards. His head was crushed and half his face was gone. Blood seeped into the rocky yellow ground. A knee poked through a hole in his trousers and the toes of one foot were splayed and bloody. Like most of us, he had sold the boots issued to him. Not that they would have saved him. A mixture of grief and anger overcame me. Ten years earlier I would have resigned myself to yet another injustice. Now, at the sight of Mufaro’s head smashed beyond recognition, bone and brains sticking out and the pool of blood spreading, I collapsed and butted my head on the hard ground. A crowd flocked round.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Mufaro.”
The news went through the crowd, Mufaro-faro-faro.
“What happened?”
“Rock fall.”
Rock-fall rock-fall rock-fall.
“This is why I’m getting out of this place.”
“My son will never work here.”
I swayed on my knees, crying. Fallen rocks were strewn round, and the one that had shattered Mufaro’s head lay further off, its jagged edge smeared with blood and brains.
“Ho, they’ll get away with it as usual.”
“Same every time.”
“Last time he got fined.”
“He makes millions out of us.”
A white supervisor appeared and the crowd parted. The stamp mills clanked and pounded on. More mineworkers clamoured round and voices babbled, Who is it?-is it?-is it? Mufaro-faro-faro. More white supervisors came and the crowd let them through untouched.
Faces appeared at the rim of the pit, men shouted, and a vehicle zigzagged down. It was the manager. They gave him a wider passage. He took one look, heaved a sigh, and scuttled back.
“Who’ll tell his family?”
“They’ll be devastated.”
“All they’ve got left is his sister.”
“The retarded one.”
Another vehicle wound its way down, and two men laid the body on a litter and wrapped it in a blanket. A murmur went through the crowd as the vehicle snaked back up.
“Everybody back to work,” yelled one of the white supervisors.
We dispersed, dragging our feet, and the gold stamp mills pounded on, clunk-clunk, clunk-clunk, clunk-clunk, never stopping.
*
The msasas blazed red and yellow. Soon the rainbird would be back with its call like water bubbling from a spring, ponds and lakes would appear, and the pink dust would turn to mud. My comrades and I walked along the old familiar paths, AK-47s over our shoulders, till night fell and the hills were black against the sky. By the gleam of a half-moon we climbed, our footsteps muffled by long grass. On one side a herd of wildebeest shuffled across the plain, but on the other, down in the valley, were the twinkling lights of a large farmhouse with whitewashed walls, and in my head I saw hungry flames engulfing a village and people running and screaming and the chief with dishevelled leopard skin squashed against the side of the open vehicle. The house lay silent.
Rolling back his tired shoulders and puffing out his chest, he approaches the checkouts. His regulation shirt is a little baggy, intended for a stockier breed of man. He jams his hands into his pockets and attempts a casual grin. Shifts like this, when he spends too much time alone, can be difficult to get through. He ends up dwelling on his mum’s final days, wondering if he should’ve moved back sooner. The supermarket is empty of customers, and the shelf stackers went home hours ago. There is only one cashier on the tills tonight. She stares into space, her chin dumped in her hands.
“How’s it going, Maggie?” he asks.
Maggie gives a slight nod and raises her pencilled eyebrows high. Although he has worked here a fortnight now, she’s never addressed him by name. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t even know it. Under the strip lights, her hair has a lacquered shine and looks almost brittle. Her eyes glint despite her defeated posture. Decades in this job must’ve acclimatised her to long hours of nocturnal inactivity. Although twenty years her junior, he finds these shifts gruelling. The recycled air leaves his mouth dry, and the continual hum of freezers keens his nerves. The shadows under his eyes are getting darker each day.
“Anything to report?” he presses.
“Nope.”
Picking a speck of lint from her fleece, Maggie purses her lips. She thinks him too soft for this job. Only last week she was berating their manager – at a volume intended to be overheard – about no longer feeling safe on shift. He squeezes the metal rim of the checkout, as though measuring its thickness. Could he protect her, if something kicked off? He isn’t even sure himself. This was the only job he could get in a town where work is scarce and everyone thinks him a stranger. It’s enough to tide him over, though, until probate comes through and he can sell the house.
“Good,” he says, trying to summon a gruff confidence. “Well, you know where I am.”
“Uh-uh,” says Maggie.
Pushing off from the checkout, he begins to walk away. He wonders what he’s done to earn such scorn. It’s as though his whole person emits a dog-whistle pitch, signalling he doesn’t belong here. The irony being that he spent his first eighteen years in this shithole. He knows all the terrace cut-throughs, the paths leading to the woods beyond. He knows the boredom and the comfort of provincial living. And since returning to sort out his mum’s estate, he’s had plenty of time to refamiliarise himself. Aside from eating microwave meals or watching telly on his childhood couch, there’s not much to do except walk around town. He tried dating apps for a while, but none of the women he matched with were suitable.
As he strolls towards the security office, his tiredness returns in waves. He lets a yawn surface and rubs his face with both hands. The mug of coffee on his desk is still warm, so he gulps it down. Drinking too fast he gets a mouthful of sludge, the residue of granules slicking his tongue. On his first day, he asked if there was a cafetière. The look he got ensured he never asked again. Gathering saliva, he spits into the mug and sets it on the desk. The screens in front of him dance slightly, the pixels refusing to settle in their frames. The underlying images remain constant: an empty aisle, a deserted magazine stand, an unmanned cheese counter, and an automatic door that has not opened since 3:35 a.m.
Not yet worn in, his boots are pinching around the toes. He loosens the laces and wonders if he can justify another fag break. He’s gone from smoking a pack a month to a pack every couple of days. The jump of grey-scale images is soothing, with just enough play to keep the eyes occupied. After doing a couple of spins in his chair, he relents and rummages for his tobacco. The pouch is empty apart from a few dry shreds, enough to make a thin rollie. Tapping it on the desk, he catches a movement on the monitors. Two people are walking into the shop: an adult, with a child trailing behind. Placing the rollie behind his ear, he leans forward to get a better look. His knee jiggles under the desk. The tall figure seems too jumpy, too deliberate – and besides, who brings a child shopping at 5 a.m.?
As the pair traverse the supermarket, they appear on one, two, or occasionally three of the CCTV screens. Because of the way the monitors are stacked, progress appears skittish rather than linear, and the figures seem to jump between the aisles. He squints at the hurrying blurs – trying to determine gender – but both are wearing tracksuits with the hoods pulled low. As they approach aisle six, where the chilled meat and fish are stocked, he feels his palms prick with sweat. High value items. This might be his first real test, a chance to prove he’s more than a useless city boy.
On impulse, he slides open the bottom drawer of the desk. Groping under the accident log, his fingers find what they are looking for – the cold, hard shape of a whisky bottle. It belongs to one of the other security officers, although he isn’t sure which. Unscrewing the cap, he sniffs and recoils from the paint-stripper fumes. The figures on screen are hovering, dithering, perhaps gathering their courage. He cannot act until they act, so he sets the whisky down and waits. The smell of cheap scotch rises from the bottle and permeates the room. They are customers until you have evidence they are thieves,his manager had cautioned on the first day. Keep it by the book. Last thing I need is a lawsuit.
The movement comes when he’s stopped waiting. Swift and unsubtle, the child crams something – a shrink-wrapped steak or a pack of mince – under its hoodie. Too late, the taller figure steps forward as shield. He takes a slug of the whisky, refusing to wince at its taste. His palette is not so delicate as all that. Swallowing, he realises his mistake: the shoplifters might smell his breath and refuse to recognise his authority. He jumps up, knocking over his cup in the process. Coffee dregs dribble off the desk as he rushes to the sink and cranks the tap. He slurps and spits, testing his breath in a cupped palm.
Glancing at the screens again, he sees the figures are headed for the doors. He speed marches out of the office and onto the shop floor. Halfway down the cereal aisle, he realises his boots are undone.
“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters.
Aware he’s still on probation and his first criminals are getting away, he increases pace to a jog. His boots slip around on his feet, the tongues flapping loose, but there isn’t time to stop. The shoplifters are already scurrying for the exit – backs turned and hoods up – when he emerges panting from the aisle.
“Stop! Stop where you are!” he shouts.
He hardly expects to be obeyed, but the pair stop dead. Relieved, he strides over to them, trying to walk as if his boots are firmly laced. The taller shoplifter turns, revealing herself to be a young woman. Her face is gaunt under the harsh lights, her hair lank. One cheekbone is yellow from an old punch, and a cold sore dominates her bottom lip. She keeps her eyes down, refusing to look at him. The child – a girl with plump cheeks and crop of golden hair – shifts awkwardly inside her hoodie. She wears a reproachful pout, not seeming to understand her own guilt. He swallows, trying to stick to script. The less you improvise, the less chance you’ll fuck up, his manager had warned.
“Madam,” he says, his voice stiff and formal. “I have reason to believe you are leaving with items you have not paid for.”
The girl pulls on the strings of her hoodie and looks towards the doors. The woman continues glaring at the floor.
“Nah,” she says, shrugging. “Don’t know what you’re on about.”
“Madam, you were seen on our closed-circuit television system. We have video evidence that you took items from aisle six.” He pauses, his stomach tight and fluttery. Perhaps he drank too much coffee earlier. “And you clearly have no intention of paying for these items, being well past the checkout area.”
The woman glances towards Maggie, who is watching with undisguised interest from behind her till.
“You’re wrong,” she says, chin jutting defiantly. “So don’t go accusing me in front of my daughter.”
There is something tragically familiar about her. In that face, he recognises every junkie he’s ever encountered. He’d almost be moved to pity her, if she weren’t using her own child as leverage.
“Look,” he says, no longer able to keep his voice level. “I’m not blind. I can see her hoodie is full of stolen goods. So if you think I’m going to let you walk out, you’re very much mistaken.”
The woman looks at him straight for the first time, her gaze intimate enough to turn his stomach. She smirks, her bottom lip cracking open, then shakes her head.
“What are you going to do?” she asks. “Frisk us?”
He straightens, determined not to be drawn. He will not be played for an idiot.
“No,” he says. “I’m taking you to the security office, where you can wait for the police to arrive.”
For some reason, the woman finds this funny. Whipping back her head, she lets out a rough, smoker’s laugh. The girl stares up at her, shifting from foot to foot. The woman stops laughing as abruptly as she started.
“Wooow,” she says, her voice filled with disdain. “You really don’t remember, do you? Fucking hell.”
The conversation has veered so far off course he can no longer orientate himself. Maggie stands behind her checkout now, craning to see the drama unfold. He feels like a small child at a family party, watched from a distance to ensure he doesn’t disgrace himself. Turning to the woman, he searches her damaged face and tries to understand. He notices her blue-grey eyes and her thin, almost dainty nose. His sense of her as universally familiar is collapsing into something more specific, the massed faces filtering down to one. He knows her, and not just as a type.
“Got it yet?” she mocks.
There is something erratic in the way her hands move, the way her face tics. The daughter takes a step towards the doors. As she does so, a packet escapes her hoodie and falls face down on the floor. She scrabbles to pick it up, but the tray has broken and a sausage has burst from the shrink-wrap. The meat appears grey against the pale lino. Still on her knees, the girl looks to her mother for guidance.
“Leave it,” he snaps, kicking the packet away.
The child begins to cry, scrunching up her face and gulping with each sob. Her tears are too dramatic to be real. Without looking down, the woman holds out an arm for the child to inhabit. She hugs her daughter tight and fixes him with those grey-blue eyes. Although a good foot shorter than him, she looks angry enough to fight. He clenches his fists, ready for an onslaught of teeth and nails. They stare each other down for a long minute.
“You always were a fucking coward,” she mutters, looking away.
At last, he remembers: Brittany, her name is Brittany. Back in year nine, they had hung around in the same crowd for a while. He fucked her once at a party when she was blackout drunk, then avoided her for the rest of term. She dropped out of school a few months later. It was just one of those stupid teenage things. Scrutinising the girl – now staring up at him with wet red eyes – he calculates that she’s too young to be his. He shakes his head, annoyed at having entertained the thought.
“Look, madam,” he says, drawing himself up to full height. “I haven’t got time for excuses. I suggest you hand over the stolen goods immediately and then make your way to the exit. And if I ever see you in here again, the police will be called.”
Brittany stares at him in disbelief.
“And if I just walk out with the stolen goods?” She drums a hand against her leg. “Who’s going to stop me, Steve? You?”
He flinches internally at the use of his name but keeps his expression neutral. He can feel Maggie watching them, waiting for him to fuck up. He’d like nothing more than to retreat to his office and gulp down two fingers of whisky.
“Yeah, I thought so,” says Brittany. “Come on, Sadie. Let’s go.”
Yanking her daughter by the hand, she heads for the exit.
“Come back,” he shouts.
His tone sounds more desperate than intended. When Brittany does not respond, he chases after them – his boots still slopping loose. He grabs the child’s shoulder and spins her round, jerking down the zip of her hoodie. A packet of burgers, some chicken drumsticks, and two salmon steaks fall to the floor. The girl stares at him so shocked she almost forgets to cry.
“Get off her, you fucking paedo,” snarls Brittany, pushing him away.
Caught off guard, he stumbles and almost falls.
“That’s it,” he says, recovering his balance. “You’re coming with me.”
As he reaches out for Brittany’s arm, she slaps him away. He tries again, and she slaps him harder.
“Don’t touch me,” she spits.
On the third attempt, he catches her hands and pins them to her sides. Tears of anger prick her eyes as she tries to wriggle free. He leans into her face, close enough to feel her breath.
“Chill out,” he commands through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
As Brittany’s arms go slack, his grip relaxes accordingly. The next thing he knows, a blow strikes his ear and leaves it throbbing. The pain intensifies as the ringing subsides.
“I said don’t fucking touch me, Steve!” Brittany shouts, loud enough for Maggie to hear.
She glares at him, apparently no longer concerned with escape. Before he can stop himself, he has reached out to grasp her neck. He forces her backwards across the shop floor – ignoring the child, who runs screaming after them. Packets snap underfoot as he ploughs onwards, steering Brittany by the throat. He knows this could cost him his job, perhaps even get him arrested, but right now all that matters is shutting her up. His jaw is clenched and his limbs seem to need no instruction. Her arms flail as she tries to resist, but of course he is stronger. There’s a fear in her eyes that was not there before. She shouldn’t have tested him.
Only once he’s ejected Brittany from the store – and she lies sprawled on the slabs outside – does his adrenalin start to ebb. He lets the automatic doors sigh shut then activates the manual lock control. On the other side of the glass, Brittany staggers to her feet. She does not look over, simply flicks up her hood and takes her daughter’s hand. The pair hurry away and are soon lost in darkness, obscured by strip-light reflections. His chest still heaving, he looks around at the mess of meat and plastic. Those goods will be spoiled and he hasn’t even apprehended the thieves. He crouches down to tie his boots, trying to take slower breaths. He can’t explain what just happened, but at least the shop wasn’t full of customers. Someone could have filmed on their phone and posted the video. He hates to think what his mates in the city would say. They wouldn’t understand that life here is different.
Looking up, he finds Maggie beelining towards him. No longer bolstered by the checkout, she looks small and insignificant. Her legs are restricted by a pencil skirt, and low-heeled shoes hobble her feet. She is clapping slowly, as though someone has cracked a bad joke. He tries to calculate how much she might’ve seen. She’ll probably side against him if the incident gets investigated, so his story needs to be watertight. He will claim that the junkie pulled a hypodermic at close range. Trying stop his hands shaking, he concentrates on his shoelaces, pulling the double-knots tight. Maggie continues clopping across the floor, coming to a stop by his side. Although she is standing and he is crouching, their faces are almost level. Maggie puts a ringed hand on his shoulder, letting it rest there.
“Good job…Stephen,” she says, peering at his badge. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
The boys stood in a clearing of trees watching the house. The evening was hot and sticky. Overhead, an angry yellow-black cloud grew fat and swollen with rain.
“There he goes. He won’t be back till after dark.”
“Are you sure, ar-are you really sure? Positive?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“I dunno, Mike. It seems like a bad idea.”
“You better not flake. Not now. Now it’s for real.”
They heard the car struggle then sputter to a start. Its engine rumbled and knocked around, making it sound like one of those wind-up tinker toys. The old Camaro skittered out from behind the house and was blotted out by the overgrowth. It reappeared, a little smaller this time, at the bottom of the hill and on into town.
“Let’s go.”
Mike pulled his hood about his head and strode out from the trees, his back bent and hunkered low as he mounted the hill. The sky began to rumble, a stampede of steers along the prairie. It was like the telephone pylons their dad worked on, he’d say it wasn’t that dangerous a job because you could feel the line humming before you would ever think about touching it, humming with power. The first pregnant droplets of rain began to fall, and they beat off Joey’s head with little drumming sounds. He watched his brother reach the top of the hill and disappear over it. This was a bad idea. A few moments later, Mike’s head appeared at the crest, and Joey knew better than not to follow. He tightened the straps of his backpack and dug his hands into the pockets of his coat. The rain was coming down in sheets, a fine rain, the type that soaked through. The ground began to smell sweet and old, like melted popsicles and hospital beds. It was the last week of summer. It smelt of autumn, of dying. He followed his brother like a beaten dog.
The Broomfield house stood on a hill overlooking the town, with a great sea of greasewood covering the front yard. Rusted bikes and deflated footballs lay like dying soldiers amidst the yellowed grass, there was even a couple of remote controlled cars, all gutted of parts. In the far corner of the front yard was an upside-down ice cream truck. The pictures and writing on the little screen window where you ordered had become sun-washed; a two-scoop of lemon now looked more like two scoops of pissed-in snow. The windows of the house were all boarded up. The building was grey and squat, like a sad, crouched old man. Out by the porch steps, on either side, were rows and rows of fresh daisies.
“Joey.”
He started and looked over to where the voice had come from. Mike was coming out from behind the house, where the car had left.
“The back and front door are both locked.”
“Then how will we get in?” asked Joey.
“We’ll have to break one of the windows under the porch,” said Mike. “We’ll get in through the basement.”
Joey swallowed hard. The basement. “No, Mike, c’mon not the basement. We – we’ll cut ourselves on a piece of glass. We’ll bleed to death! Right here.”
“We won’t cut ourselves. Do you know how hard it is to cut through this army material? Why do you think I got us to wear Dad’s old ’Nam jackets, huh? To look cool? This stuff stopped bamboo traps all the time, it’s got to be the way it’s sewn or something.”
Mike always had a way of explaining things to his little brother that made them easier to understand.
“Stop catching flies.”
Joey closed his mouth and joined his brother over by the porch. Mike was on his hands and knees taking off his backpack. He peered into the filthy rectangle window, then wiped a space to see with his sleeve and cupped both hands over his brow to get a better look.
“It’s full of shit, junk everywhere.”
“Can you see it?” Joey asked. “Is it there?”
“I don’t think so, maybe it’s upstairs. Wait. I see it, Joey, I see it!”
“Lemee look!” Joey squeezed in next to his brother.
“Where is it? I can’t see shit.”
“Next to that thing under the sheet and the stack of newspapers.”
Joey spotted the bike.
“We found it, it’s really here. How will we get it out if we’re both – ”
“Both?” Mike looked at his little brother straight. “I can’t fit through the porch window. I’m too big. It’s got to be you.”
Joey fell silent. It was like in gym class when the dodgeball would catch you right in the gut.
“By myself, Mike?”
“I’ll be right here, I’m not gonna leave you, partner.” He clapped his brother on the back.
“But what if he comes back? He’s mean, Mike. Everyone says so.”
“It’s all talk, Joey. Yeah, maybe he is a little weird, but don’t you think the cops would have done something if he was that weird?”
Joey thought about this and then decided that it didn’t matter if the cops hadn’t taken him in.
“He’s always drinking, that’s why he can’t talk properly and why he walks with that hitch.
What if he tries to… fuck us.” The word came out choked.
Mike looked shocked, and for a moment Joey thought he saw the genuine concern on his brother’s brow, but then he just said: “Come on now, it’ll be dark soon.”
*
It was raining heavily when Joey eased himself through the broken window underneath the house. Mike had hammered it to pieces with the handle of the wrist rocket. When Joey was about halfway through, his legs kicking out at nothing, he lost his grip on the wet grass in front of him. He remembered falling backward, a weightless feeling. He was falling for a long time when the dull ache brought him to.
He could hear someone shouting his name, there was an urgency to it, but when he opened his eyes there was only a pale light splitting through the broken window. Mike was gone. Joey sat up in the belly of the house. His head throbbed with white heat, and when he reached to touch the back of it, he felt wetness. He began to cry. I knew this was a stupid idea. Fuck you, Mike. That made him cry a little harder. He didn’t really hate his brother. He was alone and afraid.
Joey stood up and looked about the room. Everything was dusty and old. Maybe that wasn’t true, some of the things looked brand new, but they’d just been sitting down there for a long time. He worked his way over piles of comic books. Some of them, the special issues like Halloween and Christmas, still had the plastic sealing on them. What could he want with all this stuff? In the corner under the stairs that lead to the ground floor were several water guns all hanging from coat hooks. One of them looked exactly like the one he had got last summer. He’d left it on the lawn under the sprinklers when Ma had called him in for supper. When he had returned to battle the neighbours, it was gone.
Joey reached his brother’s bike and he was shocked at how clean it looked. It had been polished and repainted. Mike had named her Red. You had to name your bike, like a horse. Joey thought the name suited her more than ever, the scuffs had all disappeared and the old bicycle card Mike had stuck to the spokes had been replaced with a new one.
Just then, Joey heard a floorboard creak above him. He froze. The basement seemed to seize up and grow smaller. The smell of damp and dead leaves no longer brought thoughts of autumn. Instead, it conjured up images of rotting kids, all bloated and blue. Kids that had climbed through the porch window for their bikes and their footballs as he had. Climbed right on through, then the wino had got them and dragged them back into the recesses of his house. Forever. The creak sounded again, this time into hurried footsteps right above his head and moving away from him. No! Joey heard the door to the basement edge open. He could see it in his mind’s eye now, moving like the hands on a clock, inch by inch. His heart was drumming in his ears and his testicles, no bigger than pennies, had drawn up like the hairs on his arm. The wooden stairs lurched under something’s weight. A finger of ice traced its way across his spine.
Joey saw the shadow coming down the stairs grow ominous and dark on the wall. The shadow lurched, steadied itself, and continued down. Joey scrambled on his hands and knees behind a great tower of newspapers. He hid.
“Get out! Go on, git. Filthy, bastards.”
The shadow moved across the room slow and jittery like it was tied to some great ball and chain. When it reached the centre of the basement, its hand reached up and pulled down on something with a click. The light of the basement flicked on, and Joey reared back, blinded by its sudden sharp glow. When he rocked forward again, his weight carried him onto the stack of papers. It was like he had seen himself in slow motion. He fell, sprawling on his stomach, a whirlwind of newspaper raining down about him. When he looked up, he saw an old man peering down at him, a lost look on his face.
“Are you okay, pal?”
Joey didn’t dare speak.
“You took quite the tumble there, little fella. Here.” The old man lifted Joey up from under his arms and stood him on his feet.
“Are ya deaf, pal?” he made some weird gestures with his hand and Joey stepped back, frightened, against the cold stone wall behind him.
“Was that you that broke me window?”
Joey remained silent.
“Listen, pally, I ain’t gonna hurt ye. I just wanna know what if ye alright? Why didn’t ye just knock?”
Joey went to say something then stopped himself and then said it anyway.
“You weren’t in.”
The old man laughed. It was deep and throaty. Joey couldn’t help but smile.
“Ye been spying on me, have ye?”
Joey noticed for the first time that the old man didn’t sound drunk at all. He didn’t sound like the winos that hung outside the bar after the game or the ones that slept under the tracks behind the factory. He just sounded funny. Not like a joke funny, just…different. The only thing he could think of that helped explain it was that he had an accent like the man who played Macbeth on stage at the theatre.
Joey stepped forward.
“You took my brother’s bike. Mike, his name is Mike, and I think you should give it back.”
The old man shook his head. “I dunny no what ye talking bout.”
“His bike. You stole his bike! Look, here.” Joey threw a hand over Red. “You stole it and fixed it up, but you never gave it back. Why do you do it? You was going to sell it, I bet. All this stuff, you steal it then you sell it, I bet that’s what you do.”
“I don’t understand – ” The old man started. But he didn’t finish. Something in his face changed like he had swapped masks at a costume party.
“Who are you? Wh-what are ye doing in my house?”
Joey stepped to the side slowly.
“I said, who are ye… ye a doctor? I told ye I ain’t going. I’m staying. I’m staying!”
Joey edged further back, his eyes fixed on the stairs.
He kicked out at a box of remote-control cars. It hit the old man in the shin and he hollered out loud. He swiped for Joey, but he ducked and ran under his arm and raced up the staircase, the wood screeching and bending beneath him.
“Ye, get back here! Back here, I said.”
Joey burst through the door at the top of the stairs and looked left and right. The house was filthy. No light came through the windows except in thin forks where the wood had cracked and fell away. He ran through the kitchen. Dishes piled the spaces next to the sink, and old cans of food rolled from his feet on the floor. Cigarette butts were pushed into the wooden table, leaving ashy marks that had yellowed.
“Get back here!”
Joey came out into a hallway. To his right was the front door. He grabbed the handle and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. He leaned back on his heels and pulled with two hands, his face scrunched up in urgency. The door shrugged. He flew back onto his ass. Joey took one look at the brass doorknob in his palm, and then the shadow came over him like a storm cloud.
“Come here, ye bastard!”
The old man reached and grabbed Joey by the collar and scooped him over his shoulder like a trash bag and began to walk upstairs.
“To your room, that’s where ye going.”
Joey kicked and screamed, pounding closed fists against the old man’s back.
“If you keep screaming like a lassie, you’ll have no supper neither.”
They reached the landing and he walked Joey along the hallway to a room at the far end. When he kicked the door open, Joey bit down on the old man’s ear. He dropped him and howled.
“Ah, ya bastard. You canny bite like that!”
The room he was in was dusty. It was a kid’s room. The walls were an old pink and orange, the bed was all made up, too. A sun catcher of an elephant eating bamboo hung in the window. The old man loomed over Joey and looked down at him. He had dry tears in the corner of his eyes.
“Ye wait till mammy gets home.” And then he left, slamming the door behind him. Joey heard it lock.
*
Outside, the rain was pouring heavy and slow. Mike shone the flashlight about the back yard; everything was wet in the coming dark. The back door was tied shut with a length of thick fishing wire. His hand could slip inside and feel the walls of whatever room it backed onto, but other than that it wouldn’t budge. The wire pulled the door closed again, and the rain beat a little hard on his bowed head. He walked around to the front of the house and was about to try once more to slip in through the porch window when his stomach sank. The old Camaro sat parked up against the hill, the lights in the front windows of the house were on, and worst of all, he could hear someone that wasn’t his brother singing along to the radio inside.
*
Joey sat on the big windowsill and pressed his hand against the glass. The window had a small lever about two inches too high for Joey to grab, and so he sat and watched the rain drizzle down the cold glass. Joey thought back to the dry afternoon walking home from the laundrette and the conversation he and his brother had when the plan to get Mike’s bike had only been in its infancy.
The front door closed. Joey sat up. He wiped the window clean of fog and watched as the wino walked towards the porch window and crouched down. Joey saw him walk into an old shed just beside the ice cream truck. He came out a few moments later with something closed in his fist. He knelt in the rain and sprinkled something in the mud beside the broken window. Then he patted it down like you would when making mud cakes, got to his feet, wiped his hands down his trouser leg, and got into his car and left.
Now’s my chance. Joey slipped off the window seat.
“Mike! I’m in here! I’m in here!” He ran back to the window and stood against it, banging the glass.
“Help. Mike, it’s me. It’s me!” He tried to cry but nothing would come out.
“Joey.”
His ears pricked up.
“Joey. It’s me, you alright?”
“Mike, I’m stuck in here. I was in the basement and then – ” He began to sob a little. He heard the door unlock.
“You gotta come quick.”
“But your bike.”
“We’ll get her later, you gotta see this.”
When Joey reached the top of the staircase, his brother’s silhouette was cut out in the doorway to the living room downstairs.
“Come on,” Mike said and disappeared into the back of the house.
Joey found his brother hunched over something in the living room, a small lamp on a coffee table their only light. The room was barren apart from a dirty couch chair and an old television set. Piled beside the table were stacks of letters, some in pink and blue envelopes with stamps on them, the ones you’d need to send your mail overseas. They had already been opened and were in their own neat pile to the side.
“I don’t understand,” said Joey.
Mike held up a stack of photographs and handed them to his brother.
“Just look.”
Joey flicked through them.
A boy a little older than Mike stood smiling beside a car, his arm stretched across the roof. The next photo was of the same boy but a little older, covered in paint and wearing overalls. The one after that was of the boy and a girl. They were in a suit and dress beside a lovely house with a porch swing and a tree. Joey flicked through, and the pictures carried on changing, a carousel through time. The girl wearing the dress, in a gown from the hospital, had a baby on her chest, and her hair was so sweaty it had stuck to her forehead. The picture after that was of the boy, now a man grown, in army uniform kissing the lady from the hospital on the cheek, a baby held between them with a little bow in the shape of a daisy on its head. The next photo seemed to be of a different place. A mountain range framed the picture, and the young man looked incredibly small. He and a few other soldiers carried rifles beside a sign that read, You are now crossing the 38th parallel.
“I don’t get it,” said Joey. “Who is this guy?”
Mike moved closer to his brother and took away the pictures.
“Can’t you see it? It’s him, Joey. Mr. Campbell.”
“Who’s Mr. Campbell?”
Mike smiled.
“He’s the old man that lives here. That’s him in those photos when he was a boy.”
Joey looked back through the pictures, and now he couldn’t un-see what came to life before him. He had never thought of the old man as anything more than the wino. Of course, he had been young once, everyone had been young once, but he had never given it any thought because he’d always just been the wino.
“What about all the toys. Your bike? He’s not nice. Mike, he tried to hurt me.”
“I got a feeling that maybe Mr. Campbell didn’t take my bike on purpose, Joey. Or any of the stuff. When he left the second time, I snuck in just before he closed the door. I was sat under the porch and pushed a stick up through the boards and caught the door on the latch. I heard you shouting, I knew you was okay.”
“You heard me? You didn’t come right away – ”
“Listen,” insisted Mike.
Joey fell quiet immediately.
“I went down into the basement, I looked at Red, couldn’t believe it. She was brand new. Better than brand new.” He started to smile, a wonder in his eyes. “I saw all the toys. Your water gun, I got it in my bag. All these comics, important issues, too, all put in little plastic baggies to keep dirt off. And then I came upstairs to get you, but something in this room caught my eye. The photos. The letters. I read them. I don’t think Mr. Campbell is very well.”
“Of course, he isn’t,” said Joey.
Mike hit his brother hard in the arm. Joey was shocked, and Mike could see.
“I’m sorry. You just need to listen. Hear me out.”
Joey nodded and rubbed his arm.
“This letter…” Mike read it aloud for Joey to hear, his voice sounding off the empty walls of the big house like a rock thrown to the bottom of a well.
Dear Mr. Campbell,
We are pleased to confirm your place at Morning Sun Retirement Centre for Dementia and Alzheimer’s. Enclosed are all the information on who will pick you up and your arrival date. Attached is a brochure showing the facilities, rooms, and the landscape of beautiful Port Kone, CO.
We look forward to seeing you.
“De-dem-ensh“
“Dementia,” Mike finished.
“What’s that? Sounds horrible.”
“It means he forgets things. All sorts of things, all the time. He’s doesn’t have a memory. I think that’s maybe why he has these photos all laid out and the letters, too. Sometimes he can remember, so he leaves these here to try and help when he forgets.”
A lump the size of an apple sat in Joey’s throat and wouldn’t move.
“So do you think, the toys – ”
“Yeah.” Mike looked away from Joey to the pictures scattered about the floor. When he spoke again, there was a sadness in his voice that almost passed for authority.
“I knew Red was broken and I didn’t try to fix her. He did, though. He tried to fix all our things. Keeps him busy, helps him remember. But then he forgets. He fixes them up, the toys, the comics…my bike. He fixes them and forgets to give them back. I think that’s the worst of all, when you know something needs to be fixed but ignore it anyway. One day it’ll break and then I’m not sure if it can ever be made the same again.”
Joey looked at his brother’s downturned face.
“Mike. I think I wanna go home now.”
Mike nodded and stood up, his shadow cast tall and great on the wall. “Me too, Joey.”
When the boys emerged from the basement, the old man was asleep in the armchair. It startled them a little, but they kept quiet and wheeled the bike out of the front door. They made sure to drag a piece of tarp over the window they had broken beneath the porch and to clean away any of the glass beside the daisies. Joey took one look behind him before they left, at Mr. Campbell and the photograph he had left for him on the side table.
Cicadas began to sing from the long grass, and a soft wind stirred their hair. Mike stood over Red on the hill they had mounted hours before, Joey saddled behind him. They let their weight carry the bike down and around the ever-turning road, the bicycle card sounding like a fishing line thrown downstream. Then they were a small dot riding into town and towards home.
He sees his mother at three-month intervals, during which visits he allows her, as he allows no-one else, to trim his hair.
Always a smiling but speechless client, verbally unresponsive to the questions and prompts so well attributed to stereotypes of barber, hairdresser, and stylist; always suspicious of more enthusiastic and cacophonous scissor-work – he prefers this arrangement, for if he is to listen to anyone in silence, if he is to smile politely, lost or found, in or out of thought, to hear narrative and commentary and hortatory exposition delivered over his shoulders from the lips of anyone, it might as well be his mother.
There is a tenderness in the operation that cannot be found in meeting for coffee or eating together, which occasions are only faintly marred by comments on his diet, political differences, and more or less automatic exhortations for him to ‘be careful’. As a grown man, he has the same horror of being mothered that he had when he was a child.
This way, a mother is permitted to touch her son and a son is permitted to be touched by his mother. She may handle his curls and relive the haircuts of his infancy and childhood, before adolescence wrought its inevitable rejection – haircuts themselves so similar to this: he, silent, absorbed in the goings on inside his head; she, voluble, absorbed in the goings on upon it.
A dining chair – in a square of good, natural light. Throat Velcroed into polyester gown. Hairdressing kit unrolled on dining table. Moistened ringlets collecting in lap. Cool mist of pump spray, sighing and hushing. Eyes protected by visor of hand. Typewritten phrase of each volley of chops, or the tentative percussion of shy maracas. This the careful scissor-work of one for whom time is not money, but time – for whom the end of the operation, presupposed by its beginning, nevertheless wants putting off a while.
She works, as always, without a mirror. She positions his head like the head of a marionette, bidding his biddable chin with the encouragement of a single finger, confident that it will stay right where she means it to stay, that it will not bow or rise in involuntary pessimism or optimism, that it won’t lean to one side or regress to the mean.
And she is an expert in minimalism, according to his wishes, taking her time and expending great effort and concentration on achieving almost nothing. For afterwards, the curls remain – he looks only a little tidier and shapelier, like a cat after a brush.
His experience of his mother has become inseparable from the sympathetic caresses of fingernail and steel, punctuated, more so each time, by telling little jabs and scratches, for which she no longer apologises.
Before I go to bed, I check the window fasteners and the door locks of the entire house, twice: once before I check on the baby, and once after. When checking on him, I tiptoe quietly into his room, the white noise machine allows this, and I lower my face into his crib to confirm breathing. If his breathing is inaudible, I have to place my hand gently on his back in order to know that he is fine.
For the rest of the night, I observe him over the XB – New Infant baby monitor on the infrared night vision setting. It has temperature check, digital zoom, and a six-inch LCD screen. It was ranked the best baby monitor by Consumers Report two years in a row. There are five preloaded lullabies as well, but I don’t use those for him. I want him to be soothed from a real human voice, not by artificial stimulus through speakers.
He is eight months old now and has just started sleeping in his crib. I put him down thirty minutes after his last bottle of formula for the day. Then, crouched on the floor, I read and point to the images in his picture books. Lately, he likes the Food one.
“Yogurt,” I say, pointing to the glossy image. “Pizza. Cheese. Milk.”
He sits up straight and claps, smiling to me, or he smacks the images. I think that he likes the strawberry one because the seeds are rough to the touch. When he gets tired, he crawls over and pulls himself up into my lap and leans his weight against me. I cradle him in my arms, and we say goodnight to everything we see: “Goodnight fan. Goodnight car driving by. Goodnight lawn. Goodnight books.” I put the air conditioning on seventy-two degrees, meaning that his bedroom alternates between seventy-one and seventy-three most nights; the monitor confirms this.
Finally, I zip him up in his breathable sleep-sack and rub his gums, now with four tiny teeth poking out, with fluoride-free toothpaste on my index finger. First though, I pretend to brush my own teeth while making faces, and he laughs.
I rock him, sing songs by Neil Young, Carole King, Jim Croce, or Paul Simon, and put him down gently and slowly. Kristen loved Carole King.
He’s usually asleep within five minutes, and during that time, I handwash his bottles and teething rings. I check the baby proofing on the furniture corners, toilets, cabinets, and drawers, just to make sure everything is still secure. Once that is done, I’m free to get caught up on filling out the invoice slips for work and emailing them out to the appropriate vendors. I enter items by SKU number into inventory or create the information if it doesn’t exist in the system yet. I okay transfer orders and respond to emails from clients. Everyone has been very understanding, especially my boss, and I really appreciate that. I don’t know of any other position I ever had would have allowed me to work from home but the one I have now.
Walter, my boss, said that he couldn’t possibly understand what I am going through, but as long as the work is completed, he doesn’t see why it’s a problem that I work from home. I get some of it completed during his nap and the rest done later. Honestly, I was worried at first, but I adapted quickly. Hell, I welcomed the change of schedule, and it probably helped a bit, if I’m being honest. Sometimes I’m so busy taking care of him that I don’t have time to think, which might actually help.
The only issue that I really had was with Vincent, the field manager, who “recommended” that I go to a strip club and meet a nice girl for a night. “That’ll help yeh out,” he said, scratching his stubble, cigarette bobbing, even offering me a twenty for the first lap dance. Walter took him by the arm and led him outside. I don’t know what was said, but Vincent has avoided interacting with me since, even when I brought the baby in one day.
The Claytons, my next-door neighbours on the right, have been dropping off meals in Tupperware on Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays, while the Murrays, on the left, have the other days. Both families are grandparents, so the meals have that old-world feel to them that only comes with time and experience. The Claytons are mildly racist, though, occasionally telling me about how “the neighbourhood’s been changing, if you know what I mean,” and I do, but I don’t have the energy to engage with teaching equality to an old racist couple. The standard daily schedule of three meals has been ignored as I simply just take bites throughout the day at random now. A spoonful of lasagna here, a cut of chicken parm there. There’s some correlation between experiencing a loss and people suddenly wanting to feed you. I’m not complaining, though, because home-cooked meals seem to momentarily ground me, and all of us seem locked in a pattern that no one knows how to break. They don’t even bother to knock anymore; I just find the stacked Tupperware on the doorstep in the evenings, and I return them, cleaned, the next day via the same delivery method.
Each day swiftly builds to this silent limbo that I’d fear if I weren’t operating on autopilot, almost feeling unhuman: my work is done; the house is clean; he is fed, and he is safe, so I sit. My half-closed eyes burn with exhaustion, my fatigued limbs rest across my lap.
The stillness of this time is almost thunderous.
My parents moved in with me for the first few months to help. I don’t think anyone knew what to do other than be present. My mom did the laundry and went grocery shopping, my dad took care of the lawn and random maintenance that I had never got around to before. I appreciated the help, but mom just kept talking about Jesus’s plan instead of talking to me like a normal fucking human being. Jesus this and Jesus that. I’ve never considered my parents from an objective standpoint, but I couldn’t help it when I heard her singing gospel songs to my son while rocking him. I unexpectedly realised that most religious fanatics have ulterior motives, whether they’re aware of it or not, and, for the first time in my life, I didn’t trust her. Dad just shrugs and lets her go, whether in public or private. The poor servers at restaurants. She’s probably the type to leave a Bible verse as a tip. Dad must have given up a long while ago. Sitting in silence with him on the porch over cold beers was much more supportive than having religion being forced at me, so I looked forward to that quiet time together. They left after three months; Mom said that the church “needs my help, too, you know,” passively smiling with a self-appointed sense of being needed.
Kristen always said that she’s nuts, but she’s still a good woman.
During this quiet time, I flip through Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, and HBO-Go, never actually settling on one since I don’t have time to actually invest into binging a new show, which would only frustrate me since it would take me a whole month just to finish four episodes, so I usually just watch reruns of Saved by the Bell or Dawson’s Creek. The nostalgia and wholesomeness are like a warm blanket in a freezing landscape for me. I wish that I was worried about holding a girl’s hand or surrendering to peer pressure at a high school party. Oh, my God, do I. Things felt more human then, much more real and alive.
Around nine, my eyes begin to slowly shut just as Pacey finally kisses Joey, so I get up and check the locks, check on the baby, turn on the dishwasher, and sit in the shower under the stream of hot water, with only the glow of the monitor placed on the toilet as light. I’ve always sat down in the shower, which was something that Kristen always gave me shit for, but I like it. I started doing it in college when I was hungover, and it just stuck. She didn’t know me then.
I check the window fasteners and the door locks again and take my wooden bat, which I got at Fenway Park with my dad when I was much younger, from the closet and lay it on the empty pillow next to mine, just in case I have to grip it quickly during the night.
Once I climb into bed, I get back up, take the bat, and I check on him again, blindly listening for his tiny, quick, successive breaths in his darkened bedroom. When I find those breaths, for a second, it feels like a hand pulling me up, saving me from drowning. Or even a sudden rush of morphine, immediately calming every screaming nerve in my body.
In the dark, I lie down on the floor next to the crib, surrounding by his breaths, and finally fall asleep, gripping my baseball bat.
“Is it love that binds a family together, Seventh wondered, or just the guilt estrangement would cause?” Posed by Seventh Seltzer, the question is one that resonates throughout Shalom Auslander’s novel Mother for Dinner. As the seventh son of one of the last remaining Cannibal-American (Can-Am) families, the character’s situation is, without a doubt, unique, but there is a universality to his dilemma. Who hasn’t, devourer of human flesh or not, looked at their own family and pondered something similar?
Bringing a fresh perspective to the well-worn themes of identity politics, oppressive family ties, and the inadequacy of the American Dream, the novel opens with happily married publisher’s reader Seventh receiving the phone call he has been dreading. His estranged mother, known only as Mudd, is dying and has been fattening herself up by eating 12 Burger King Whoppers a day (double bacon, extra cheese, no lettuce), which is, Siri informs him, 4,380 Whoppers a year.
Her final wish is for her 12 surviving children to return to the family home in Brooklyn so that they can consume her remains, as Can-Am lore dictates. Despite being advised by his psychiatrist against engaging with his mother, Seventh relents and returns home for the first time in a decade.
This visit brings to a head the struggle he has been battling with since childhood. For the protagonist, “Identity had always been a prison he longed to escape – white, black, brown, American, European, Russian, male, straight, female, straight, gay, They, Them, atheist, monotheist, polytheist – the ever-growing lists of cellblocks from which there was no release. And yet lately, all around him, the prisoners were proudly raising their shackles overhead and cheering their own bondage.”
In his working life, he spends his days buried beneath copious versions of “what he had taken of late to calling the Not-So-Great-American Something-American Novel.” For the writers whom Seventh encounters, these novels are a platform to give voice to what they see as their marginalised voices: the Heroin-Addicted-Autistic-Christian-American-Haemophiliac and the Pro-Choice-Lesbian-Croatian-American. The irony is that Seventh himself belongs to the most marginalised tribe there is, yet he cannot voice his story; secrecy is most sacred Can-Am tenet.
Much of the novel, and indeed Seventh’s sessions with his psychiatrist, revisit the impact an overbearing mother can have in adult life. Once he is home and reacquainted with his siblings, their mother does indeed give up the ghost and whispers the words Seventh had feared: “Eat me.”
Despite having fled Mudd and her Can-Am fanaticism, he unexpectedly becomes the defender of his tribe and goes about convincing his siblings to honour Mudd’s dying wish. In essence, he raises his own shackles overhead and cheers his own bondage. Like so many of us fear, he becomes his mother or, at least, takes on certain of her traits.
For Mudd, her children’s main purpose is to themselves reproduce and perpetuate the Can-Am line. “Someday you’ll realise there are more important things in this world than your own happiness,” she tells her offspring, whom she has named in accordance with the order in which they were born into the Seltzer clan.
But like even the most toxic of mothers, Mudd is not entirely unsympathetic as she perpetually mourns the loss of her beloved sixth child who died of an unspecified illness when Seventh was four. “She was weakened, softened. Once bellicose and abusive, she was now merely melodramatic and pathetic.”
The third pillar of Auslander’s satire comes from the characters’ disenchantment with the American Dream. Through Seventh’s childhood, zealot Mudd regaled him with tales of Julius and Julia, the mother and father of the Can-Am community, who travelled to America at the turn of the 20th century. Upon arrival, Julius found work in the Ford factory for $5 a day, only for Julia to be violated by the factory’s owner in every vehicle to come off the production line. A century later, Seventh states that he’d throw himself out of his office window if he were certain the fall would kill him.
As readers familiar with Auslander’s previous works know, his humour is bleak while just about avoiding overstepping the line. His memoir, which follows his upbringing in an ultra-Orthodox Jewish household, is titled Foreskin’s Lament, while his novel Hope: A Tragedy conjures a cantankerous octogenarian Anne Frank living in the protagonist’s attic.
Mother for Dinner is no different, with the novel’s opening pages pondering the unappetising taste of women who have been mothers. “When a dead mother beckons, no one wants seconds.” Another recurring joke stems from Mudd’s hatred of actor Jack Nicholson, whom she is convinced is a member of the Can-Am community but unwilling to publicly embrace his heritage. For Mudd, telling someone they are “worse than Jack Nicholson” is the most venomous slur she can conceive of.
Seventh’s lack of self-awareness is another recurring joke through the novel. Desperate for his daughter to be free from the shackles of her heritage, Seventh withholds his Can-Am background from her. However, when she asks, “What am I?”, he simply replies “sweetness,” a term redolent of the very thing he has spent his life fleeing: the act of eating.
Although many critics focus on the parallels between the Seltzer clan and the writer’s own Jewish roots, many of the novel’s themes ring true for anyone born into a family or region with an oppressive sense of identity. Being from a deeply inward-looking working-class area in the north of England, I know exactly what Seventh means when he describes the “You’re Not Me Look.” It’s the glance you receive when walking into a bar slightly outside your part of town, and it isn’t native to the outer boroughs of New York.
Not surprisingly, the novel’s language does not shy away from, and even indulges in, the brutal physicality of its subject matter. “Mudd was going bad. Fast. Her extremities were beginning to swell, and beneath her dingy nightgown, her corpse had turned a dull, two-day old roadkill grey.” Later, Seventh and his siblings debate which grill would be best to cook a large piece of meat, “a real mother,” with a petrol station attendant.
The novel is also especially relevant for those of us past 30 casting a wistful eye over their lives, with First, the eldest of the Seltzer’s clan, saying. “You get older, you can’t do it anymore, and you begin to wonder if it was worth it.” Much is also made of the fact that Zero, Mudd’s only female child, is only 20. Although she often speaks much reason, her words are tempered by youth and inexperience, at least in First’s estimation.
If Mother for Dinner does have a flaw, it is one common in this genre, as the novel does occasionally begin to feel weighed down by its own parody, with each of the Seltzer children being able to talk with remarkable eloquence on the subject of identity politics even with their mother’s corpse being drained of blood just feet away.
One of the greatest achievements of Auslander’s satire, however, is to make the act of devouring Seventh’s mother seem perversely sympathetic – or at least no more ridiculous than many of the ceremonies at the heart of the major world religions. The ritual requires the deceased’s relatives to hang the body “as one might a deer or a cow.” As grotesque and dehumanizing as these instructions at first appear, Seventh’s uncle, an expert in Can-Am lore, later explains: “[The dead] are no longer the physical beings they once were, and our connection to them, physically and spiritually, is severed. This is grieving with a purpose – it is not mere sorrow; it is grieving so that we may move on.”
When such sentences begin to sound emotionally healthy, you realise you have truly been consumed by Auslander’s satire. The writer’s other great talent, not always found in parody, is to create a character for whom we feel genuine tenderness. Even though Seventh may come to the realisation in the final paragraphs that he is an “asshole” born of “asshole ancestors” with “asshole beliefs,” we feel wryly pleased he has found a version of himself with which he feels comfortable.
Mother for Dinner
By Shalom Auslander
272 pages. Picador
At last it’s all as it should be. After a lifetime’s effort I can dwell on the small steps that led to where I am today.
It was in the mid-sixties, when I married Claire, that my career began. When we bought an old house with cellars where I could organize my collections. At first it seemed easy. Metal tins of formula for our daughter Stella had neat snap-on lids. I saved them. Because I could never spoon the powder into the baby’s bottle without spillage, Claire said I wasted it on purpose to empty the tin. In reply, I stood on the tins I had saved to squash them and prove their lack of importance.
But other receptacles – glass jars, margarine tubs, cardboard tea-bag boxes – failed to satisfy. The chink or thud as the contents went in was unrewarding. The future seemed uncertain until, rooting around in my parents’ garage, I rediscovered the pleasant clatter of drill bits in a tin. Not wishing to imitate my father, that insular being, I had repressed this memory.
This tin, which I inherited, now has a place of honour on my bedside table. On the grey hinged lid pitted with wear is printed CHRONIC CATARRH pastilles in carmine letters, under a sun bearing the word Rayglo. Delicate grey-green rays emanate from this sun, from the top of which emerges a tiny joyful figure eating a pastille. Such a figure would in reality be half a million miles tall.
Possessing this tin was still far in the future, and I had my own drill bits to house. On a visit to France with Claire, five-year-old Stella, and the new baby Eric, fate smiled. In a shop in Angoulême, I acquired an elliptical tin of boiled sweets, illustrated with raspberries and the words Les FRAMBOISES de la VOSGIENNE in red, purple, and pink
Once home, I unpacked it excitedly. Disappointment. Too small for bits above three-sixteenths! (In those days I scorned metric.) I used it instead for pieces of a doll’s house chair I’d made for Stella in soldered wire, condemned by Claire because of sharp projections.
The following summer, on another trip to Europe, a real breakthrough. In a supermarket in Andorra, I obtained a flat chrome-yellow cigar tin. The hinged lid was labelled ORMOND junior, with the signature and portrait of Ormond. One September day I merged my scattered bit collections into this tin. It was the afternoon Stella was rushed to hospital. A swing in the recreation ground had struck her on the temple. Through the gash I saw bone. Claire rode in the ambulance, leaving me with Eric. While my son played with rusty washers and a magnet, I emptied my twist bits out of an old custard carton. Oak shavings fell out (They were from a rail of coat hooks I put up when Claire was pregnant with Stella.) I tipped out the masonry bits from a cracked willow pattern cereal bowl. Blue-black twist bits and grey masonry bits now lay together. A moment’s hesitation – should the two categories stay apart? I decided I must merge them to ensure Stella recovered. If I kept them apart . . .
Another item from Andorra was a large bottle of liqueur titled ANIS DEL MONO, soon emptied once Claire and I came home to our bank statement (Despite repeated discussions we failed to agree who caused the huge overdraft.) I used the bottle for diluting concentrated windscreen wash. In high summer, as the cellar window and its cobwebs blazed with light, I mixed in the proportion one to ten. Sometimes in winter, sun from a clear sky struck through at a low angle, illuminating fallen lumps of plaster, and I mixed at one to five.
The label portrayed the eponymous mono (monkey) improbably dressed in waistcoat and trousers in tones of blue, brown, and orange. A legend read, Es el major – yo lo digo y yo no miento (It’s the best – I say it and I don’t lie), no doubt a statement by the monkey himself. One sunny morning, when I topped up the screen wash before setting off for work, my hand still smarted from striking the kitchen table to make a point. As I poured the gurgling liquid, very blue against the white plastic of the reservoir, Claire’s accusation still rang in my ears. She said I deceived her about money.
A third Andorran item was an olive-oil tin, CARBONELL (prizes in Saragossa, Cordoba, and St. Louis, Missouri). It bore a picture of a girl in a red shawl, camellias in her hair, sitting on the wall of an olive grove, smiling and raising slim bare arms to pull down an olive branch. Beside her on the wall was an olive-oil tin with exactly the same picture. Although hard to see, the tin in this picture no doubt bore a miniature of itself.
I remember when the tin was emptied. Claire and I threw a fancy dress party, and the last of the oil went into a salad. Our friend Neal, as a priest, and his wife Kath, as a high-wire act, were last to leave. Neal was drunk and made remarks such as, “Life is . . . life.” Claire, as Cleopatra, also drunk, leaned on him laughing and said, “I have a confession, Father. I went with you twice tonight behind the garden shed.”
Kath seemed not to mind. She fixed me with a look. “Well?” she asked, sprawled in her gold leotard, knees fifteen inches apart. I looked from her green spangled thighs to Claire’s breasts, flushed under white cotton, nipples erect. From Kath’s wide smile to Claire’s. With a turgid mixture of emotions – confusion, anger, despair, but mainly a desire for clarity – I went to bed, still in my clown suit.
Next day I demolished the garden shed and burned the timber. Then in the cellar, with a small disc attached to my craft tool, I cut the top off the oil tin. I heard Claire’s footsteps overhead. My father had given me a cardboard box of augur bits up to one inch in diameter. I tipped them into the oil tin with a satisfying clunk.
*
My mid-career triumph was my screw box, the kind joiners carry, remarkable less for its construction that its materials. A warehouse by the harbour was crammed with timber salvaged from many lands. Two curved ribs twice my height, in amber aromatic wood, could have come from some Barbary pirate ship. My choice fell on an old soap box, which I used for the ends of my project. In curved tapering Roman letters, the long-serif kind common in the nineteen-twenties, LIGHT SOAP LTD. graced one end, UNLIGHT SO the other. For the sides I used offcuts of half-inch plywood. One bore the logo WELDWOOD R1, the other:
BC480
COFI
EXT.
CANADA
The handle was a length of roughly rounded timber from one of a pair of stilts I had made for Stella and Eric.
I needed a screw box to help Stella with her house. I took to buying screws in boxes of two hundred from builders’ merchants, more economical than in dozens from Henry Fulljames. But I missed the creosote and fish-glue smell of Fulljames’ and the way the sun picked out footprints in the film of sawdust. The house was in an unfashionable quarter frequented by women of ill repute and their clients, mostly sailors. It proved to have dry rot. Stella, heavily pregnant, deserted by two friends who were to share the purchase, sat in a bedroom armchair watching me under the roof. I crawled up and down the ceiling joists, almost in tears with frustration, uncertain what to do. In the kitchen, Claire was also near tears, Stella reported, as cleaning fluid on the cracked vinyl disappeared through holes in the floorboards.
I have a clear memory of my screw box perched on a wall plate in front of a roof light, with a background of distant cranes, masts, and oily water.
*
My late period might be called minimalist. When in the seventies I bought Claire a sewing workbox in the market, I little suspected it would be the vehicle for my final revelation. The box is thirteen inches by nine, overall height five inches. A step in the inner lining once supported a plywood tray. The hinged lid, rounded front and back, had (yes, had) a lozenge-shaped inlay in mother-of-pearl. At first I thought the box was solid oak, but when the corners chipped, the oak was revealed as veneer on softwood.
By the early nineties, both lid and tray were lost. As Neal, now a widower, would have no room for it in the flat in Roquetas de Mar, Claire left it when she joined him. I cleared it of half-used cotton reels and button cards and emptied fluff and stray threads onto the lavender in the garden. Next, a thorough brushing. A new container! In a sudden burst of energy, I reassessed my collections.
CHRONIC CATARRH held blunted jigsaw blades. I ditched them and now use that tin for my extensive range of pills. Les FRAMBOISES de la VOSGIENNE was dented, and the lid rusted on. I flattened it and its contents with a lump hammer. CARBONELL still held augur bits, worn from three lifetimes of making holes. My carpenter’s brace had been stolen, and I had no desire for another. I gave the bits to a bric-à-brac shop and recycled CARBONELL along with ANIS DEL MONO.
ORMOND junior now held various collections, some extensive, some embryonic. Besides drill bits, they included wall plugs, a dead wasp, and a glass bead of my mother’s. I looked at them and at the empty workbox with its smooth, almost silken, lining. In a simple playful gesture I emptied ORMOND junior into it and placed the tin to be recycled.
Still unsure what I was doing, I roamed the cellar unearthing lost collections. Vine eyes and netting brackets reposed in a clear plastic box that once, at some family Christmas, held chocolate coins (I remembered Stella in a new green dress, little palms chocolate-smeared.) Nails and bolts from the demolished shed filled a jar which once held Devon honey, from the holiday where Mother and Eric caught a grasshopper. Springs from old garden chairs hid among wood shavings in mugs that lost handles when Claire (or maybe I) threw them at the wall.
There remained only the great screw collection, diminished by use and loans to neighbours and friends. By this time, the screw box was green. My grandson Mel, before going with Stella to live in Hungary, had insisted I paint it (WELDWOOD bled through.) I wondered whether to give it to Eric. But Eric’s problems leave him no interest in making things.
The screw collection was still in some kind of order. Mostly in sagging cardboard boxes distinguished by labels such as Twinthreads 10 x 2 BZP. Some kind of order? What kind? Distinguished? By what distinctions? I stood in my cellar with its ancient mushroom smell, surrounded by long shelves, cobwebs, broken orange boxes, and rusty skeletons of strange artifacts, and weighed these questions.
The sun neither beat on the small square window nor struck through onto the floor. It was night. No moon. Suddenly I saw that the order I had sought was illusory, all distinctions false. With sudden vigour, I seized a hatchet from the wall and smashed the green screw box to bits. In a rattling shower, I tipped the screws into my new container, freed from their faded mouse-chewed cardboard. There on top of the bits, the plugs, the wasp, the bead, lay cheeseheads, roundheads, self-tapping, countersunk . . . stiff, silver-grey, or bronze-coloured, jumbled against the flaking white lining, pointing in every direction.
I had reduced everything to one statement.
It was a new kind of order.
Phoebe Wynne’s Madam charts the experiences of a young teacher who joins a prestigious girls’ boarding school in the UK, only to discover that things are not as they seem. She meets an overbearing enemy, and unable to confront it herself, she must recruit the girls around her to bring about its defeat.
Phoebe is a Classicist and spent several years teaching in the UK and in France before leaving the classroom to concentrate on her writing. She now spends her time between both countries. Madam, her debut novel, is released today by Quercus Books.
In this feature, Phoebe meditates on the writing life and some of the episodes that have brought her to this point.
.i.
Three years ago I left my teaching career behind with one aim – to have a proper go at writing. I had already written two miserably bad novels in between school terms, and I realised that if I really wanted to achieve something, I needed to learn my craft and give myself time, quiet, and focus. I felt like a pregnant woman unable to give birth, an uglier and unhappier version of Sylvia Plath’s “there is a voice inside me that will not be still.” A teaching colleague had tacked onto her office noticeboard a different quote, which shone out to me every day like an accusation. It was Seamus Heaney’s “the way we are living, timorous or bold, will have been our life.”
I considered giving myself one year; I collected my savings, put my things into storage, moved in with family, sat down, and opened my laptop.
What I didn’t realise was that by leaving my career, even as part of a one-year plan, I had broken an unspoken covenant. The people around me saw this act as a mistake – an insult, even an insolence. I discovered that those I knew had happily placed me in a box: teacher, academic, server of others, and I had somehow signed a societal contract to stay in said box and stay in my place while doing so; but I couldn’t and I wouldn’t. A family friend, whose late husband had taught me as a child, told me I was a “rotter” to have given up the worthy and esteemed role of head of Classics at one of the top schools in England. I can still feel the horrified tone of her rebuke.
I hadn’t realised that on a grander scale, I had broken away from the establishment and had somehow betrayed my roots and dishonoured my collective. The society I came from was a class-based patriarchal one, where I’d learned that my value lay in being academic, pleasing, and achievement-driven. I’d strived to attach myself to something significant, something others would recognise, like an excellent and celebrated academic institution. In a society where humans are “doing” rather than “being,” I’d broken away, rudderless, floating towards an unknown and unseeable land that might not even exist. The weight of disapproval was heavy and stretched from my parents’ generation to my siblings to some of my closest friends; it was a difficult several months under their hot, judgemental gaze.
With my mind free of lesson planning, report writing, department meetings, faculty meetings, emails from teaching staff, boarding staff, and parents, I finally had the freedom to clear my head and find my story. Yet the further I drifted, the more I observed the spot I’d left behind. It was ugly, an eyesore – but full of colourful characters, conflict, and many things to say.
Leaving those institutions – and by that I mean the school, society, and England – allowed me to break free. I have never been more terrified yet so determined in my life. Exorcising the very thing I had needed to escape, exposing it or seeing it truly, became my story. I suppose we have to abandon things to really see them as they are.
.ii.
During my year of writing, I found myself in Los Angeles tagging along with my sister’s family on a three-month film project. The land of visual storytelling surprised me with its warmth – the people as well as the weather – and I signed up for writing classes. The first was a prompt-driven workshop on Sunday afternoons in Laurel Canyon, the second was a skills-based seminar on Thursday nights in Los Feliz.
I threw myself into learning how to write, I bought the best books, scoured and devoured them, tore them apart for their secrets. I practiced and flexed my writing muscles every day and did my homework for each class: like a violinist learning her fingering and hand positions, eager to improve, getting ready to perform a concerto and play out her heart.
The Sunday afternoons were a balm. Around eight of us sat up straight in thick armchairs dotted about a woman’s sitting room, and smiled awkwardly at each other. We waited for the prompt, then threw our pens across the page. Fifteen minutes later we read aloud our attempts at writing and critiqued each other, kindly. My initial agony dissipated over three months, and I learned my first valuable lesson: how to give feedback and how to take it. The Thursdays were technical, tool-sharpening, and repetitious, a small number of us gathered around another sitting room, discussing, debating, and working hard.
The best thing about those writing classes was the students. I’d never met people like that before: warm, encouraging, listening, interested, open-minded – American. I found kindred spirits in those colourful fellow writers. Everybody was excited, everybody wanted to go somewhere. Back at the house, too, my sister’s friends, her husband’s friends, were constantly “making.” I learned that it’s fun hanging out with people in the film industry when you’re not in the film industry, because you can’t talk shop, you can only talk ideas. For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by creatives rather than academics, and I liked it.
It’s certainly true that my Englishness set me apart from the others – Wow, a boarding school? Oh, she teaches Latin? No! There are cliffs and the sea crashing against them? And ancient women involved? Sounds great, I’m in. The Californian culture of encouragement pushed me forward, and my early ideas turned into thicker chapters and a refined plot, and sparked a blazing fire inside my chest.
When I got back to England months later, my enthusiasm for writing classes chased me into two more in London. I chose the same pattern: the first prompt-based, the second more technical, but I never expected my writing fire to be hit by a cold blast, just like the weather, on my return. My bold ideas were shaken, my plot picked apart, and the remainders were dismissed. A boarding school – What’s new about that? Feminism – Wasn’t that over in the 70s, we have equality now! A tragedy – Oh no, there’s a new trend for “uplit” now. I heard their chorus loud and clear: We don’t want your gothic boarding school drama here.
Each week left a bitter taste as I travelled up to London on the train full of anticipation, poring over my miserably annotated pages on the way back, shaking my head against the sharp and unkind remarks. Nevertheless I persisted and attended every class, learning how to filter the criticism and sharpen my writing, ready to slip into some manic alone time in the early summer to finish my first full draft. I returned frequently to my American pages, stared through them, and Madam fell out, loud and ready. Thank God I’d tried the American writing classes first.
.iii.
The world is your oyster, we were told as teenagers. What do you want to be? You choose! Put the work in, and it will all become yours.
I don’t think I can condemn the careers advisor at my overprivileged boarding school – I’m sure advisors in schools all over the UK were saying the same thing, filling out forms for hordes of student, and pushing them in various neatly allocated directions. We were fed the traditional diet of achievement equals high grades equals happiness. Want that? Tick this box, jump through this hoop. Academics were the thing. My sister wanted to be an artist but went on to study Philosophy at Reading. I pursued Classics rather than English, not only because I was good at it, but also because it was a niche subject with fewer students and gave me more of an “edge.” I earned my all-rounder scholarship every day of the week; I studied the mark scheme, I wrote essays full of words, and won sparkling, empty grades.
Ten years later I horrified myself by brandishing the same mark schemes at my own students, telling them that if they’d play the game, they’d get where they wanted to go. Unexpressed creativity is damaging. My sister, by the way, now works in costume for film and TV, so the Philosophy degree didn’t help her much – and neither did her student debt, which she’s still paying off, as I am mine.
My generation of millennials has apparently struggled to reach our “potential,” since of course we prefer buying avocados to paying off any mortgage, when in fact the truth is we haven’t earned enough for a deposit on a house. None of my peers seem to have risen to this great bar set for us, and instead we hobble in the gutter, battling our imposter syndrome. How can our potential be measured? Yes, we decorated ourselves with good grades, but hadn’t we been instructed how to get them? Yes I was a good teacher, but wasn’t it because I’d been trained particularly for it? Who was I, beneath that training, that discipline?
What I really wanted was to be a writer, a novelist – the kind of job that everyone thinks they can do but very few are lucky enough to realise. So I settled myself into teaching. I enjoyed the safety of academia, routine, the sparky students, every day never the same – and, more importantly, knowing that the profession rested on qualifications and would secure me a regular salary and perhaps even a place to live. I enjoyed that brilliant ordinariness for eight years, but all the while the writing bug niggled at me. It’s true that a contented person never changed the world, so I changed mine.
When I got my book deal, I thought, That’s it, I’ve made it. I must be a decent writer or my agent wouldn’t have taken the book on and the publishers wouldn’t have grabbed it with both hands. Or have they made some terrible mistake – no, the contract was signed. My inner careers advisor was both thrilled and appalled, his boxes ticked many times over now that I had achieved this extraordinary thing. This oyster pearl they’d dangled in front of us – hadn’t I caught it? Not quite, for then came the next necessary achievement: edits, copyedits, proofs, feedback, reviews, how the book might do – all lining themselves up like a terrifying band of unruly children that had to be disciplined. I’ve managed to tick them all off for Madam so far, but of course the expectations have been refreshed with my second novel.
It is true to say that my creativity now earns me a living, and that perhaps I have taken a higher step in many people’s eyes. But even as I spend many days alone typing at my laptop, I remember laughing moments in the classroom, in the dining hall, in the boarding house. I remember so much of it so fondly that I filled my first novel with students’ voices. I wouldn’t go back, I wouldn’t change this path I’ve taken, but it’s certainly true that some moments I took for being ordinary were entirely striking and unique.
So I’m forced to accept that none of us are extraordinary – we are all beautifully ordinary. There might be no oyster pearls for the world to offer us, and that’s all right. I just wish I’d been able to report this discovery back to my students. Tell them that the things we’re chasing after might not even exist, and perhaps it’s enough to turn what is into what could be.
As she lifts her coffee cup to her lips, her hand trembles, and she has to put it back down on the kitchen table. Luckily it isn’t full. She watches as the milky storm subsides, then looks up towards the wide-open window in front of her. Beyond it, there is a wall of green. She planted dense shrubs to keep the neighbour’s gaze out. She got fed up with meeting the eyes of that man from the big house next door across the panes of glass whenever she walked into the kitchen.
She tries to lift her cup to her lips again. This time she holds it with both hands. She’d love to be able to stop her thoughts drifting off into the wrong corners of her mind and dragging out things she’d tucked there. She’d love to pick up a book and make herself comfortable in the armchair by the French doors. From there, she could gaze out to the overgrown flowerbeds blooming in dazzling colours. There are no rigid lines or hard borders in her garden. She’s given her plants freedom to grow awkward branches and spill outside their beds. They just need to watch out for the neighbour who cuts down any shoot crossing over through the fence. No stray seedling has any chance to take root in his pristine monoculture of Agrostis Capillaris L. He mows it weekly, and patrols daily, wearing his green overalls, a spray can of Roundup in his hand.
She manages to finish her coffee without spilling a drop. She gets up, walks over to the sink, puts her cup in, and leaves it there. It can wait until she comes back. She closes the window and heads out of the kitchen towards the sitting room. There, she locks the doors to the garden and pulls a net curtain across the panes of glass. She glances towards her flowerbeds through the white, cotton mesh. Flowers are such beautiful creatures. One glimpse of their bright bodies can shift a mood a hundred and eighty degrees. They must have magical powers.
*
She enters the warm, soft sand of the beach in front of the Grand Hotel. She takes off her sandals and rolls up her trousers. This spot always reminds her of the film Two Men and a Wardrobe, which was shot right here in 1958. Sometimes, she stares towards the sea waiting for the men to emerge from the waves with their strange luggage and carry it off to town, where nobody will understand them.
The beach is busy with holidaymakers frying their bodies. During summers, she avoids the stretch near the pier. There, it’s impossible to pass in between spread-out towels, blankets, deckchairs, loungers and those windbreakers people erect to mark their territory. On a day like today, it’s hard to imagine that in a few weeks’ time, when autumn storms come, this place will be empty, with only a few dog walkers and joggers braving the weather. She prefers the beach in autumn and winter. She loves the spray carried by gusts of wind from huge waves breaking under the force of their own weight. Sometimes the wind gets so strong that the air becomes an invisible wall. She likes to lean her back against it, allowing herself to be held up by a void.
Her feet sink deep into the moist sand right at the water’s edge. She likes the sensation of the sea flowing in between her toes. A group of small children runs into the rolling waves right beside her. She is showered with salty water and feels drops dripping from her nose and cheeks.
“I’m so sorry.” She can hear a young woman’s voice and turns towards her.
“It’s just water,” she replies, wiping the sea from her face. “No need to be sorry,” she adds and continues her walk. She takes large steps, splashing like a child. No need to be careful anymore not to get her trousers wet. She laughs to herself.
*
She reaches the quiet part, where the forest that surrounds the town from the south meets the sea across eroding cliffs that hang over the beach. Further down, winter storms ate into the slopes and left trees hanging precariously. Their exposed roots grip the slipping earth. She sits on a tree trunk lying in the sand. It must’ve fallen from the cliff years ago. The sea stripped off bark, exposing its sapwood. It turned silver like a piece of jewellery. It glistens in the late afternoon sun, the beach’s giant brooch.
She lifts her gaze towards the horizon. The sea is deep navy and the sky pale blue, the line between them sharp. Some days there is no distinction between the water and the air above it. They blur into a solid plane of grey: mousy, pewter, ash, or slate. She remembers this colourless wall in front of her then. That November, she started taking long walks. She had to get out of the house. She could hardly breathe, as if someone had pumped all the air out, creating a vacuum. Opening the windows did nothing, except for making the rooms freezing cold. And she was already shivering. She’d never felt so cold in her life. There was an icy stream running through her veins, cooling her flesh. Walking was the only way to stop it from freezing up.
On some of the days then, the beach wasn’t long enough for her. She’d walk east, all the way to the breakwater, bordering with the customs free zone. There she’d turn back and walk to the pier, then past the Grand Hotel towards the cliffs, to this spot. In winter, she couldn’t go further. The sea claimed the narrow strip of sand that is passable in summer. Once she got here, she would sit down on this tree trunk.
“Where are you?” she would shout towards that grey, impenetrable curtain. Her hand in the coat pocket clutched her mobile, waiting for a vibration.
We’ve all felt lonely at some time in our lives, and for many of us, the Covid-19 pandemic has exacerbated these feelings. Since early 2020, we have probably ended up spending even more time online — often in a state of “connected detachment” — than we normally would have. Consolation can seem in short supply under such conditions. And they can make it hard to trust others, harder still to work through our divisions.
Fortunately, there is a solution. Reading and writing are generally solitary acts, but they don’t need to be lonely acts. On the contrary, at their heart is a wager that we can make connections and improvise communities around our best thoughts and experiences, our hunger to identify and understand.
So, over the next few weeks, let’s turn to Litro Magazine’s Loneliness issue for some much-needed consolation. As we read these compelling stories and essays — heart-breaking, funny, and sage in turn — let’s reach out and make some meaningful connections. Let’s be lonely together.
(If you haven’t heard back from us regarding your submission, worry not. The theme of “loneliness” inspired many writers and artists to send us work, and our editors are working through the submissions, which will be considered for other online sections of Litro Magazine. Thank you for your patience.)
AMONG THE LONELY PEOPLE
Here is a good idea that should be given to every nineteen-year-old in search of an education, rather than shunting them off into a university of college for three or four years. Instead, let them go and work in a dive bar for that time, and learn along the way all that they can. They will not have a degree at the end but will have learned plenty in the meantime about life and people.
If they do decide to go down this route – and they should – they must be sent out into the world to do it. There is no point in their staying at home and living with their parents; they will not learn anything that way. Cut the apron strings. Make them stand on their own two feet. Pick a small town or city a half-day’s drive from where you live, drop them off with enough to survive a week, and let them figure things out on their own. It will be tough at first, but they will eventually thank you for it.
And as you drive off, as you say goodbye to them, make sure they know that they are not to work in an office. Any job that requires a shirt and tie is asking for too much. Tell them to instead find a dive bar and go work in that.
The reason for this is that there are things that they will pick up in such places that they will not acquire anywhere else. When you are young – and nineteen is young, despite what most nineteen-year-olds think – the best thing you can do is to go out and learn as much as you can. In doing so, you challenge all the things about yourself that you thought were fixed and true, and in doing so you truly find out which things are fixed and true, alongside the parts of yourself that will be rewritten, or abandoned, or buttressed.
The other benefit it has over a more formal education is that it is less than free. Your bosses will be paying you to be there! Imagine a regular wage, paid weekly or fortnightly, while you receive the world’s best education. Of course, you will be doing many things during those hours and probably for little money, but it is better than running up thousands of whatever currency you use in order to gain a piece of paper at the end that states the title of your college, a subject that you now have some kind of competence in, and your name. And all you will have had to do in those hours is serve some drinks, clean some glasses and put them away, wipe up the bar, kick out the customers at the end of the night, break up some fights, and generally have the time of your life. It is not a bad way to learn a good thing or two, and possibly even a few great ones.
My first great dive bar, and which would in some ways become one of the great loves of my life, was a place in York, North Yorkshire, up in a nearly forgotten corner of northern England that is pretty far from any bright lights at all. I arrived there twenty years ago on the day following my birthday. I was young, somewhat naïve, definitely inexperienced, and away from home for the first time. I was also, in many ways, a blank slate.
There was a need for me to find gainful employment, and so I took myself into the city the afternoon I set my bags down in order to look for a bar job. I tried first the White Horse on Bootham, then the Hole in the Wall. The third place I visited was the York Arms. I was given an immediate start there by the manager, who promptly left a few weeks later while I stayed, largely uninterrupted, for the next three years.
And what a place it was! What a beautiful tapestry of people and lives! I glanced through the three years of my formal education, and it largely passed through me without touching the sides. But I read a lot and wrote some and discovered a lot – most – of the things that turned me from a boy into a man. Everything came to me in those years – first love, first time away from home, first lay, first time to try and survive standing on my own two feet. It was a good and great time.
The York Arms was the city’s second gay bar, although the brewery was very clear that we were not to advertise it as such. It was, I think, the only gay bar in the twenty-first century to have still been in the closet. But what a closet!
Most of our customers during the day were tourists, in from out of town to walk around the York Minster, to amble down the Shambles, stroll back along Stonegate, come over to us for a pint and a wee, then get back into their Volvos or Audis to go home. But after the lunchtime shift, from three onwards, the pallor of the place shifted and bled into different, brighter, and richer colours. As the tourists ebbed from the place, the long-term drinkers, the alcoholics, pimps, prostitutes, and the perpetually unemployed would come. It wasn’t far from Bootham, the main mental hospital in North Yorkshire, so many of those on day release came in to sit, get warm, and sip a little booze. And then, later, as the sky darkened and that part of the city began to empty, our regulars would come along, all of us members of the same dysfunctional, boozy, yet ultimately loving family.
I would eventually leave there in the summer of 2003, a month or so before I was to turn twenty-two, and I did not go back in for some time. Over the years, I have dropped back in intermittently and sworn, each time, that I would be back, some day permanently. Even now, looking back on those years, I fantasise about coming in one dark and cold night, wiping the steam from my glasses, and seeing standing all around every one of the regulars, who will welcome me home, make a space for me on a stool near the bar, and talk for the rest of the night, catching up on old times.
Not every bar is a dive bar, nor is every dive bar for everybody. It is vitally important to find the right type. Too nice, and there will be little to be learned. You will also learn too little if the place is too dark and violent. Although these are things that are different for everyone. The best advice I can give is to find the place that suits you best while also pushing and pulling some at your seams. All dive bars are perfect in their own way, but not all are perfect for everybody.
There are a few common, core things that you should look for in one of these places. A dive bar is a place with a steady stream of regular customers, many of whom have been going there for years, even decades. The bars tend to be on the outskirts of a city where the rents – and drink prices are lower – in those areas where the urban begins to butt up against the suburban, and they have their own gravitational pull for those drawn to them.
A good dive bar is an accumulation of many things. It does not need all of them, though. A handful will suffice. We are talking cocktails here, not recipes. A dive bar has only a little or no music, and it is never played louder than at half the level of a normal conversation. Similar rules apply to televisions, along with the added proviso that they are turned on only intermittently and when there is something on that everybody wants or needs to watch. In 2001, I watched the second tower fall on 9/11 while working behind a bar. Everybody was watching the television that lunchtime.
It is quite okay to serve food in a dive bar, but the menu should be limited and ideally it should be a sandwich or come in a packet. There should also be beer, and lots of it, but limited in selection – two bitters, two lagers, and a cider will be enough, although you could be exotic and add a mild and a stout, lest anyone fault you for not doing so. Nowadays, there are so many gastropubs with their wide and varied selections of beers and spirits, but the problem is that there is something untrustworthy about them and the people who drink in them that comes from their lack of authenticity.
Keep the spirits simple, too – the core ones are whiskey, vodka, and gin, after which you can add your bourbons, brandies, rums, and wine (one bottle of red, one of white).
The next part is the staff. They are also to be kept simple. Like a good dive bar, a good barman is an agglomeration of things. There is no magic formula or combination, but a good starting point is that a good barman remembers your name, what you drink, how much it costs, when you have had enough, and what upsets you. They should also have some basic arithmetic for calculating cost and change, a plausible manner, a sense of humour, and some schtick to keep the customers entertained. Everything else is a bonus.
The most important part of the dive bar is the people that drink there because, without them, it would only be an empty room with taps. Again, there is no magic formula or combination, but you will find all varieties of life. And all of them will have a story.
There is also a great camaraderie. You will soon know, from your first shift at the dive bar, that we are all lonely ships in the night. Most people end up in a dive bar when they have no home life. Often, they will have known the people in the bar for many years, even decades. These are people who have come to known each other well while under the lubrication of alcohol. People around the bar that will know more about them – and in greater honesty – than many of the people in the rest of their lives.
It is in these places that you will also discover the meaning of true happiness. It is not grand, nor eloquent, nor prone to large gestures and displays. It is the type of happiness that descends on you when you realise the smallness of your life in the great and grand scheme of things and are happy with that. I once wrote that true happiness and contentment burned as true and deep as a log fire, and that is a description that I find difficult to improve upon. These are people who have come to an agreement in life not to expect more from it than they already possess, and that acceptance has made them happy. Some of the happiest couples I have met have been in dive bars. The happiest couples are always those who could match each other drink for drink.
*
Perhaps the happiest pair I have ever known was a gay couple I knew two decades ago called Gary and Stewart. The pair had been together for ten years, and I have no doubt that they would have been married if that legally had been on the cards for them then. They lived together in a nice, terraced house that they owned, and one drove buses for a living and the other was a chef.
They had both been married when they were younger, and each was still on good terms with his former wife, with whom they met up with quite often. Gary had also had two children – a son and a daughter – with his wife. He told me once that he had been straight his entire life until he ended up in bed one night with another man, discovered that he liked it, and never went back. I never knew what part it had played in his divorce, but I met his children once, and they were lovely. So lovely, in fact, that they sent Stewart a card each year on Mother’s Day.
*
I knew at the same time a man called Carl, who came to the same bar. He was about fifty, lean, and had long, grey hair that was pulled back always into a ponytail. He worked with his hands and often did not shave during the week and came in often with his ex-wife with whom he wanted to reunite. He drank bitter, and he was a nice guy, and I liked him.
Every few weeks, Carl would appear in full drag, usually a PVC corset with fishnets, a Dolly Parton-style blonde wig, and heels. He would also be perfectly, carefully shaved, his face painted thick with make-up. The crowning jewel in his getup was the water-filled bra that he would invite people to test the heft of. I have no idea where he would go after leaving our bar those nights – York is a small city and there were few places as open as we were. We referred to him on those nights as Crossing Carl. Even when made up, he still drank bitter.
There was a point when I did not see Carl for a long time. I think the relationship with his ex broke down further and he retreated into himself. He had changed the next time I saw him, and all the niceness had soured into something nasty and bitter. It was not long after that he took his dog to the vet and, when told the cost for treatment, said he would do the job himself. The vet called the authorities after he left, and they came to his home and took the dog. Carl went to the shelter later that night with a sword, a can of petrol, and a lighter. He terrorised the staff and threatened to set the place on fire. Armed police were called. Carl was arrested and after the trial and conviction, the judge gave him fifteen months. I like to think that he was dressed in his corset and fishnets when he went to the shelter.
*
These three men I all met in the York Arms when I was nineteen. It closed last year and, in doing so, took with it a large part of myself. It sat at the foot of York Minster and had reportedly the second-cheapest pint within the city walls.
Our clientele were mainly the older faces in York’s gay scene, people from their mid-thirties onwards who wanted largely to have a quiet drink with friends. We had other regulars, too, some down on their luck, some just alcoholics that has mastered the art of holding it together through the day as long as they had enough to drink. Since we did not play much music at the York Arms and whatever we did play was always turned a little low, conversation dominated the smoky, blue air. And since we were cheap, cheerful, and friendly, we continually attracted new regulars who became our firm friends. We had Arsenal Alan, the football fan from down south who would occasionally get drunk, give Nazi salutes, and goose-step from the pub; the Two Stephens, father and son, long-term alcoholics who lived together; and Bishop Michael, who had founded his own religious sect of a few hundred people.
*
Of all the things that the York Arms taught me, the most universal is that we all have some sadness that never goes away. It is what makes us human.
Sadness is a half-step away from regret. The presence of both is a good indicator of wisdom. Never trust a person who says that they have no regrets; they have learned nothing from their mistakes.
Sadness, as a common experience, is a great bonding agent because we all, in our own ways, carry some sadness. People are drawn more to others who are sad. Misery loves company. As a species, we bond in failure and are divided by success.
The most common form of sadness is that of the people who used to be something. Every dive bar is filled with them. They used to be in the army, or the police, or they were artists or writers. The saddest were those that used to be parents and spouses.
Perhaps one of the saddest men at the York Arms was John the Sad Policeman. He was a security guard at the university and he would come in early on his days off to drink. He would be polite and sociable at first, but then his speech would begin to slur and his gait would become unsteady, and when that happened, we would politely tell him that it was time to go home, shaking our heads when he pointed at the beer taps. Most times, when this happened, he would slouch and stumble out, and the next time we would see him again would be a week later when we would repeat the routine.
We did this performance many times, but he would occasionally turn aggressive and swear at us, and we would hold firm until he gave up and left. We never held it against him; he was sad more than anything else. But then he came in on a day when we had security, got aggressive, and was picked up and thrown out. He came back a few minutes later, was thrown out again, and told to never come back. He returned a week later, and we shook our heads when he came in, and that was that.
I heard later that he was closeted, that he had been divorced, that he was an alcoholic, and that he had been forced to leave the police. I do not know, however, what order these things had come in or if and how they were related. The fact was that he was a sad man and that he had been something, had become something else, and was now a nothing, someone who used to be a person.
The last time I saw John the Sad Policeman was a few months after he had been barred. I was locked out of my flat so I called the security office, which had the keys to all the buildings. It was late at night, and cold, and it was fifteen or twenty minutes before a van pulled up.
John was inside. He got out and walked over to me but said nothing. Then he unlocked the door of the building, went to the door of my flat, unlocked that, turned, and left.
That was one of the sad and lonely people that I knew, and there were others. So many others. I knew mothers who had had their children taken from them, people afraid of families that had disowned them for being gay, widows and widowers whose one great achievement had been that they had been married. There was one talented singer I was friends with whose voice went and, fearing unemployment and homelessness, went home one night and killed himself. I went to the funerals of at least three of my regulars.
*
Among the sad and lonely people, there is a subset who are possibly the most poetic of all of them. They are always men since it is so hard for men to find someone to fall in love with them.
These are the Men Who Have Had One Relationship Too Many. Every bar has them, but you do not know that you are speaking to one of them until the time is right and they bloom sadly at you.
These were the guys you got speaking to late at night, in the moments before closing. The ones who can tell you about all the things that they had learned the hard way, who were waiting for an end that they had already accepted would be theirs. They usually revealed themselves among other sad men in the hour before closing, when many of their brethren had drifted off and they were lubricated enough to talk to you about the great tragedy of their life, which was usually a woman lost or gone.
There were plenty of Men Who Have Had One Relationship Too Many, and I can see them in every bar I go into. Maybe, one day, I will also be one of them. But the saddest of them I have met was at The Elmbank Hotel in York in 2002. Though he was not yet one of the Men Who Have Had One Relationship Too Many, he would be.
I had taken on the role of night porter over the summer. It was a mile or two from the city centre, and I would work there each night after leaving the York Arms. I would arrive at eleven, close the bar to the public, tidy the corridors and common areas, then wait until dawn when I would open the kitchen, order the papers, and turn on the lights. In between, I would look after anything needed by the residents. But, mostly, I read books or watched television.
We had two long-term residents, a couple. His name was David. I do not remember her name, only that they were living at the hotel while their new home was being built. They were in their fifties and stayed in a quiet room at the top of the annex building across the street. She was dying of cancer and did not have long left.
David had a true and honest love for his wife, and he was losing her. He came down each night to the resident’s bar after she had fallen asleep, and he and I would sit and talk about almost everything, but usually sports. The one subject we did not broach was his own life.
I stopped working at that hotel at the end of the summer and, when I left, David and I made a vague promise to stay in touch. A year or two after, I saw him late one night in the centre of the city. He was drunk and yelling at someone. I stopped and looked closely to see that it was him. He stared back but did not recognise me. I walked on and left him yelling in the street, and at himself, and for his ghosts.
*
There was no great end, no one-night-that-finished-everything for me when it came to that world. I got older and grew up some and gradually drifted out of it until one day I woke up and I was someone else entirely.
And there was no great lesson I learned from all these sad people, just many small-but-good ones. Those four to five years in that world did much to set my compass for the parts of my life that have followed.
What I did glean from that time is that I left it too soon in order to move on to other, more-respectable parts of life, the things that I should have been doing. It was the right thing, but I would, if given a time machine, head straight back to those years. I suspect, however, that age and distance have turned them into something better than they were.
The last, great bar that I was in during my twenties was the Melting Pot in Minami-Gyotoku, in the northwest corner of Tokyo. It is, I think, no longer there, and that is no surprise. Good things are often defined by the fact that they do not last.
It was the last few weeks before I headed back to the UK after a year teaching English, and I was spending that time sleeping on the floor of my friend’s apartment.
The place was a few hundred yards from Minami-Gyotoku station and up a few flights of stairs in a building recessed from the main street. It was dark inside and had a small entrance that led into two medium-sized rooms with a long bar that ran from the end of one to the bottom of the other. The beers it sold came in huge glasses that were kept, wet, in a freezer and, once filled, had ice the size and shape of rose petals that detached themselves and slid down your hands and wrists and onto the bar when you drank. The owner, a Canadian, had been in the navy but looked then like the guitarist in a Danish heavy metal band.
There was no real sadness in that bar, but it was full of people heading that way. Some trains are never on time, but they always arrive eventually. There were plenty in failing relationships, or just out of them, and there were those that were beginning to lose contact with their children and were scheming contrived legal strategies to regain access. I met the nephew of one famous writer there – or so he claimed – and he was headed in that direction, having not seen his daughter for six months.
That the Melting Pot was an expat bar in Asia meant that it was full of those who were teaching English as a foreign language. Some were there with the intention to teach for one year then return home. But there were also the lifers – those who had come in their early twenties and were now pushing into their mid- and late-thirties, with no family or career to show for their time there.
On one of my last nights there, I was drunk in the bar when the friend I was staying with introduced me to one of his colleagues. I talked some rubbish at her and her friend for a while, until we, my friend and I, left the place and stumbled back to his apartment.
I got home from Japan and, a few months later, that young woman was murdered by someone she had given an English lesson to. I did not realise it was her until my friend told me a week later. They had been good friends, and he had liked her a lot. He liked her so much that I was worried for a while that he might have become one of those sad men that you meet in places like that.
*
I live in Berlin now, and there are no good dive bars here. Or not any more since the city started changing. It is unrecognisable today to the one I stepped off a plane into. There were some good dive bars then, places like the Melting Pot. There was Hairy Mary’s and KDR and all these little places, run by the person standing behind their bars, that have since gone, dissipated. They do not really exist here anymore, at least not in the centre of the city, or Prenzlauer Berg. And down in Neukoln and F’Hain, the people there are too young. Give them twenty years and some pain and maybe they will get there. But maybe not. The city is changing so quickly and drastically that it seems there will be nothing broken or cracked or beautiful here two decades from now. The place is becoming shiny and clean, all symbols of success and wealth, and as ugly as you would expect.
*
T.S. Eliot said that with the end of our exploring comes our return to where we started and our knowing of the place for the first time, and he was right. Go on a journey through the world of dive bars and you do not so much change but get stripped down to your vital elements that are then matured, cauterised, and hardened to the world. It is a good education.
So let us do it then for every nineteen-year-old. Say to them: “Go out into the world and go into a dive bar. Let it educate you. But make sure that you engage. Whatever you do, do not leave yourself outside the door when you go in. Take in your authentic self, the part that you are still trying to develop, and introduce it to that world. And let that world try to change you, and it should, otherwise as an education it has no use. And when you think you have changed and grown enough, sit and change and grow some more for the hell of it, then maybe even continue if it feels good. You may not have a degree or something equally as tangible and insubstantial to hold on to, but you will have at least learned a real thing or two.”
Blaetarn, that were the name of our farm. It sat alongside Hadrian’s Wall, on the south side. If you looked to the north it were all bog across the borderlands, with a few scrappy alder and birch; no use for farming, that direction. The Scottish hills were off in the distance, when you could see ’em; as often as not, it’s murky and misty round here. Between the byre and the Roman wall were the Tarn: not more than a pond really, about a hundred yards long, and narrow. Nobody knew how deep it were.
I said our farm, but of course, it were Helen’s. She was left the farm by her father. It came along wi’ me, Joe the cowman. It were a lot for her to take on, her being widowed only a few months. Her man worked on the dams up north for some extra cash. He drowned in a September flood, compensation hard to come by back then, the seventies.
So it were just herself and the lad, Ollie. Only ten he were then. The farm didn’t bring in enough, see, even with the three of us working it. Money was tight.
That winter Ollie was ower little to be much help. I mind, I would be out at five to bring the beasts in, Helen joining me in the milking parlour, her hair – it were a deep red colour, same as Maureen O’Hara’s – tucked up under a paisley-patterned scarf. I would look over and she would give me a smile, her cheek pressed against the cow’s flank, warm and cosy. Then we would gan in to the farm kitchen for bacon and toast, afore I’d take Ollie in the van to the road-end for the school bus.
I had a little put by, and Helen took it as a loan, just until she got back on her feet. I started taking me meals at the farm, to make what little there was go further. And there was no thought of anything else, no matter what them in The Crown might say. But it was grand, just me and Helen and Ollie.
Though Helen would fret about the lad: how he would be quiet as a mouse and keep his own company, never any pals from the school or anything. Not that he were sullen or gie’d you lip, like some his age, but there were a sadness hung about him.
“Speak to him Joe,” she said. “He needs a man to take him in hand.”
I tried to show him the ropes around the farm, thinking one day he would take over. I reckoned, no matter what I might hope for, I would never be more than the cowman. But Ollie showed little interest in the stock, or the bit arable we had.
“Farming’s just a clarty cuddy-splatter of a life,” he’d say, giving a kick to a lump of turf, “and I’ll not be thinking of taking it up.” Then he would make off for the wall, loping along on those long legs of his. Try as I might, I couldn’t get him to snap out o’ it.
When the spring came, Helen got to thinking about how she could make a bit more. A footpath ran beside the wall; ramblers and the like would come by in the better weather.
“We could fix up the old barn,” she said, “put in some table and chairs, a counter, and I could bake and do teas for the walkers. We can provide a safe haven for the weary and footsore.” And, laughing, she took my hands in hers; soft they were, from handling the Herdwick fleeces.
I got out my old tools and knocked up a servery for her and fixed the door. I did my best, but I’m no carpenter. She came in and, laying down a box of crockery on a table, inspected what I’d done.
“Thanks, Joe,” she said. “You’ve put in a lot of effort.” She picked up the hammer, the shaft smooth and worn from use, and seemed to weigh it in her hand, a dreamy look on her. Daft, I know, but I got the idea for a moment she would just as easy smash up the whole lot.
But sure enough the teas did well. Come May there was steady business at the weekends, and that’s what brought him: Mike. He came with a dozen lads from some “progressive” school over Dumfries way, where he was a schoolmaster. “Classics,” he’d tell us later. “Latin and Greek,” he said, looking at me as if I wouldn’t know.
He were tall and lanky, wi’ a ponytail and a mousey-brown Mexican-type moustache. I can see him now, lounging on the bank overlooking the tarn, smoking, wearing flares and an old vest like what me grandpa would wear, but dyed pink. Ollie, who was helping out, had to traipse all the way from the barn to where he were sat, with what he called his golden youth gathered round on the grass. Like bleedin’ Jesus and the disciples.
Says he to Ollie, “Are there any fish in your tarn?”
Ollie stared at the ground. “Don’t know, nobody ever fished it,” he said.
One of the boys giggled. Ollie put down the tray and headed back inside.
When he came to pay, Mike asked Helen if she would mind him coming over to fish the tarn.
“A bit of water like that is bound to have something worth the effort. I could bring a rod for the lad too, if you like.”
“Be my guest,” she said, looking up from buttering scones, tucking her hair behind her ear with her little finger. She held her hand in his just a heartbeat too long when she gave him the change. “Ollie could do with a hobby,” she said.
And so he came the next Sunday, with two rods and tackle, still in the bag from Bairds of Gretna. Right enough, there were perch and rudd in the pond. Coarse fish: no eating in them, a waste of time to my mind.
But Ollie took to the angling, I’ll admit, and to Mike, too. I’d hear him whoop with excitement as he got into a fish, and they would chat away about which hook to put on, or where they might get some bigger worms, or nonsense like that.
“My young piscator,” he would call him, and he blathered on about the Greeks and their Trojan horse and how the Romans had made the tarn when they quarried stone out to build the wall. Ollie showed me a block of stone in the farmhouse gable-end that Mike said was a carving of the goddess of love, Venus, robbed from a Roman shrine.
“Ain’t that fab, Joe,” Ollie says. “Just think…in our own house. A goddess! When Mike first seen it, Joe, he said ‘How very apt.’ What does that mean, Joe?”
“It means he’s a bloody chancer,” I said, and got on with stacking the silage.
When Ollie heard Mike’s car horn peep in the yard, he’d rush out. There he would be, in this weird French job, like an egg box wi’ wheels; pictures of flowers and caterpillars, or some such, stuck all over it. It were a fright. Ollie would steer, sat on his lap, down to the midden and back, while Mike worked the pedals.
Mike would help with the customers, gabbing away and joking, especially with the lasses. But you’d never catch him in the scullery doing the washing up. Soon he started staying for his supper. I’d see the three of them sitting round the kitchen table when I headed out. Ollie told me sometimes they would go to the pictures in Carlisle on a Saturday, and he were left wi’ nowt but a ham sandwich and a glass of milk, and the telly for company. Mike left off the fishing too, from then on. “You’ve got the hang of it now, piscator,” he says to Ollie. “I’m more use helping your mother with the teas.”
*
One Sunday morning in October, I’m fixing my porridge, I hears a knock at the door. There’s Mike, in a dressing gown, wi’ nowt underneath, fag in hand.
“Hi Joe,” he says, giving me a corny smile. “Can I come in?”
“Bit of a mess,” says I, standing my ground.
“Well I just wanted a word,” he says. “It’s about Helen.”
“Yes,” says I. Looking at him standing there in the shit wi’ his bare feet.
“She’s in a bit of a state,” he says, looking over his shoulder towards the farmhouse. “You know we went to the flicks last night.”
“Ay.”
“Well, it sounds funny, but the film really upset her. It was a new horror – Don’t Look Now – with Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland, you know.”
“No I don’t,” I replied. “Don’t get to ‘the flicks’ much, wi’ the cows to tend an’ all.”
“’Well anyway, it was pretty scary. Their little girl drowns in the garden pond, and then they go to Venice, and…Well the main thing is the drowning. Helen freaked out, man. Inconsolable. She’s worried about Ollie you see.” He takes a drag of his cigarette. “I don’t need to tell you.”
“No, you don’t.” I says.
“Well, here’s where I think you come in. The only way I could calm her down was to say we would get rid of the tarn.”
“How do you propose to do that?” I asked.
“Drain it. Dig a drainage ditch with the tractor?”
“Ay, you could.”
“Well, I thought you could?”
“I might. But she would have to ask me herself.”
He looked at me funny then. Angry, I can tell, but I cared not, and he’s too cute to make anything of it. He needed me.
An hour or so later herself comes over, all lipsticked up. She sat on my sofa, playing with her hair, wrapping it round her fingers, like a twist of auburn rope; her eyes full of tears and cheeks pink and damp. Of course I agreed, how could I not?
I called me marra who had a digger shovel – only an idiot would try to tackle that job with just our tractor. By five o’clock, there was a channel four feet wide leading down from the tarn to the beck. I called Helen over to watch the tarn drained. The Citroen was still in the yard, but Mike never showed face. Ollie trailed behind her, and they stood on the bank watching us break through the last yard to the beck. The sky was hard and cold by then, and the evening star shining in the west.
There was a sudden noise, like the sigh of a great beast, as the water surged down the ditch. It don’t take but twenty minutes for the water to run out. On the bottom of the hollow there’s a carpet of brown, red, green, and orange.
“It’s like the earth has sprung to life,” I hear Helen whisper.
The bed of the tarn was a foot deep with dying fish squirming and flapping: perch, rudd, the odd pike, roach, and sticklebacks. You can hear them gasping for breath, their jaws click-clacking, jammed up against the neck of the pool. I jumped into the chill of the mud, up to my knees in slime and fish. I swung my mattock, cleared the blockage, the fish slipping and sliding like logs down a water chute. Helen stood hunched, arms crossed, hands tucked into the sleeves of her cardigan. It took two hours to shovel all those fish down the ditch – there’s no way we can leave them there to rot; the stink would have felled a horse.
When I came back towards the yard, I saw Ollie standing on the wall – the way he used to, before Mike came along. I go over and ask, “You alright, young un? Sad to see the end of the fishing, eh?”
“I’m not bothered. Got fed up wi’ it, anyway. You can’t eat them fish, you just have to put ’em back. What’s the point in that?”
So I leave him there, scopping stones off the wall, making slurping sounds as they hit into the mud. Next morning I set out to fetch in the beasts and, passing the empty hollow of the tarn, I see what looks like a bundle of sticks in the bottom. I walk in and pulls them out: two fishing rods, snapped in two, and beside them a tangle of lines and reels.
*
I’m in Lidl in Carlisle. It’s late afternoon, dark already outside. I see Helen in front of me in the checkout queue. She’s put on a couple of pounds, and there’s puffiness below the eyes; not surprising, after all, it were near fifteen years since. But bonny, yet.
I say hello. She tells me her and Mike are living down Penrith way. I ask after Ollie.
“Oh, Ollie’s in the icy wastes. Greenland.” She always had a way of putting things. “A marine biologist. Still mad about fish!” she says. “Not married yet…like yourself. He likes the lonely ocean. We rarely see him.”
“How about you?” she asks, checking she still has her place in the queue.
Not much to tell her, of course: still in the cottage; two owners of the farm since she sold up; the herd half the size it was.
“Oh well, that’s a sign of the times,” she says. “I think that’s me now,” she says, raking in her bag for her purse. “Lovely to see you, Joe.”
She pays at the till but turns back, her purse gaping open in her hand. “Joe, about Blaetarn…what I owe you…the money, I mean. Things were tough – we’re only just getting sorted. I’m sure you understand,” and she gives a little shrug. For a moment she frowns, glancing at my bit shopping jerking along the conveyor belt, like an unpleasant thought has crossed her mind. Then she smiles that smile, mouths thank you, and blows me a kiss like she’s nowt but a lass.
I think, as her face fades away into the darkening, that even now, she don’t know what a grown woman should.
She always did get Ollie wrong.
It weren’t the fish he cared about.
In 2019, I reconnected with an old friend of mine I had not seen in almost twenty years. After discovering I was now a published novelist, he reached out to me. We met for coffee and traded stories of what our lives had been like over the last two decades—the ups and downs.
He had a well-paid job he tolerated but wasn’t passionate about. However, he had a rich family life, which more than made up for any unhappiness at work. He had married sixteen years ago and now had two children, the oldest of whom was fifteen––his daughter.
“She’s actually why I wanted to talk to you,” he said.
Surprised, I asked why?
“She’s heartbroken, and I don’t know how to handle it; what advice I should give her.”
I asked what the advice related to. My friend paused a moment before speaking. “She wants to be a writer—a novelist—more than anything, but a teacher recently told her she should stick to something that doesn’t require so much concentration.” He looked at me before speaking again. “Writing a novel—it takes a lot of concentration, doesn’t it?”
I told him, yes, but so do most jobs. Why would a teacher tell a young girl not to pursue something just because it takes a lot of concentration?
That’s when my friend revealed his daughter has struggled in school most of her life, but it was only recently that she’d been diagnosed with a “pretty significant” learning disability, for which she’s now receiving help. “Her grades have improved slowly since then, but let’s be real, she’ll face challenges other kids won’t because of this—problems concentrating, problems remembering things. I know what her teacher said sounded blunt, but he was just trying to be realistic.”
My friend continued, “I mean, I imagine writing a novel is difficult enough without a learning disability, much less getting it published and being able to make a living as a writer. I love my daughter so much, and I want her to have the happiest life possible. But I also don’t want to encourage her to pursue something, let’s face it, that even most normal people wouldn’t be successful at.” He shook his head, perhaps realizing how that sounded. “I’m just torn between wanting to be a good father and telling her to pursue her passions versus wanting to be a responsible father and being honest and realistic about possibilities.”
I looked at him in silence.
“And, well,” he said, “I already have an educator’s opinion, and I guess I just wanted to get a novelist’s. What do you think?”
For several moments, I sat soundlessly, considering all he’d told me. Then, quite involuntarily, a quiet laugh slipped from between my lips, and a thin smile spread across my face––much to my friend’s perplexion.
But instead of relating what I replied, I’m going to address his daughter here directly, and every person out there who has any kind of learning disability and is afraid that means they can’t accomplish their dreams of becoming a writer. And I’m qualified to address the circumstance they find themselves in because I’m no different than they are. So, to my friend’s daughter (and everyone like us):
So, you have a learning disability? Welcome to the club. There’s a lot of us, and we’re always happy to accept new members.
Like you, I’ve had a lifelong desire to write and become a novelist. And like you, I was diagnosed with a “significant” learning disability when I was fifteen. I know what it’s like to read and study, only to forget everything when you sit down for a test. I know what it’s like to have teachers accuse you of being lazy or being a liar, not believing you when you say you’ve studied for hours yet can’t remember a thing. And I also know what it’s like, after being diagnosed, for those same teachers to not apologize for not believing you, instead pivoting to saying you need to choose “realistic” career paths now because your learning disability limits your options. One teacher once even told me: “Normal people have enough challenges, much less people with learning disabilities.”
So, as someone who’s been living with your exact condition for almost three decades longer than you, I feel I have the expertise to reveal that, these teachers? They’re wrong. Your learning disability shouldn’t stop you from pursuing any professional career––much less writing. People who tell you it should, whether they are doing so out of cautious kindness or ignorant stigma, are wrong. People who say that because of a learning disability, you aren’t “normal” and thus couldn’t possibly have what it takes to write a novel––they’re wrong.
As if being “normal”––whatever that means––is the singular requirement to put words to paper.
Besides, “normal” people don’t write novels. Writing a novel is long and hard and full of self-doubt and even self-hatred. And the normal person, that is, the typical person, can’t put up with that––not for long, anyway––which is why comparatively so few people ever attempt or complete a novel. It’s only the abnormal person who can persevere. An “abnormal” person like you. I know this about you because you have already persevered. Your dad tells me you still show up every day and sit at your desk and do the writing despite any supposed limitations your learning disability has thrown at you.
But being a writer isn’t just about perseverance. When it comes to novel writing, the fact that you aren’t “normal” isn’t a curse. It’s a blessing. How? Because it’s our struggles that give us a unique view of the world––a way of seeing it like no one else can. And that unique view is the foundation for what makes a great novelist because writing a great novel is all about lending the reader a new set of eyes through which they can see the world afresh. How could a normal person, who by definition doesn’t have a unique perspective, do that?
Don’t believe me? Maybe you’ll believe these people then: Octavia E. Butler, John Irving, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jules Verne, Lewis Carroll, Agatha Christie, Ernest Hemingway, Roald Dahl, Charles Bukowski, Mark Twain, Roberto Bolaño, and Virginia Woolf—just to name a few.
These writers have two things in common: they fundamentally affected the world through their fiction, lending us new eyes with which to see it—and they all had learning disabilities, just as you and I do. They all also wrote better than ninety-nine percent of the people who ever lived—yes, even the so-called “normal” ones. And I would argue they wrote better because, like you, their so-called disabilities helped in part to inform their unique view of the world. It helped give them a one-of-a-kind way of seeing it, and thus they gave readers a new way of seeing it, too. And we remember them for that––for the eyes they lent us; for their brilliance that, at least, wasn’t hindered by their learning disabilities and, more likely, was only aided by it. So, I’ll leave you with this last bit of advice (and I apologize to your dad in advance for my language here): if anyone tells you you shouldn’t follow your dream of becoming a novelist because of your learning disability, smile at them, nod, and then in your head tell them to go fuck themselves. Then get back to your writing. We don’t see others as they are; we see them as we are. When someone tells you you can’t do something, all they mean is they can’t do it.
Your experiences and the challenges life sends you give you a unique way of seeing things. That in itself is a gift—and a gift I hope you will share with the rest of us through your writing. I, for one, can’t wait to read it.
[Epilogue: I originally wrote this essay in 2019. I dug it up again because I recently spoke to my friend. He gave me an update on his daughter. A short story she wrote has just won her school newspaper’s literary award. It’s a short story she wrote the summer after her teacher told her she didn’t have the concentration needed to be a writer.]
Patrick Bateman is sweet on me. I know, I know. He’s not my usual type, believe me. He’s conceited, shallow. Psycho, I guess. I’m not his usual type either. He’s all “hardbodies” and “great looking – blonde, big tits,” and my tits aren’t all that big. But he’s sweet on me all the same. He’s brought Cristal, and when he sees I have champagne glasses out already (Waterford, from my mother) he is angry with himself for being predictable. I act bored with the Cristal but truthfully the most expensive champagne I’ve had here-to-fore is Asti Spumante and that isn’t even champagne, just sparkling wine. I have J&B for him, of course, even though everyone knows Glenfiddich is better. The glass is Baccarat. It’s the only one like it I have. I ask him how was the concert, knowing he didn’t want to go (he hates live music) and he monologues at length about what everyone was wearing, a litany of late 1980s designers some of whom no longer even exist. He’s in a panic about not having reservations but I hand him my cell phone (of which he is quite jealous though he won’t say) and have him make (thoroughly unnecessary) reservations at the new Japanese place. “Not hibachi,” he warns me. “Obviously,” I say. He is ostentatious, making the reservations. You don’t have to talk to people like that, not on this side of the river, in Illinois.
Last month it was Dickens’ Sydney Carton. Poor Sydney, I took him back over and over, knowing how it would end, no matter how many alternatives there may have been. Finally such self-sacrifice was too much to endure.
Briefly, it was Scarlett O’Hara, and no one could have been more surprised than I. No wonder she did so poorly with men.
My first was Prince Caspian. He’d show up, out of the blue, try earnestly to engage my parrot in conversation and then give up, complaining the bird was making fun of him. It was hard to go in public with him, as he never could tell the difference between a Talking Animal and a regular one. Hint: There are no Talking Animals in America. He was kind, though, and brave and annoyingly chivalrous. When I told him it was over, I found myself walking into doors I was so accustomed to having someone open them for me.
And now here I am with Patrick Bateman in my house. He’s amazed by the technology I casually use. I won’t tell him about selfies or Facebook and surely not about XXXclusive. I keep it mysterious. He thinks I’m a spy. I don’t know how long this will last.
It had never been a great job – you know, one in which you came home each day full of the satisfaction of doing what you had always wanted to do, one in which you have found your joy, what you were meant to be doing on this earth. It had never been that sort of job, but it had been one that I’d made my own – got good at. It’s not anyone that could’ve organised pressboard supplies so that they turned up on site at exactly the moment they were needed – it takes logistical skill, knowledge of the manufacturing process, and an oracle-like understanding of the road system, where and when it would be congested.
My legacy would never be more than a stack of neatly folded Michelin maps and some satisfied customers who were pleased that their pressboard arrived on time and in the right place.
But despite this, it had been my job; I did it well, and it had kept me and put food on the table for the family, and we’d had a nice holiday once a year.
Some to whom I spoke said Gorman had come in via a sideways move from Sales. Others, that he’d parachuted in from Accounts. Some even said he’d walked in off the street and had gone into the empty office on the fourth floor and had been there ever since and no one had asked him where he had come from, or what he was doing there. Tony Murgatroyd, the section head, said not to worry. He’d checked with head office and it was all perfectly normal and just to carry on as if he weren’t there unless he asked to speak to us, in which case, we were to answer his questions and nothing else. We were not to ask him questions, and we were certainly not to go into his office.
I had the suspicion he was one of these “consultants” that companies drafted in to make studies of efficiency – see where they could cut costs and save some money. I wasn’t worried about my own job, but for some of the younger members of the team it might be last in first out, as they say.
Gorman’s office had a frosted glass door and often, when I walked past to make a coffee or get a cup of water, I would see the dark shape of him as he sat at his desk near the big window that looked out over the staff car-park. That shape never seemed to be moving. I mean, not even the sort of fidgeting that everybody does even when they’re trying to sit still. I stood outside for ten minutes once, and he never moved.
“You all right, Phil?” Tony Murgatroyd said when he saw me, all smiles and expensive cologne.
“He doesn’t move,” I said.
“Doesn’t he?” Tony said as if it were the first time anyone had mentioned it. “He doesn’t need to move, I suppose. He’s got us running around after him.” He laughed, but I could tell he was faking it. I notice things like that – fake emotions, false smiles, and so on. Always have done – I was a very sensitive child. I could always tell if my parents had been arguing and my father had lost his temper. They never said anything, but I knew. That’s how I knew Tony wasn’t comfortable with Gorman being there – he knew something that he hadn’t told me.
*
It had to happen sooner or later; Tony said it would. One of us would get called into Gorman’s office to answer his questions.
It was a Friday morning and I was making sure the weekend deliveries were all sorted out; I didn’t like having to come in at weekends to sort out problems. Weekends were the only time I got to see the kids.
I saw Helen from Resourcing going down to Gorman’s office at the end of the corridor. I stuck my head out of my office and saw her open Gorman’s frosted glass door and go inside. I’d never seen him myself, but I imagined him to be a slight man to judge by the shape I had seen sitting at the desk through the glass, unmoving.
I was keeping an eye on the door to Gorman’s office all morning, but I didn’t see Helen from Resourcing come out. Later, I wandered past the door and saw that familiar shape, sitting motionless at the desk in the light of the window that looked out over the staff car-park.
“Anyone seen Helen?” I asked when I went to make coffee in the kitchen.
“Helen?” someone said. “In her office, I expect.”
“Thanks,” I said. I didn’t know Helen really well but, apart from Tony, she was one of the only other people I spoke to on a regular basis. She worked in a small office on the other side of the room – not really an office, more of a glorified cubicle made from demountable walls that had a gap at the top.
I wanted to know what had happened in Gorman’s office, so I thought I’d take her a coffee over as an excuse. I sometimes did that if I wanted to talk to someone – brought them a coffee.
I knocked on the door and said, “Helen, I’ve brought you a coffee if you want one,” and waited.
“That’s kind of you, Phil. Come in,” she said. “Just pop it on the desk, would you?” She had her back to me facing the computer with a large, complicated spreadsheet on the screen.
I put the coffee down on her desk. “Two sugars, how you like it…By the way, how did it go?”
“How did what go?” she replied, still fiddling with the spreadsheet.
“Your interview with Gorman. What’s he like?”
She swivelled her chair around to face me, smiling pleasantly.
She looked like Helen, but it was someone else.
It was like when you were watching a TV programme and saw an actor you thought you knew and then, when you read the credits, it wasn’t who you’d thought it was at all but some other actor that sort of looked like them, and you realised they’d been chosen for the part because they looked like the more famous actor who you’d thought it was…or something like that. It’s difficult to explain.
The woman at the desk looked like Helen, but it wasn’t her. She picked up the coffee and took a sip. “Ooh, hot,” she said still smiling. “The interview was fine, thanks. I think he’s looking to make some cuts. Better make sure you’re absolutely indispensable, Phil. He’s very efficient. Going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. Thanks for the coffee, by the way.”
“What sort of cuts do you think?” I said.
“I don’t know. Listen, have you seen this new logistics software? It’s state of the art.”
I started backing away. “No, sorry, I haven’t. See you later.” I had an overwhelming desire to get out of there. There was something odd about the new “Helen”. I wanted be away from her – she was…unwholesome.
As I walked back to my office, I saw the others looking at me as I passed. They were going to talk about me when I’d gone. People often did that.
I sat with the door closed and listened to the sounds from outside; the phones ringing and the voices talking, somebody laughing – probably about the look on my face when I’d come out of “Helen’s” office.
Was this the famous midlife crisis I’d heard about? Instead of wearing unsuitable clothes or buying a Harley Davidson, I’d started imagining things that hadn’t happened. Maybe it was a kind of waking daydream or perhaps those laughing bastards had put something in my coffee as a joke – some hallucinogen so that they could all laugh a bit more at me. I’d heard of that happening.
It was the usual story. People just found it amusing to play tricks on me. Like the time they’d glued my personal coffee cup to the worktop in the kitchen – very funny. Or when they’d set off the fire alarm when they knew I was suffering from a stomach upset in the toilet. All very amusing and, of course, you have to be a good sport about it. To do otherwise would only encourage them. I’d learned that at school. Good one, guys. You got me there.
There was another explanation that I didn’t want to contemplate, but it existed nevertheless.
Perhaps it was really happening.
Perhaps the old Helen had been replaced by the new “Helen”. She went into Gorman’s office and something had happened whilst she was in there and a different Helen had come out. Sounded like science fiction, but maybe…
The sure way to find out would be to just go down to Gorman’s office myself and see him. That way I could get a good look at him and make a judgement about what type of person he was. I had always been a good judge of character, even if I say so myself. I resolved to do just that.
I strode towards the frosted glass door and carried some manifests under my arm to provide an excuse for going in.
I was about to grab the door handle and knock when Tony Murgatroyd shouted, “No, Phil.”
“What?” I said, my hand poised, about to rap on the glass. “Why?”
Tony reached me from the main work area and gently turned me away from the office. “He’s not there now.”
“Yes, he is,” I said. “I can see him. Look.” I indicated the motionless form behind the desk, lit by the big window that overlooked the staff car-park.
“No, no. That’s just the chair. He left early today.”
The others were all looking at me now, and I sensed I’d broken some unwritten rule that they were all aware of and, as usual, nobody had bothered to tell me.
“Why don’t you let me take a look at those manifests. We can go to your office. Come on.”
He steered me firmly back to my own office. Tony didn’t mention Gorman again and seemed pointedly light-hearted as though trying to smooth things over. I wanted to ask him about Gorman, but he didn’t let me get a word in edgeways.
That evening I waited until all the others had gone to pass by Gorman’s office. I put my hand on the door handle and pushed against it very slightly. The door was locked.
In the car park there was only one other car, parked some distance away. I threw my briefcase and raincoat in the back seat of my own car and went to get into the driver’s side. Did I need to go to the supermarket to buy something for dinner? I glanced up, trying to visualise what was in the fridge, and saw something that put all thoughts of an evening’s meal out of my head.
In the window of Gorman’s fourth floor office, at the very edge of the frame, was a pale blob that could have only been a human face. There were the merest smudges of shadow for the eyes and a tight, thin line for the lips with a slight hint of a smile. The ears protruded on either side and the head appeared to be completely bald. As I watched, the head receded into the shadows of the room and I lost sight of it.
Was that Gorman? At this distance it was difficult to tell, but I had the distinct and oddly precise impression of a piece of window dressing; of moving a mannequin around. It was something about the rigid pose, and the pale skin tone.
I thought that maybe I had made a mistake, but I counted the windows along from the edge of the building – yes, it had been Gorman’s window.
I waited a few moments more, half in, half out of the car, but the pale mannequin face didn’t appear again.
When I got home, I poured myself a stiff drink and forget about dinner. Things began to add up: Gorman’s arrival and seeming mysterious function within the team, Helen’s change from the one I knew to the one I didn’t, and Tony’s strange behaviour when I’d tried to go into Gorman’s office. That, and the sense I had that everyone knew a secret except me, led me to believe that something was going on at work. Maybe a change of management style, replacing dissenting staff with those more amenable to the new way of doing things. I remembered Helen always speaking her mind to management in the past. Didn’t worry me. I wasn’t going to make waves. As I said, even though it wasn’t a great job, it was all I had – and I was good at it.
I saw the kids on Sunday.
I think they might be getting a bit too old for the park now. They just sat there on the bench with their heads in their phones.
“How’s school?” I tried
“Fine.”
“You mum’s all right?”
“Fine, Dad.”
“Did you know my new boss looks like a shop dummy?”
“No, Dad.”
“I think he might be disabled in some way. He never moves.”
“Can we go to McDonald’s now?”
“Okay.”
*
On Monday morning, I went in to work early to see Gorman arrive, but it looked like he was already there. There was that shape at the desk through the frosted glass door. I found it slightly unsettling being alone with him in the building, even though he wasn’t likely to come out and, after the other day, I certainly wasn’t going to go in and see him. He must’ve have known I was there; he would have heard me even if he hadn’t seen me pass down the corridor. I went to my own office and hoped he didn’t want to see me. Although, if he didn’t come out, he wouldn’t be able to let me know. He could have shouted, I suppose.
Soon the others started arriving and the feeling faded. I saw the new “Helen” from Resourcing in the kitchen where she was making coffee. I lingered long enough to see that she didn’t put even one sugar in her coffee. There was proof if I needed it – she was different.
I saw Tony by the water cooler a little later. He was just standing there looking at it as though he was lost somewhere in his own mind.
“Are you all right, Tony?” I said. “You seem a bit distracted.” I was getting my own back for when he did the same to me the other day.
“Yes, yes,” he said without tearing his eyes away from a small hole in the wall where someone had once tacked a notice about not refilling water bottles from the cooler because it was unhygienic. “He wants to see me…later.”
“How do you know?” I said.
He fished a small piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. I unfolded it. I want to see you – at four o’clock, it said. I felt sorry for Tony. He was obviously perturbed by the idea of having to go into Gorman’s office. I couldn’t blame him.
“It’s probably nothing,” I said. “He wants to talk to you about something silly, like a stationery order.”
He looked at me with what I would have said was a species of pity. The way you might look at a small child to whom you’d been made to promise some impossible thing.
“I don’t think it’s the stationery order, Phil,” he said, and put his hand on my arm.
“Don’t go then,” I said. “Go home now. I’ll cover for you if you want. We’ll call the police – tell them Gorman’s replacing us all with doubles.”
Tony smiled a twitching, desperate smile. “Thanks, Phil. You’re a good man, but that’s not going to be possible.” He crushed the paper cup in his fist and dropped it into the wastebasket, then he walked hurriedly back to his office and closed the door. I thought I might have heard him crying.
I looked around at the others who were getting on with their jobs, not looking up, knowing that they were unable to do anything to help. It would happen to all of us sooner or later, we knew that. I wondered what Tony had done to warrant a trip to Gorman’s office.
I saw him just before the end of the day. He seemed perfectly normal; happy even – except, of course, it wasn’t really Tony. It looked like him, but it wasn’t.
“Keeping you on your toes, is he?” I said as heartily as I could manage but there was sadness in my voice. The Tony I had known was gone for good.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Phil,” he said. “Mr. Gorman is a very reasonable man and it’s a pleasure to work for him. Let me take a look at that paperwork, will you, before you go.”
“Sure, Tony,” I said. “As you want.”
I exchanged looks with the rest of the team. They averted their eyes from mine. They knew any one of us might be next. Everyone needed the job. “Maybe we could’ve done something to stop it,” I said and walked away to get the manifests.
Gorman must have heard about what I’d said, because the next day I found a tiny piece of folded paper in my coffee cup. It said, My office, four o’clock, Friday.
I didn’t tell the others; I didn’t try to elicit any sympathy from them because I knew that they didn’t care. They were just glad it wasn’t one of them.
No one else went into Gorman’s office all week. On Thursday night, I phoned my wife and asked to speak to the kids. I told them that after tomorrow, they might notice some small changes in me when they saw me at the weekend.
“Are you having cosmetic surgery?” one said.
“No, not that,” I replied.
“Oh.”
“I didn’t want you to worry if I seemed a little different, maybe a little happier.”
“Okay, fine. See you then.”
I spent Friday morning doing my job to the best of my ability – there was no reason to slacken off. And then I pondered that perhaps I would still be here but with a new mindset, a new outlook on life – that would be all right. I needed a new mindset, that was for sure. Maybe the transformation would inspire me, persuade me my life wasn’t that bad after all and, with a bit of work, I might get the family back together again.
As four o’clock approached, the office took on an expectant atmosphere, as though something big were going down. People were tense – excited almost. I suppose they wondered what was going to happen to old Phil Benson the weirdo.
With thirty seconds to go, I picked up some papers from my desk, walked down the corridor to Gorman’s office, and opened the door.
Gorman’s chair was facing the big window that looked out over the staff car-park. I couldn’t see his face.
“Mr. Gorman?” I said. “You wanted to see me?”
He didn’t reply but continued facing the window, and I continued to stand there – waiting for him to acknowledge me. Then it occurred to me that perhaps he had been taken ill and couldn’t turn around. From the one glimpse I’d had of him, he had looked very pale.
“Are you feeling okay?” I asked. He still gave no reply. Then, the chair slowly began to turn to face me.
In the chair was a mannequin – just the top half. The surface was cracked and the end of the nose was broken off. The painted eyes were mostly worn away. Its arms were set in a graceful pose, like a ballet dancer, and the unnaturally long fingers of the hand were poised as if to pick something up from the desk.
Around the neck was a sign, printed out on a piece of A4 that said, GOTCHA! in big, black capitals.
I heard laughter at the door and turned to see Tony, Helen, and all the others standing there wetting themselves. Bob from Accounts was taking a picture.
“Got you good, Phil,” Tony said through his mirth.
“Your face, Phil,” Helen said. “It’s a picture.”
I turned back to face the desk and saw Andy Burnham from Sales just crawling out from underneath – he, too, was laughing fit to bust.
“You’re a good sport, Phil,” Tony said. “Andy had wanted to do the voice, but I said that was just too much. No hard feelings.”
At last, I realised it was too late. The substitution was complete. I was the only original left. I had to act now.
*
The police had used a taser on me, the nurse said. That’s why all my muscles ache. He said not to worry though, and gave me something to relax me. I asked if Tony Murgatroyd was in the same hospital, but the nurse said he was in a different one.
It is very calming here, that’s for sure. In fact, I haven’t felt this relaxed for a very long time. It’s like a great worry has been lifted from my back.
I suppose Gorman really did help me – gave me a new mindset, a new enthusiasm for life. I can’t understand now why I was so against it. Gone are those worries about the kids, the job, my marriage. It’s all just plain sailing now.
I’ve decided to write a letter to Gorman and thank him for his intervention (They said I can have as much paper and as many felt tips as I want.) Without him, I’d still be there, doing that job that wasn’t my joy or my vocation, carrying on because of the money, because of the kids, because of the responsibilities.
Now I’m going to get on, and really begin to live life.
I work like this – from the streets and corners.
As a Palestinian, it’s one way we operate.
One foot in and one foot out.
“I wish someone would save me from this unhappiness,” I say.
Bitterness sits in the corner. She rolls her eyes and they sparkle and she says, “Urgh, the drama! I love it.”
Bitterness, the bitch, has me in her clutches. She’s the cave around me, dripping into my hair and the ground beneath me, poking into my arse and back. She’s the darkness and the plug and the gag and the anger.
I stare at her, point blank. She’s brown like me which feels even more unfair. Her nails are long and pointed. I mean painted.
I don’t know what I mean.
Her fingers are elegant. She’s taller than me but only by an inch, so our eyeline can never properly meet in balance.
She taps her weave, the one I’m too cowardly to admit that I wanted first. I want to scream at her and to be taken into her arms and for us to be together forever and to never see her again.
“Fight me,” she says.
I don’t.
I want to but can’t. I can but won’t. I could, but why?
There’s something so seducing about her presence. She’s frightening and beautiful and dangerous to me and me alone. I stare at her body, studying it up and down, licking my lips. It’s obscured by the darkness. Her darkness. Maybe it’s ours. From one angle, she’s voluptuous and thick and juicy. I blink and then she’s like a hanger: skin and bones hanging on a rail, squeezed by all that’s around her.
I want to be saved from this unhappiness.
But sometimes I don’t hate when she’s here. I crave her time and her attention and energy.
“Please stay,” I say.
And I hate myself more.
“You’re weak,” she says.
She’s right.
I don’t want this unhappiness, I think.
But some days I wonder whether I bring it on myself.
Her mum buys her two new pairs of jeans and gives her the credit card, but only for emergencies. Her grandmother sends her a jumper in the post and two pairs of socks that she has knitted herself because she’s going to Austria and it’s cold there.
Her dad calls her on the way to the airport. He’s sorry – they thought she wasn’t leaving until next week. The semester dates are earlier there, she explains. He says that he and Fiona were going to send a cheque, but it’s too late now anyway. They’ll email her a picture of the twins soon. When the weather’s better, they’re going to get professional shots taken in the garden by Fiona’s friend.
She hangs up. She is not sure what to do with a cheque, even if he had sent one.
*
She hasn’t been on a plane since she was ten, when they went to Disney World. She has forgotten the pressure of take-off, the sensation of being forced back into her seat. She remembers it being smoother than this, the bit in the middle when they have reached their height.
“You do not like flying,” says the man next to her, gesturing to her hand gripping the seat rest between them. He is south Asian, grey hair at his temples.
“I’m just not used to it,” she says.
“You are going on holiday?” he asks. “Tell me about it, take your mind off the flight.”
“No,” she says. “I’m studying abroad.”
“How nice,” he says. He never got to do anything like that when he was her age. His children didn’t study abroad when they were at university either. He talks at her about his children until the drinks service appears. She is about to ask for one of the small bottles of wine, rosé if they have it, but then she sees that people on the other side of the aisle are pulling out their cards to pay.
It must have been free when they went to Disney World she thinks, remembering the plastic trays of food. She doesn’t think her mum would have paid for it.
She nods no thanks when the air hostess gets to her.
*
In Innsbruck airport she follows the signs for EU passports. Then, when the last person in front of her has stepped through the electronic barriers and she is being waved through by an official on the other side, she realises this might be the wrong queue for her. She pauses, and the official waves again, saying something brusquely in German that she can’t catch.
She walks forward. She holds her passport up to the electronic reader. An egg timer appears on the screen, turning over and over, and then a big green tick, and then the barrier opens. She takes a train to a tram, and then she has to walk across campus to an office to get the key to her room.
She doesn’t understand the man behind the desk. He is wearing round glasses with very thin frames, and he talks at her for a long time until she realises that he is expecting an answer.
“Was?” she asks. He shakes his head, as though she is an annoyance.
He gives her a plastic binder of papers and booklets, and a key card. He draws her a map on a piece of lined A4 to explain how to get to her room. He takes a different colour biro and draws a dotted line from where they are to her room. Then he turns the biro over and retraces the route with the bottom of the pen, talking to her very slowly. She understands about half.
“Alles gut?”
It’s easier just to nod.
*
Her first class is three days after she arrives. Post-world war Austrian literature. The course instructor is a woman about her mum’s age. She is very thin. She walks around the classroom with a limp, giving out copies of the syllabus.
One of the main texts they are going to study is a book she has already read in English.
Everyone else in the class seems to know each other. They drift off in groups after it ends.
Later she gets a text from her mum. Hope the first class went well!! :) Remember I can take the jeans back when you come home in the summer if they don’t fit, just keep the tags on xxx.
She reads the rest of the papers in the plastic binder the man gave her on the first day. One seems to say that she can change classes if she wants to.
She goes to the building where she thinks she can do this. She waits in line to talk to people behind a glass-enclosed counter. One becomes free, and she walks up to it. The woman on the other side does not smile.
She holds up the brochure that she thinks says she can switch classes. She flicks to the page with the class that she wants to take. She points to it. She says – she thinks she says – that she wants to change from her history class to a journalism option, taught in English.
She is there for almost two hours. When she leaves, she is still unsure if she has changed classes.
*
She goes to both classes for the next two weeks, just to make sure. Then the journalism teacher asks why she is there and she knows she doesn’t have to go back.
*
She goes to Lidl and buys five kilograms of pasta and as many tins as she can carry. She eats alone most nights in her room. She is sharing the kitchen with other people but they rarely seem to be around. She has only seen two of the others on her corridor.
One of the first weekends, one of them is in the kitchen eating eggs on Sunday morning. She forces herself to go in and say hello. He is a doctoral student, visiting from a university in Iran. Would she prefer they speak in English?
“Yes,” she says.
He smiles.
*
Her mum texts. Elizabeth had the baby a boy very cute!! :) Is it still snowing there? xxx.
Elizabeth is her cousin. She hasn’t seen her since she was about eight. All she can remember is that she had a nose piercing and smelt like she hadn’t washed.
She hasn’t seen any snow since she arrived.
*
There is a TV room in the basement of the dorms, next to the laundry room. She goes down to watch it most nights.
One night there is a report about migrants in a camp in Greece. There is a long interview with a woman holding a small child, crying. Her words are dubbed into German. She only understands about half what the woman says. Something about a son, not knowing where he is.
*
The other people on her corridor – on the rare occasions that she sees them – all seem to be older. She talks to one of the women one morning, about a month after her arrival. The woman has just come from the shower and is wrapped in two towels, one around her head and one around her body.
“I’m sorry they stuck you with all of the postgraduate students,” she says. “You should be with other people on exchange like you. You must have bad luck.”
They talk in English. She is from Germany, visiting for a few months to work in a laboratory as part of her PhD. Something to do with rats, and their livers. The towel falls down as they talk, revealing the top of one of her nipples. She doesn’t seem to notice.
*
There is a new girl in her Austrian literature class, also on exchange.
She is from Vermont, her name is Susie, and she is a month late getting here because her father had a heart attack and she wanted to stay with him while he recovered. He almost died she says, at an Italian restaurant in front of the whole family. Have you ever known anyone who almost died, right in front of you like that?
She shakes her head and says no.
*
She talks to her mum on Skype after Neil at work downloads it for her onto her phone. Neil is nice, her mum says, but he is always banging on about Brexit. He has bought an EU flag and sewn it onto his backpack.
“Honestly, what is the fuss,” her mum says. “It’s over, it happened, they should just get on with it.”
She tells her mum about Susie.
“That’s nice,” her mum says. “Is she loud? Americans are always loud.”
*
Susie says that they should go to a coffee shop after class because coffee shops in Austria are divine and doesn’t she want to try all of the pastries that she can?
They have hot chocolates and share some sort of cream thing that Susie knows the name of. Her half of the bill costs the same as all of her Lidl pasta. The café is full of old people with wrinkles around their lips and mauve hair.
Does she have a boyfriend who will come to visit her? Susie asks. Or a girlfriend?
“No, no boyfriend,” she says.
Susie has a boyfriend. He is pre-med and might come to stay for Easter, and then they might go to Italy to ski; they haven’t decided yet. She nods. She doesn’t know what pre-med means.
*
They have to write two essays for the literature class. She writes the first one on the book she has read in English. She uses Google Translate a lot. She gets a B.
*
Susie has met other exchange students through an international club that seems to meet at the on-campus bar weekly. She had no idea it existed. Susie takes her one week and introduces her to everyone personally around the long table with their name and one very specific fact about them. Pablo – Mexico – four sisters – can you imagine being the only boy with four sisters?! Steven – Australia – he doesn’t know how to swim. How is that even possible?! He’s from an island!
Everyone speaks English, even people on exchange from Mexico, and France, and Sweden. They meet there every Thursday, and the beer is cheap, cheaper even than Lidl pasta.
*
She stops going to the TV room so much.
*
Susie likes to swim, so they go to the pool on campus twice a week with Sophie from Paris and Irene from San Sebastián. Admission is free for students if they go before ten. Sometimes Neculai, the Romanian with the almost-monobrow, joins them.
“You are from England?” he asks her, confused. “But why do you learn German now? Now you don’t need it?”
*
Susie organises a tour for all of the exchange students. They meet on a Saturday morning and take a bus into the city from campus. Susie leads them on a walking tour of the city that she seems to have on an app on her phone. They stop at two coffee shops in the morning, to warm up from the cold outside.
She has a small coffee at the first one. She sits next to Agnieszka, from Poland, who orders a hot chocolate that comes with whipped cream and a whole chocolate flake.
They have a guided tour in the afternoon in German with a tour guide who has a bad lisp. She understands some of it, even with the lisp, which makes her think her German might be getting better, but she’s at the back of the group and she can’t hear very well. They walk for hours, out to one of the palaces and through a big park and then end up back at the city hall.
Susie doesn’t seem to have a plan after this. The group mills around, sitting on the walls of the fountain outside. There are posters outside city hall, pictures of mostly men, smiling in suits. One of the French boys says that there are elections soon.
“What do you think about your President?” Pablo says to Susie, jokingly. Susie says she doesn’t like to talk about politics.
*
The weather gets warmer. She sits on the grass outside the library after the literature class one day with Susie and Maria, from Sweden.
“We need to talk to more Austrian people,” says Susie. “No Austrians came on the trip. I came all this way and I don’t have any Austrian friends! I want an Austrian boyfriend – I want him to take me to meet his family at some cabin in the mountains and cook me schnitzel.”
She wonders what happened to pre-med.
*
Her dad emails the picture of the twins. They are sitting on the grass, in matching sailor shirts and blue shorts. One has a bow in its hair.
He says that he hopes she’s doing well. He says that he spoke to her mum and she says she’s happy. He says she will have to come and visit in the summer when she’s back to see the twins, she won’t believe how big they are now.
But I can see how big they are, she thinks. You sent me a picture.
*
Her pasta runs out so she goes back to Lidl with Maria. Maria has a big shopping cart, the kind with wheels that grannies have. They buy enough food that Maria does not think they will need to do another trip before they leave.
It takes them ages to get home. Maria is in a different set of flats, on the other side of campus. They drop off Maria’s stuff first and then go back to her dorm. Maria helps her unpack the shopping. There is no one in the kitchen.
Maria is from Mälmo. Does she know where that is? She says no. Maria says it used to be nice but now it is so full of immigrants she doesn’t feel safe anymore. She isn’t being racist, she explains, they just don’t understand what it means to be Swedish.
*
Her mum texts. It is a picture of two pairs of running shorts, lined up on the couch. They were on sale in Aldi do you want me to send you them? xxx.
*
The next week Susie brings three Austrian boys to the international club meet up. They are from her Globalisations class, she says. Two of them sit at the far end of the table and don’t speak very much. The third one speaks very good English. His name is Mikkel. Susie takes him around the group, person to person, like she did with her the first time she met them all. Susie advances up the line closer and closer to her (Xu, Hong Kong, speaks five languages, isn’t that amazing? Pierre, France, played for the French under-12s football team. Sophia, Luxembourg, distantly related to European royalty.) She wonders what fact Susie will use when she reaches her.
Susie tells Mikkel her name, that she is from England, and then just says that she is the first person she met here, before she knew anyone else.
*
Susie doesn’t come to the literature class the next week.
“Do you think she is seeing Mikkel?” Maria asks her at the pool one day. She says she doesn’t know. “I thought you were friends,” Maria says.
*
She watches more TV in the TV room. Sometimes she walks across campus to Maria’s room to watch Netflix with her because Maria has an account.
*
Susie brings Mikkel back to the international club the week after. They are definitely together.
*
Susie mostly stops coming to the literature class. After she has not been to class for a few weeks, she emails. I’m in the MOUNTAINS, at his parents CABIN, and there are GOATS and COWS WITH BELLS and this is literally everything I wanted study abroad to be!!!! You would not BELIEVE!! Will you send me your notes from last week, thanks xxxxxxxx.
*
Her mum texts. Remember Grandma’s birthday. She’d really like some chocolates I think that’s a very Austrian thing?? Neil says FaceTime will work too if you have wifi? xxx.
She walks into town at the weekend and finds a tourist shop near the town hall. She buys a fridge magnet and a box of chocolates. She finds a post office and queues to post it. She holds the address up to the glass, but the woman asks a lot of questions that she doesn’t understand. The woman is getting frustrated, and eventually switches to English. “Fast or slow,” she says. “You want fast or slow?”
“Fast,” she replies.
The woman talks to the other man behind the counter. She rolls her eyes. She thinks they are talking about her.
The parcel costs as much to post as her big Lidl shop.
*
She thinks about the credit card, still at the bottom of the suitcase under her bed.
*
Susie comes back from the mountains. Susie brings Mikkel to the international meet-up every week. Susie doesn’t come swimming any more.
*
Neculai from Romania starts coming to the pool all the time. He always wants to ask her very specific questions about Brexit. What does she think immigration policy will look like? Doesn’t she think certain sectors of the economy will be forever damaged? Has she considered the influence it might have on her future career?
“I think that he likes you,” says Sophie from France.
She swims underwater for long stretches to avoid him.
*
Susie brings Mikkel to sit on the grass with her and Maria every week after literature class. They lounge: her head on his lap, holding hands on her stomach. “We should go out more, Susie says. “We don’t have much time left. I didn’t come to Europe to be boring.”
*
Her loan for the semester is all gone. She takes money out on the credit card. There isn’t much time left, after all.
*
Mikkel takes them to a bar on the other side of the city – her and Susie and Maria and Sophie and Irene and Pablo and Pierre and the other French boy whose name she can’t remember but whom she has talked to too much to ask what it is again. Sophie mentioned going out to Neculai at the pool, and she was worried he would come too, but he doesn’t show. There are some friends of Mikkel there as well, but it is loud and dark and she can’t hear all of their names.
Pierre buys her a beer and then she buys him one back, and then Maria buys a round of shots of something and then there are more beers and then, at some point, she is standing outside smoking with Mikkel and Susie and one of Mikkel’s friends. It takes her a second to understand but they are talking in English, she realises, thank God.
“It is funny, no? That we are all here and hanging out and it’s all cool?” Mikkel says.
Susie has her hand in Mikkel’s back pocket. She doesn’t have a cigarette. “It’s so cool,” Susie says.
“I mean it’s just great right, like we can all be friends now?” Mikkel totters slightly. “From all over the world and we are friends? Like, when you think about what happened – it is amazing, no?”
Susie is forcing them to stand closer, to take a selfie. He pushes her head into the picture, between Mikkel and the friend. The flash is bright. She blinks it away. Mikkel’s friend is next to her, frowning.
“Yes, but you know,” he says to Mikkel, “we don’t need to feel bad all the time. We don’t need people making us feel bad.”
Mikkel looks confused. Susie is trying to blow smoke rings, and failing.
“I don’t feel bad, man,” Mikkel says, laughing at his friend, “I feel happy.” He pulls Susie closer by the waist. She pushes him off, still concentrating on her phone.
“I know but that’s not what they all think, man,” says Mikkel’s friend, “like – they weren’t bad people. They were just following orders. Most of them didn’t really do anything bad.”
Mikkel’s eyes are glazed. Susie is reaching into his back pocket for a cigarette.
Mikkel’s friend looks at her instead. “Like, most of them didn’t do bad, you know? They just did what they were told to do.”
It’s easier just to nod.
*
She throws up in the kitchen sink back in the flat.
She wakes up, hungover, to a text from her mum. Did you use the credit card? I’m not angry I just want to know x.
*
She flies home a week later. The day before she goes she walks into town to buy more chocolates for her mum, to say sorry about the credit card. She leaves her extra pasta in the kitchen in case someone wants it.
Maria says that she will maybe come to England if she goes interrailing after she graduates. She says she can visit her too, if she ever wants to come to Sweden.
Sophie says she is going to London in the summer and maybe they could meet there, does she know where Knightsbridge is?
*
She goes to find Susie, but there is no answer for a long time on the intercom at her dorm.
Eventually someone sticks their head out of a window above her and yells something in German.
“Was?” she replies.
The man’s head says something again.
She tries to say she is looking for her friend, her American friend.
“Susie?” he says.
Then he says something about going, and America, and family, and maybe sickness?
She nods, thank you, yes.
*
They land at Heathrow and she is waiting to get through the electronic gates. The queue she is in has stopped, dead still, even as the other lines move around her. Up ahead a man is trying again and again, slipping his passport into the slot. A woman, her hair pulled back tight into a bun, comes towards him. She gestures off to the side, where the desks are. He throws up his hands. Another man in uniform walks up. The man trying to get through the barrier is shouting now, something she can’t hear. People around her are looking without trying to make it look as though they are looking, and shuffling from foot to foot.
“Please just let us do our job, sir,” the woman is saying.
The man picks up his bag and starts to walk towards the desk, but the woman shakes her head and points to a door on the other side, next to a window with tinted glass.
Her queue is moving quickly now. The woman official opens the door, and the man walks through. “Over here please, miss,” someone says, and points her to an open barrier. She rolls the suitcase in front of her and fumbles for her passport in her bag.
She holds her passport up to the electronic reader and slots it into the plastic holder. An egg timer appears on the screen, turning over and over, and then a big green tick, and then the barrier opens.
Far from our home in the old Borsch Belt of upstate New York, my older brother Sam wraps the beer can in a towel. Our parents bicker over the teenage girl who walks between our rented beach house and the neighbor’s place. It’s embarrassing you talking to her, scratching your big belly my mother says to my father. I follow Sam to the piss and fever shed below the house. Goddamn neighbor’s cat’s been in there. Sam talks to me about the teenage girl in a way I imagine he talks to his high school buddies back home. Sam usually ignores me so I feel like we’re finally connecting. He’s going to ask her if she wants to drink beer with him. I take a sip and it burns going down and then bubbles up in a puke reflux. Can’t leave that piss shed until he’s finished the beer. Sam wants me to go upstairs for another one. Ask mom if you can get a soda from the fridge he says. I take the towel but go to the beach instead.
There’s a young couple in the indigo shallow. The boy grabs the girl from behind. She looks outraged, turns and pushes him away. I stare past the indigo to the horizon. What are you looking at the boy in the water asks. The girl looks my way and crosses her arms impatiently, covering her excitement. You want some beer I ask her. Sure she says laughing. I’ll be right back I say. Mom and dad are in the kitchen arguing over take-out menus. I’m sick of shrimp my dad says. It’s North Carolina shrimp my mother argues. I casually open the fridge and remove a cold beer, wrapping it loosely in my towel. Are you drinking more soda? Bad for your teeth mother says.
Back at the beach, an old couple walks their golden retriever. Children pull a kite — it turns upside down, shakes violently and crashes into the hot sand. The boy and girl from the indigo water are nowhere to be found. I finish the brewski and walk back over the dunes to our beach house for another cold one. From the deck I see my father talking to the teenage girl. I overhear something about surfing and he’d be happy to teach her. Mother sits at the kitchen table searching for options through the litter of take-out menus. I wrap another can in my towel and head back to the beach. The beer is tasting better. The light changes and I see where the indigo ends and the teal water begins its long stretch to the horizon. Sam walks toward me. He looks angry. I draw a line in the sand with my big toe, take a sip from the sand-encrusted can and await the approaching, immutable tide.
‘Where the great new vision,
The great world-view,
The high prophetic song
Of the immense earth
And all that sings in it
And our relation to it-
Poets, descend to the street of the world once more’
(from ‘Populist Manifesto #1’, 1976)
Speaks the voice on my left shoulder whose lucid lingo of drawing divinity from something within, something all has in their depths – an everything and anything called poetry.
When I started reading works of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, like many as a irrelevant feeling undergraduate, it held me close. I felt the tight manifestos of repetition, the scull/skull wordplay, the references without references and the open gaps of a form that had no sense but that of the author. The freewheeling Americana writing against culture and with culture. The shy bookstore publisher in his adopted San Francisco for decades has been a discovered voice for the irrelevant that haunt the university and libraries in the hollowed English-speaking modernity that he laments.
There was something about the exploding of perception, of authority – a focus on a liberation and revolution of the self to rise as divine. Individual but not materialistic, uprooted without erasing the memory of those seeds that were planted. Collective in a spirit. Writing against this claim of a rational superiority, Ferlinghetti elasticated ‘truth’. From his own biographical details to his dog being named as ‘publicity and public relations officer’ at City Light Books, the bookshop and publishing house that is his brick-and-mortar legacy. In his ‘Populist Manifesto #1’ – he takes a right hook to the ostentatious elitism of arty cultures, calling for the poets to emerge from the corners and creeks of cities and towns. To emerge from our inner selves as prophets in communities that have lost their sight in material formalities of a 9 to 5 dream.
I thank Ferlinghetti for this sense of liberation in malaise that I took from him, that he inspired in me – that bucking of structure for an infinite ideal to be somewhat a whole self, an inner reach poet of the populist manifesto. Ferlinghetti, in his own discomfort is most tied to those beats, but as a poet his play between frontier expansion and English language tradition is very much that of Whiteman, of Yeats. Whilst this liberation voice of an internal eternal revolution is what he is being eulogized for, for me, his words have also always sat on my left shoulder, the shoulder of sin.
The Ferlinghetti on my left shoulder will always be there, his work and words is a constant return for when I need my thoughts re-jigged and re-orientated. But finding the prophet of modernity in your inner self has been at constant odds with my lineage and love for Islam, the true right path – which is, I am told clear and pure. No room for inner prophets and maybe even inner poets. I curse Ferlinghetti for bringing an inspiration to bending this path, flexing it like everything else of ‘truth’ in the world. For giving that English language intoxication inner revolution. I think I curse him – but he does not leave that shoulder, nor do I stop finding a comfort in his literary life. If he is the poet on my left side, maybe his fellow 20th century poet on my right side is our great Muhammad Iqbal – showing the might of that straight path, that it will not flex to this notion of modernity, but modernity will flex to the forever rise of an inner and outer Islam.
With Lawrence Ferlinghetti leaving this world (إِنَّا لِلَّٰهِ وَإِنَّا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعُونَ)* – I thank him dearly, albeit on my left shoulder. I think he would prefer to be there to be honest.
*Verily we belong to Allah, and verily to Allah do we return.
Catherine McNamara is a master of the flash fiction form. As Christopher James, editor of Jellyfish Review, stated, “She can do more in two hundred words than most writers can do in two hundred pages.” Her latest collection, Love Stories for Hectic People, published by Reflex Press, is testament to that assertion. Clocking in at a slender 99 pages, the 33 stories are an exercise in artistic agility and precision, the work of one who has climbed inside the confines of love in all its manifestations – tangible and metaphysical, erotic and ethereal, faithful and duplicitous – and waged war with its boundaries, ultimately making peace with its complexities. Per the blurb on the book’s back cover, in Love Stories for Hectic People, “there is love that is vulgar, love that knows no reason; there is love that cradles the act of living, love that springs through the cracks; love that is slaughtered. These tales take place from Italy to Ghana to Greece and London and Tokyo, in grainy cities and muted hotel rooms; there is a Mafia murder, an ambulance rescue worker and a woman whose husband falls off a mountain. There is unchaste attraction and slippery, nuanced love; police violence and porn, and fishing too.” Mostly, though, there is the unmistakable integrity and sincerity of a storyteller at her peak.
The collection begins with “As Simple as Water,” in which a couple, Vasilis and Marj, are embracing at an Athens train station before Marj collapses in her married lover’s arms, complicating what had been a facile affair. The story incorporates many of the themes and motifs in the book, such as travel and movement, infidelity, and sex as both sustenance and deprivation. As the collection’s title implies, these are hectic people who spend much of their time en route to other locales in search of or escape from love and who often wind up in limbo as a result, neither lost nor found, engaging in fervid (and sometimes violent) sex in hotel rooms, way stations in the middle of some of the world’s most romantic cities.
In fact, McNamara’s writing is often at its most sensual when describing these cities. For example, in “Asunder,” set in another train station, in Italy, a man waits in his car for his lover, who has gone into the station to change their tickets, and reflects on their time in the “unchecked sensuality of the Baroque city”: “He thinks of the sculpted effigies on top of buildings (mostly naked males) and how these posed bodies seemed to be pondering, absorbed by all but the urban fray below. It was sublime what they could do with stone here. It seemed that for centuries men had stared into unhewn blocks and seen glorious bodies to be retrieved.” In “In Venice,” a couple decides to spend the day in bed in their hotel room, exploring sexual boundaries they’d heretofore deemed taboo, and the description of the setting – “the arousing city surrounding them, immersed in the sultry lagoon” – enhances the titillating atmosphere and tension of the story.
The writing is just as organic in “The Mafia Boss Who Shot His Gay Son on a Beach,” a story that features a homophobic father who lures his gay son from the carnal city, with its train stations where the boy picks up strangers to engage in anonymous sex, to the pristine beauty of the seaside, where he murders the young man then kicks sand over the body in a final act of desecration. The juxtaposition between the divine and profane is evident in such descriptions as “the bars jostled around the piazza and serene evening light bathed the Basilica façade,” adding even more subtext to this intricate piece. In an interview with the website Love in the Time of Covid: A Chronicle of a Pandemic from March 2021, McNamara notes, “I like the beauty of human truths and their conveyance in a bed of careful language.” Indeed, the language she uses to detail the boy’s assassination – “The boy later knelt and was shot.” – is provocative in the truth it reveals about the intersectionality of the sacred with the sexual, and the violence and hypocrisy often at the centre of it.
In the aforementioned interview, McNamara also states, “For me love is ultimately victorious, it is what we live for and what binds us. Whether it is sensual, filial, self-love, love of nature – it is what makes us taste life and live it within our cells. It is a life force that we all need, even in its most gritty, inelegant moments. The final stories in the book, for me, are a crescendo of real, worn and exuberant love, which I believe in.” “Love Is an Infinite Victory,” which concludes the collection, is testament to this. The story is a celebration of a long-married couple that has survived hotel rooms and train stations and airports and infidelity and enjoys rejuvenated intimacy after they move back to Paris, “where they had begun their lives together many years ago, feeling denuded and carefree as students.” There in their old apartment, “they resumed heady, unsophisticated lovemaking on the mattress their son had left there, especially through the long mornings when the city revolved and banged and wailed around them.” There is triumph in love coming full circle, sustenance in love that cradles the act of living, love that springs through the cracks, love that is not slaughtered. “Love Is an Infinite Victory” is the perfect ending to a collection that transports readers not only to exotic locales but also sends them on a visceral and intellectual journey of emotional discovery. Love Songs for Hectic People is a triumphant offering from one of best flash fiction writers I’ve had the pleasure to read.
Love Stories for Hectic People
by Catherine McNamara
77 pages. Reflex Press
In many ways, Of Women and Salt is a novel of our times as it deals with issues of race and gender, empowerment, opportunity, and marginalisation. Yet it is about so much more, too. For in telling the stories of several generations of Latina women, Gabriela Garcia’s novel is very much like a Cuban cigar: it rolls in on itself, layering and concealing, revealing the endless spirals of discrimination and injustice that are unique to neither time nor place.
The main character is Jeanette, whose life in Miami is defined by stays in rehab and attempts at getting clean. She becomes briefly entangled with Ana, a Salvadorean schoolgirl brought to the States in the trunk of a car. The narrative switches from one person’s tale to another, interspersed with scenes from the lives of older members of Jeannette’s family. We hear from her mother Carmen (“pearls, slacks, wrinkle cream, a box of blank thank-you notes”) who, as an early immigrant from Cuba, enjoys a comfortable, middle-class life in the States. We hear, too, from Maria Isabel, her great-great-grandmother, the only female worker in the cigar factory when the Spanish militia comes. And we hear from Dolores, her grandmother, who fears for her children’s lives as the Communist uprising breaks out. Other voices narrate their stories against this backdrop of revolution and war, which serves as a reminder of the history and politics by which so many destinies are forged. “I’ve always been really interested in historical forces and how they shape everything about the present moment,” Garcia has said, her interest in connecting the past with the present, the “here” with the “there,” reflected in her fragmented approach to both time and space.
In all this back and forth, Garcia consistently exposes the fraudulent nature of dreams. The lives that Ana and Jeanette live in present-day Miami turn out to be just as difficult and precarious as those their mothers lived in their countries of birth. None of them have it easy regardless of their backgrounds or the places from which their families have come. Indeed, as the daughter of Cuban and Mexican immigrants, Garcia has a self-confessed interest in exploring and exposing the variety of immigrant life. “I don’t think there is such a thing as the immigrant experience,” she says, describing the catch-all term Latino as “flattening,” since it ignores the diversity of individual narratives. Indeed, one of the greatest strengths of the work is its ability to capture and convey all the nuance and complexity of both immigrant communities in the US and the Latin American societies from which they come. In Cuba, Dolores accuses a neighbour of stealing because “you can’t trust black men.” It is a prejudice that travels, resulting in many Cubans in Miami, as Jeanette so wryly observes, regarding themselves as “another kind of white,” quite distinct from other “Latinos.” Similarly, in Mexico, the privilege that divides Ana’s wealthy employer Roberto from “gente de afuera” like her demonstrates the pervasiveness of this racial discrimination. As Garcia so deftly shows, privilege is not the preserve of wealthy, white Americans but a system of hierarchy and power based on divisions of class, race, and gender that operate just as “well” in Cuba or Mexico as they do in the US.
Everyone, it seems, is disappointed, but perhaps in the end this disappointment is easier to live with than the ghosts of the past. For these women are damaged. They have all suffered violence and abuse perpetuated by men. And here again the contemporaneity of the novel comes to the fore, Garcia taking care to position her women as survivors rather than victims. These are women who act, not always doing what is right but doing what they must. They call the cops on undocumented minors. They steal. They commit unthinkable acts. For their imperative is only to survive, an imperative that is captured as a mysterious inscription in an antique copy of Les Misérables: “we are force.” The inscription becomes a leitmotif throughout the novel, crossing oceans and rivers, bridging time and space to bind each individual story to the others and forge a collective resistance to violence and oppression.
What is disconcerting, however, is the suggestion that there is an inevitability to this violence, that it is perhaps an integral part of the female experience. It is Carmen, Jeanette’s mother, who hints at this: “I was afraid to look back because then I would have seen what was coming,” her lament suggesting that the past is somehow a reliable indicator of the future. Is this necessarily so? Is male violence really a thing that is repeated over and over with only the tiniest of variations, like each new leaf of tobacco that is rolled around and on top of the others? It is a sad proposition but one that no doubt deserves to be made.
Garcia’s prose is rich and compelling. There is a lusciousness to the writing that beautifully captures the tropical urbanity of Miami: the “pastel, mini-mall suburban blight” of its streets, the “blood orange” mornings, and the thick, heavy heat that “licks the skin.” There is even an appearance by a wild animal in a wonderful scene that confronts the uptight Carmen with her carefully constructed self. Yet where Garcia excels is in her ability to relate extremely difficult narratives in a way that remains upbeat and full of colour. Her writing is dense with evocative, sensory detail. The Spanish names of dishes, the sting of spice on her characters’ tongues, plunge Garcia’s readers into a sizzle and chatter that they can almost taste and hear. The jarring, false optimism of the Texas detention centre in which Ana’s mother, Gloria, is held has them wincing in discomfort. A notice there reminding detainees to “KEEP DETENTION SAFE” fails spectacularly to grasp the true precarity of those it claims to protect. The jauntily named bird and frog blocks, hovering absurdly between crèche and jail, are typical of this baby-proofed, infantilising space that both disguises and denies its true purpose.
Such disconnects are at the core of this vibrant and engrossing work, and they are approached with dignity and elegance. For all its engagement with topical issues, the novel is in no way dogmatic. It is moving and important, original and sharp. It may be her first novel, but I’m already looking forward to reading more by Gabriela Garcia.
Of Women and Salt
By Gabriela Garcia
224 pages. Picador
The non-place paradox states that such zones appear universal, and transcend culture, because everyone is equally alienated by them. It’s in their loneliness, in other words, that we all feel at home. But this couldn’t explain the beggars living in the car park of the student supermarket. Mine workers walked along the national route every day, memorising speckles of tarmac like constellations: to them, surely, the space of the highway held more meaning?
Caitlin Stobie
Can you feel more at home in a foreign country that you own? Caitlin Stobie explores identity, crossed roots, non-places and Covid-19 in this touching non-fiction piece.
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Spaces / Places was first published in written form by SPROUT.
Did you like this podcast? Listen to An Ill Wind and Norđljos by Akeem Balogun next.
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And the cabaret stage is a wonderland sublime on whose hallowed surface performers strut and gesture amid sequins and gaiety, feather boas vivid in the spotlights glare and music fills the night with a sly take, for are we not here to celebrate the difference which makes us unique, the pride which underpins everything we do, laughs in the face of those playground bullies, dances on the grave of oppression?
Robert Garnham
Celebration is not futile, it’s a way to practice resilience. In this piece, Robert Garnham reminds us that even when we can’t travel, we still have memories to live through. If you could travel anywhere right now to have a good time and celebrate life, where would you go? What is that place that inspires joy?
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Did you like this podcast? Listen to The Husband by Natascha Graham next.
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Whether you’re a budding journalist or taking an English creative writing course, you will be well aware of the various obstacles that plague writers. From the dreaded writer’s block to struggling with remembering grammar rules, being a writer or creative author is no mean feat. Whether you want help with your coursework or are preparing a draft of your first book, here are some tips to overcoming some of the most common challenges.
Writer’s block
There are several reasons why a writer of any level, might suffer from writer’s block. Typically it can be caused by distractions such as stress, events in the writer’s life, pressure from deadlines or exams, or just a momentary lapse in inspiration. It can also be caused by mental health issues like depression or anxiety. Others say there is no reason for it, and that writer’s block just pops up when it feels like it, usually just before an important piece is due! There are several tried and tested ways to help relieve it such as exercising for 30 minutes, taking a shower, reading something by someone you inspire, or even taking a nap. Of course, if it’s something significant causing the issue, you will need to address that before your creativity returns!
Adapting to different writing styles
As a student, you will have to adopt and adapt to different kinds of writing. You may need to write reports, analyses, critiques, opinion pieces, and even creative writing articles. Depending on the subjects you are studying, this could include a multitude of different writing styles, all of which need to be off a high standard. This can be very challenging as each style is very different. A good way of dealing with these challenges is by getting help through English tuition. Typically, the tutor will help you to identify your goals and aims, and then set various milestones that you work towards. They can impart professional advice and points to help you switch between styles effortlessly. It’s totally possible to learn to write in different ways, you just need to understand the core structures of each.
Grammatical issues
Grammar is hard in any language and English is no exception. We tend to pick up lots of bad habits in our day-to-day life which often translate into our writing. Bad grammar can really impact the power of your work and cost you important marks in exams. There are several ways to tackle this. Firstly, reading can seriously help you improve your grammar skills. By reading grammatically correct texts, your brain will pick up on the patterns and structures, enabling you to implement them automatically. It’s also useful to have a grammar manual hanging around so you can consult it when you are working. Some find that it’s also beneficial to listen to audiobooks and courses that discuss grammar. Listen while you are preparing dinner or undertaking other tasks and marvel as the information sticks!
Lack of confidence
As a student, you might be suffering from a lack of confidence in your written pieces. The best way to overcome this is to throw yourself in at the deep end. You should try and see if there are any local or university media that would publish your work. Alternatively, you could set up a blog and share your work with the wide world. This might sound utterly terrifying, but holding yourself to account like this and accepting any criticism that comes your way is the best way to learn. The positive feedback you receive and the joy of seeing your name online, or in print will help your confidence grow exponentially.
Born in Damascus and raised in San Jose, Dima Alzayat explores the complex identities and lonely voices of submerged populations in her debut story collection, Alligator and Other Stories. Originally published by Two Dollar Radio in 2020, Picador has just released a paperback edition in the UK. This conversation took place on February 25, 2021.
Cindy Withjack: Before I ask you any questions, I have to tell you how much I really loved reading this.
Dima Alzayat: Thank you so much, Cindy. Thanks for taking the time to read it.
CW: What has it been like promoting Alligator and Other Stories during the COVID pandemic?
DA: It almost felt like a non-promotion in a way. I was supposed to do the Edinburgh Book Festival and a short story salon at Blackwells in Manchester. We had all of these events planned, and I was really excited. Obviously, all of those fell through. In a way it’s felt like I haven’t promoted it very much. It surprises me, even now, when people tell me they’ve read it or if they’ve seen it anywhere because I haven’t even seen it in a bookshop myself, physically. So, it’s really weird to know that it’s out there during this time. Of course, you wonder how the experience would’ve been different or how the book would be doing if these were normal times. So many book dates were pushed at the beginning of the pandemic and everyone thought, Oh, it’ll just be a few months, and we can release these in the summer. Initially I was thinking that maybe it would be better if I had done that, but now we know it would’ve made no difference. And maybe I don’t have any business sense. I know there are many writers who are upset they didn’t get to hypermarket their book – and it sounds weird saying this because I’m not shy – but I’m not the best self-promoter. It makes me really anxious to be the centre of attention in that way. So, in a way, even if it has maybe hurt me, I’m also a bit relieved that I don’t have to do a lot of those things.
CW: You mentioned the paperback will be out soon?
DA: It will be out in April.
CW: And you’ve finished your PhD at this point, right?
DA: Yes. All done. Thank God. Yeah.
CW: [Laughs.] What was it like writing this collection in concurrence with a PhD programme?
DA: At first, I found it really challenging because I did a 50/50 (critical/creative) PhD. I was warned by both of my advisors that the danger there would be that I would end up writing two PhDs, and for a while that was definitely what I was doing. I had taken on this really massive thing in working on a PhD while writing this collection, and I could see the connections, but it wasn’t cohesive. It was like two different projects. It was a lot of work and really stressful. What I had to do for a while was work on one for a stretch, just the critical or just the creative. It was really only, I would say, in my third year that I started to come at it from a different place. Maybe I just needed to do all that reading and look over things with fresh eyes to see how my critical research was manifesting in the creative work and vice versa. It took a long time. I got a lot out of it, but I would hesitate to recommend it to a creative writer. I think a lot of times I wanted to work on my stories, and I didn’t want to overthink them or overanalyse them. The only way I could do that was to ignore the critical work for long stretches of time, which isn’t great when you need to be productive. It was very hard, but I know for a fact the collection would not be what it is if I had not taken on so much critical research. In the end, I know that it really benefited me. I’ll also add that I went into it with the mindset that it’s best to let art be art and not to mess too much with the artistic process. But now I don’t think that holds at all, and it probably never did. I was just tricking myself into thinking that. I think whatever we write is so informed by where we find ourselves and what we know, and there’s no way to separate those things. It helped me grow as a writer to know that you’re not just coming to your work from some pure artistic place, that you know you were influenced by your society and your politics and whatever it is that you subscribe to ideologically. In that way, it has led to a necessary maturity as a writer.
CW: I read one of your short stories in a workshop a few years ago. I noticed it wasn’t included in the collection. If I remember correctly it involved a child? A son?
DA: Wait, that’s not what I thought you were going to say. I thought it was a story titled ‘Progeny.’ It was a really intense story.
CW: Yeah, it was dark. Someone dies in the kitchen?
DA: The narrator’s father is dead in his kitchen, and he proceeds to skin him.
CW: Oh shit, yes, that’s what I’m thinking of.
[Both laughing.]
DA: I shouldn’t be laughing about this. For whatever reason, it’s funny right now.
CW: Did it not fit into the collection in the end? How did you decide which pieces would make it into the book, and is the book different from what you had submitted for your thesis?
DA: What ended up being submitted for the PhD was pretty much what ended up being in the collection. There were two additional stories. One of them is the one you read in that workshop, which didn’t make it into the collection. I had submitted it to the workshop because I was interested to hear people’s feedback on that story specifically. When I had submitted an early draft of that story to my agent, she had suggested taking it out of the collection because it was very visceral, which I agree with. It is a very violent story. I also did agree that it wasn’t necessary for the book. It wasn’t a piece where I felt like I needed to fight for it to be included. There are stories in the collection that I would never exclude, but that one I was always on the fence about. What I liked about it and why I wanted to include it initially is that it wasn’t explicitly about an Arab person. That was important to me. There’s a story in the collection called ‘Disappearance’ that is not explicitly about an Arab-American person or family. There are references there that a reader may or may not pick up. And, you know, maybe you can relate to this, but there’s something about reading a book that is about a non-white American person, and it’s like their ethnicity has to be front and centre on every page of the book?
CW: [Nodding knowingly.]
DA: Of course, me being Arab informs who I am, but I’m not walking around all the time thinking about how I’m Arab. So, I wanted some stories in the book to not always centre on the ethnic background of the characters.
CW: Speaking of ‘Disappearance,’ I found that within the collection it felt different from the others. How do you feel it fits into the collection?
DA: It was one of the earlier stories that I wrote, not the first but maybe the second or third. In a way I think it sounds different because I was a different writer at that point. Also, I think in that story…not really consciously, but now that I look at it, I think I was trying to write an American story. If that makes sense? I feel like when I read that story now, as a reader, what I see is a tone of Americana that I absorbed growing up. At the time I don’t think I consciously understood that that’s what I was doing. I was writing a short story in the way that I thought an American short story might sound. In comparison to the rest of the stories, I think I was really challenging myself to find my own structure or form. With each story, I was trying to do something beyond or more than the last story that I had written. I think I get bored as a writer, so I couldn’t write every story just like ‘Disappearance.’ I wouldn’t have been able to keep my own interest in the book. I do think that’s why the styles and tones of the stories differ. There are so many short story collections where the stories are all really similar in style, and as a reader that doesn’t work for me or sustain my attention. I need variety as I’m going through a collection, and the same thing applied to my writing process.
CW: I’m glad I asked about this because it didn’t feel out of place, it just felt somehow different to the others. I also noticed with ‘Disappearance’ that I was almost holding my breath while I read. It felt very bodily. When I finished that story, I had to put the collection down for a bit.
DA: That’s a good response, I think?
[Both laugh.]
CW: I’ve seen the collection referred to as a ‘migrant experience,’ a ‘Syrian immigrant experience,’ and a ‘Syrian-American experience.’ I read some discourse recently on Americans outside of the United States being called ‘expats,’ but those entering the United States are called ‘immigrants.’ What are your thoughts on this?
DA: I don’t think I was surprised that the book was readily received or being read as American. I think growing up as a first-generation Syrian-American, I wasn’t read as American, personally, in a lot of spaces. I did expect that to a degree. I think what was surprising, though, is that even when it was being submitted to American publishers there was this kind of real inability to engage with it as American. I expected that from maybe some readers, but it just felt like the industry as a whole decided that certain stories are going to be American and certain stories are going to be others. There’s a slot for each of these things. What happened is the book was being read as not American, and it was competing then with books that were more clearly other. And it really couldn’t compete in that space. Or it was just very confusing. There was some feedback: ‘We don’t understand what this is?’ I found that really surprising. They’re short stories. They’re really not confusing, you know? The confusion was about who I was, it seemed like, and what space I occupied. To go to your first point about expats and immigrants, that is something I’m definitely aware of. I lived in Colombia for a little bit, and in Colombia all of the Americans get to call themselves expats, but Colombians in the US don’t get to call themselves expats. You know what, I’m going to go off on a tangent. Let me stick to the book.
[Cindy laughs.]
DA: I will point out, too, there is this conflation between Arab and Muslim that happens very readily and easily, and it’s very Orientalist. Some of how the book has been received has been like, ‘Oh, this is the voice of Muslim Americans or Muslims.’ That is indicative of how reductive the industry can be of people in the US who aren’t white – in that you don’t get to be nuanced in the same way. You do end up having to represent, whether you want to or not. What I was interested in was, OK, if this book was going to be representative then I was going to complicate representation, and I wasn’t going to spoon-feed culture to an assumed white reader. I was going to write these characters how I wanted to write them. I wasn’t going to over-explain their background or religion. Because I think that it’s boring to me as a writer, and also I do have more faith in readers than I think some of the publishing industry allows. I think readers do want to be challenged and engaged, and they don’t necessarily want to be spoon-fed. So maybe I am writing for a particular type of reader, but I think that’s fine.
CW: During a recent reading with Layla AlAmmar (Silence is a Sense), there was a brief discussion about language – specifically italicizing words. And I’m loath to bring up Junot Díaz, who has truly wounded me as a Dominican-American and as a writer. But Junot Díaz has spoken on this when asked if he thinks his use of Spanish alienates readers. Basically, the conversation was about Spanish and Elvish. Can you speak more on your decision not to italicise or translate in your own work?
DA: Junot Díaz hugely influenced my very early writing and his talking about the way he uses Spanish I also found very interesting while I formed my own thoughts on the subject. I think that when you italicise a word it labels it as exotic. Like here’s this thing that stands out from the rest. I read a really interesting piece in Catapult a few weeks ago, ‘The Case Against Using “Foreign” Words.’ The writer was using Indian and Indonesian dishes as an example. And saying how masala wouldn’t get italicised in English, but lesser-known dishes, like nasi goreng, would get italicised. I think by doing that what you’re insinuating is that there’s an assumed reader who will not understand what this Indonesian dish is, so you have to label it as exotic. I’m an Arabic speaker; Arabic is not an exotic language to me. I’m not assuming that the only readers I will have will be people who have no familiarity or understanding of Arabic. I think if I’m comfortable with reading words that maybe I’m not familiar with in English texts, then I think my readers can do the same. I also think, again to go back to trusting the reader, it’s a more interesting reading journey when maybe you don’t understand every single reference on a first read. It doesn’t mean that you won’t get something out of the reading. Maybe sometimes you have to dig a little deeper. That’s fine. I also think that the larger question about cultural translation is that authors of colour in the US, at least in the past, have been marketed as ‘native informants.’ So like, ‘If you want to understand the Dominican experience: read this book!’ And now you understand the Dominican-American experience.
CW: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.
[Both laugh.]
DA: That was definitely a conscious thing that I was doing: not wanting to be representative of the Arab-American or the Syrian-American experience. I didn’t want to explain religion and culture in that way. Religion and culture inform my characters, or most of my characters. I also wasn’t assuming that a reader would not be familiar at all with that religion or that culture.
CW: I don’t speak Arabic, but I wasn’t distracted or confused. I just kept reading. Before our interview actually, I went into some of the texts I have by Junot Díaz – I don’t speak Spanish, either – and, again, I didn’t find it distracting. And yet, it’s this constant conversation that I think is masked as accessibility, but it’s really something else.
DA: Definitely.
CW: In considering collective trauma, I noted that some pieces in Alligator and Other Stories are literally connected, with a character called Zaynab appearing in multiple narratives. Did you set out to write a short story collection, or had you considered writing a novel?
DA: I will say that you’re the first person to talk about the reappearing character. It’s actually the name that reappears. What happened is – I know this will sound bizarre – I kept using the same name for different female characters, then I thought: Oh, this is going to be a problem. I should change the name. There more I thought about it, though, I realised there’s a reason I was doing it, and I’m just going to leave it as is until I figure out what that reason is. Maybe I’m putting meaning on it in retrospect, but why I did ultimately keep it that way was because these are all imagined Arab-American experiences and identities. The name is Zaynab. I thought if Zaynab could be this person, she could also be this person. It tied into my aim to complicate what an Arab-American could be. But you know what? Not even my editor has said anything about this. Literally you’re the first person to ever say anything about it, which is wild.
CW: It’s all the close-reading I’ve been doing for my own PhD.
DA: To answer the second part of the question: I knew that I was writing a short story collection. I didn’t set out to write a novel. The only time that came into question was when I was working on two of the stories – when I was working on ‘Alligator,’ and I think it was Jenn [Ashworth] who said, ‘This could be a novella or a novel.’ And I agreed, but I thought also I might go crazy trying to do that. There was a second story that didn’t end up going into the collection that I did write into a novella, which I then tried to condense into a short story.
CW: Now that you’ve said this, I understand why they’re not the same character. For example, there’s the story where a character is talking about her Aunt Zaynab and she has nine or ten children, but when Zaynab appears again in another story she says she doesn’t have any children. I was like, ‘What’s happening?’
DA: [Laughs.] Oh, no.
CW: I really like what you’ve said about them not being the same person, and I’m glad that I asked about it.
DA: I think you are definitely my closest reader maybe ever.
CW: Can you elaborate on your stylistic decisions – including the poetry in ‘Daughters of Manāt’ and later the collaging in of some factual documents in ‘Alligator’?
DA: I was actually looking at ‘Daughters of Manāt’ recently and the formatting in the UK and US editions are a little different. I think it makes a difference in reading because there are three narrative threads in that story. One is centre-aligned and the more poetic thread. Second is the narrator who is talking about her aunt, and that is left-aligned. And in the third thread, she is focusing more on herself, and it’s right-aligned. I wrote the central thread first, on its own. There were no characters or narrators, just these voices that were in different tenses and from different perspectives, and it was very lyrical. The story was initially called ‘Woman,’ and I was trying to write this experience of womanhood, then it just led to me anchoring a particular story to a particular woman that would tie into the existing central thread. My formal decisions felt like I was braiding threads. When I was editing it, I actually had them all cut up and on the floor. And for ‘Alligator,’ it was also very much a physical act. At one point I was cutting it up, and it covered my entire living room floor where I just moved pieces around as I thought about how they looked. I was also interested in how they mashed up against each other. There are sections of prose and historical documents and scripts that I wrote and images. I saw these very much as a collage, like you said, and I was interested in what the effect would be if I put different texts together. How would it change if I moved things around like a puzzle? What would the reading experience be like if I did this or that? I was interested in the power that could hold – the ability to read a section, then for that section to be undermined by whatever comes right after. I really liked that possibility because then they were in conversation with each other, and something new was born. I had never done anything like that before, but it came very naturally. I felt that I understood storytelling in that particular way. We bring whatever we know into what we’re reading. Intertextuality is always there.
CW: I did find it really interactive. I would read something and flip back to what I had just read, understanding Oh, these characters are related, and flip forward. I think that really speaks to the collection as a whole, having these interwoven threads of displacement, loss, and death. How do these themes relate to the collection’s larger concerns with belonging and identity?
DA: I guess, it’s hard to be human. I am interested in that hardship. I’m interested in that place of not belonging, of being on the outside, or the margins of something, and being able to kind of see in. I think that is part of the human experience. It’s something, I think, all people can relate to, to some degree. Frank O’Connor wrote that the short story is always about the lonely voice, the outsider, the submerged population group. While I don’t wholly agree with O’Connor, there is some truth to that. It applies to all of the stories in my collection. Identity maybe becomes clear, sometimes, when it’s excluded or when it’s in opposition to something or when it’s oppressed; that is when identifications become clearest or when people step into those identities, whether they want to or not. I don’t think that the feeling of displacement is separable from the notion of identity. If we’re talking about writing identity, then that space interests me the most. When is it that you have to identify as this or the other? It usually is when you’re coming up against something that is telling you you’re different or that you don’t belong. With that said, I don’t look at it as a negative thing. I think there is a lot of agency in that space. You can see more clearly when you’re not on the inside. You can maybe see what the price of belonging actually is and whether or not you’re willing to pay that price.
CW: Wow – yes. Several reviews and blurbs about the collection speak exclusively of the women in your collection, but I found the chapter about a man named Farid to be particularly poignant. The piece is written in the second-person and shows Farid struggling with his sexual identity. Can you tell me more about ‘In the Land of Kan’an’?
DA: That story was actually born not from any one specific person I know but from knowing young men who identify as Muslim but were either out and gay or were in a kind of tumultuous place regarding their sexuality. That story was a result of those friendships and thinking a lot about what that space would be like and how difficult it would be. I was envisioning what that might look like 20, 30, 40 years down the road to someone like that. Before I even decided to write that story, I thought a lot about this imaginary character of Farid, and he made me so sad. I really thought a lot about the kinds of things he would have to come to believe, to arrive at a place where he had to live such a suppressed life. The story references that he’s watching videos of these religious figures talk about his sexuality as something to be ashamed of, and I had gone down this road of watching loads of videos and attempted to put myself in that space. I could personally understand that heteronormative pressure exists, not just in Arab cultures. I had felt that as a teenager, growing up in my own life, the pressure to be straight. So, it was something that came from a personal space, not just from people I’ve known, but also my own sexuality.
CW: It felt incredibly lonely. I think it says a lot about the price you pay, sometimes, to belong or to adhere to certain standards.
DA: Definitely.
CW: In ‘Alligator,’ there are many references to passing and race. There’s a clip you included from a Syrian newspaper that says Syrians are more desirable than other people of colour. And there’s a point after a Syrian-American is shot that another character says, ‘It wasn’t right, a white woman dying like that.’ Then much later a black character says: ‘Everyone wants to identify with the struggle of the Black man, the Black woman, the Black child … He might’ve thought himself a white man, heck, he might have actually been one for a time, but he died like us and he won’t even know it.’ I found that to be a really powerful quote and, unfortunately, relevant in a Black Lives Matter climate.
DA: I started writing ‘Alligator’ because I was reading about how Arab-Americans came to be racialised, officially, in the US. For example, in the US I have to click that I am a ‘white American’ whenever I fill out documents. Of course, Arabs aren’t thought of as white in the social or political sense in the US. There’s a ton of really interesting research on how that came to be. Briefly it was because Arab-Americans had to prove they were white in order to qualify for citizenship when citizenship laws, at the beginning of the 20th century, were very much steeped – even more so than now – in ideas of race. Unless Arab immigrants were white, they weren’t going to be American. There’s this really interesting history of Arab-American national belonging very intertwined with whiteness and needing to be white. What I was interested in with that story was considering how someone ‘becomes’ white and what that means for Arab-Americans specifically. I wanted to track that process because I think the value in doing so is the revelation that whiteness is a leaky concept; it’s very constructed, and it’s something that we count on to be invisible so that we don’t have to talk about it. Making it visible takes away some of its power, and it depends on power. In that whoever has power gets to name what whiteness is. In this story these characters who were killed were white in certain spaces and when it didn’t serve the powers that be, then they weren’t white and they were killed. In that story the Romys, the couple that were killed, their aspiration for American belonging very much depended on whiteness. I wanted to look at how that myth wouldn’t serve you – when it came down to it they were still killed, right? I was interested in who Arab-Americans oppress in their aspirations for American belonging, therefore upholding white supremacy. In this way they’re oppressing other people of colour, especially black people. I didn’t want to just paint Arab-Americans as victims, I wanted also to consider their position as perpetrators in the kind of violence that oppresses them – willingly or not. I wanted to challenge both things: the white supremacy that killed this couple is the same white supremacy that was upheld by this couple and later their progeny in the years to follow. That actually it’s very easy for the oppressed to become the oppressor. Being a person of colour doesn’t give you a free pass. It doesn’t mean that you’re not capable of upholding white supremacy or the oppression of others.
CW: That says so much about accountability. I could picture so vividly the youngest character of that family line. I thought to myself, I know this guy. I grew up in Pennsylvania – I know that guy. I really appreciated how you addressed the microaggressions that he put into the world. Especially in that conversation that began with, ‘Where are you from?’ Because that’s never really what they mean, right? But now I’ll stop asking intense questions.
[Both laugh.]
CW: What are you reading for fun?
DA: I’m reading The Parisian by Isabella Hammad. She’s a British-Arab writer. It’s her first book – it’s five-hundred pages or something. She’s so impressive. It’s brilliant so far. It tracks one Palestinian man who moved to France as the Ottoman Empire was breaking up. I’m also reading Mediocre: The Dangerous Legacy of White Male Power by Ijoema Oluo. It’s nice because for the PhD I read so much race theory. It’s nice to read something that isn’t as heavy but is still discussing those topics in a way that connects to contemporary events and culture and history. So, I guess I’m still doing the same kind of reading I was doing before but … light. [Laughs.]
CW: I’m sure even when the PhD ends, it’s difficult to pull yourself out of that academic mindset and space and actually read something for fun without writing a paper about it.
DA: Yes! For a while I would still pick up a pencil whenever I was reading to take notes.
CW: You’ve been in academia for quite a while. Did you go right from your MA into your PhD?
DA: I took two or three years in between.
CW: I don’t know if you feel this way, but even after having many full-time jobs throughout my time in academia, I’ve always felt most comfortable in a university-setting. And now, when my PhD ends, there aren’t any more degrees to get.
[Both laugh.]
CW: So, I have to ask you the dreaded question.
DA: [Groan.]
CW: I know, I hate asking it. What are you doing next?
DA: I am freaking out! I’m trying to write. I’m trying to make money. The answer right now is, honestly, I just try to make it to the end of the day without having an existential crisis.
CW: That’s so comforting to hear. I mean, I’m sorry, but that’s comforting. You’re so not alone in that.
[Both laugh.]
DA: I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s tough. So many have it much harder than me, so I don’t mean to complain about it. I’m just trying to hold it together until the next thing happens.
CW: Thank you for your honesty. You know, I keep seeing this fucking meme, or tweet, they’re basically the same now, that says something like Oh, during Shakespeare’s time these horrible things happened, and he still wrote Romeo and Juliet! It’s this constant barrage of ‘What are you doing with this precious time we’ve been given?’ We’re in a pandemic!
DA: Exactly. I’m just trying not to lose my mind.
CW: Thank you so much for taking the time to chat with me. I could easily continue talking with you for hours, but those are all my – well, actually, can I sneak in one more question?
DA: Yeah!
CW: In ‘Daughters of Manāt,’ there are several quick and deliberate sentences. I thought this was a great contrast to the calm thoughtfulness of a character who is about to die by suicide, as she takes the time to brush her hair, do her make up, and even worries that if her death is too bloody, it will disgust or inconvenience others. This felt so telling of women’s conditioning – the idea that women should be both attractive and unimposing at all times, regardless of their mindset.
DA: I don’t know how much I can talk about it as a super-conscious thing I did. What you’re talking about comes up in other places as well – there’s the roommate who gets beat up by some guy and ends up in the hospital, and the narrator notices that her roommate’s toenail polish is chipped as she is lying in the hospital bed. There’s another section when the narrator has an abortion, and she calls one of the doctors pretty and another ugly. She also shaves her head, and her grandmother says, ‘Now no one will marry you’ and later her mother says, ‘Thank God your hair is growing back.’ I was thinking a lot about what women have to navigate in terms of their physical presentation and appeal and the importance that is placed on it. And how sad it is when you measure it against the real things that women contend with in their lives and the pity of it, I think. In that bit you mentioned, this person is going to throw herself out of a window, she’s going to die, and the gravity of that is so huge, but she’s thinking, Oh, I hope I don’t offend anyone with how I look. It is a really extreme example, but it is an example of how, maybe even when there are these weighty things happening in a woman’s life, she can be reduced to an image. How we judge a woman is based on her presentation even when there’s all of this other stuff going on.
CW: I’m so glad I asked that question. Thank you again for this interview. I really loved reading your work. I don’t get much time these days to read for pleasure and reading Alligator and Other Stories was a bit of time I was able to spend reading something enjoyable and beautiful and moving. Thank you for writing it.
DA: Thank you, Cindy. Thank you for really great questions. I really enjoyed this.
The man waits with tender anticipation, his palms face down on the table. He wears a faint smile at the thought of what is to come but also at how things have come to be, the days, the years, turning everything mellow like a softening fruit.
A smell wafts in from the kitchen, interrupting his thought process. Its aroma is rich and glutinous yet it stirs his gut only modestly. This is not because it is unappealing, but because of its steady presence; a dish that has punctuated many occasions of his life like a shot of his favourite liqueur.
Voices echo out on the landing then the front door opens and a whirlwind of bare limbs and smiling faces rushes into the hallway. The guests discard their belongings on the floor, fanning themselves against the heat and uttering gentle commands to the children hanging off their hips or clinging, like ivy, to their thighs.
They float down both sides of the table to land kisses on his cheeks. He receives them like marks of approval, a sign that he has accomplished what was required of him; as a father, a mentor and a protector. They tell him of the trials and trivia of their day, while the children peer timidly round the table leg, murmuring for mummy to shift her attention back to them. He smiles at both of these of things and takes a long drink from the glass of red wine that has been keeping him company until now. The alcohol floods his bloodstream, and he feels his sense of contentment amplify.
More people arrive: husbands and cousins. They come to him with a handshake or a squeeze of the shoulder and congratulate him on his accumulated years. He avoids their eyes and politely deflects the reminder with a thank you, not wanting to be drawn inwards to thoughts of ageing.
In a timely fashion, the food arrives. Elbows bump and hands crisscross one another to reach for platters of oily vegetables and glistening meats. He relishes in this ceremony, knowing that the goodness of the food is being shared amongst all who are dear to him, as it should and always has been.
A toast is made to his wife, the cook, and he hurriedly lifts his glass. Her soft, green eyes dart about the table in a panic and he loves her then: always the observer, but so rarely the observed. He loves his daughters too, their sweet faces, buoyant with the promise of youth and the beginnings of family. He’s been good to them, he thinks. He’s provided. And now they are blossoming.
He tops up his glass and drains it. Then he grins, forgetting what made him smile. Does it matter?
The conversation drifts around him now, detached and incoherent. Words are directed his way, but he scarcely engages in their meaning. He drinks again, and the room becomes a little brighter.
Dessert arrives, and the guests tuck in just as enthusiastically as before. The dish is offered to him but he waves it away, frowning as though it is an unwanted distraction.
He’s lost his train of thought now and other notions are beginning to cloud his head. What cause really is there for all this celebration, he wonders, when age only brings about weariness and the inevitability of lost dreams? He looks around the table for recognition of this fact, but everyone is too cheerful, caught up in merriment or at least pretending to be.
He leans forward and the surface of the table fills his vision. The marks and callouses are like reminders of the paths he’s taken and the ones that were cut short. He shakes his head as failings assume extraordinary weight, that he did not return to his hometown often enough and that the promise of some land and modest vineyard was never realised.
His wife speaks quietly in his ear, rousing him from his stupor. The guests are leaving now and he senses their vivacity funnelling out of the door. He tries to say goodbye, but it comes out like jumbled words uttered during sleep.
Then he is left as he began, with only a glass to keep him company while the threads of his thoughts whirl about, too fractured and imperceptible to recall. Rest is the only rational thing left to do and he drags himself to the bedroom, where the afternoon sun shoots long lines through the slits in the shutters.
Aunt Kelly always said the lamp in her living room, the one with the drooping shade, was a terrorist. Its chipped Murano glass, a scar. Its cord, a whip. Its bulb, a killing machine.
It transmitted encrypted messages through twisty wires behind walls all night, secret codes to toasters with anger management issues in nearby apartments, to antenna-like palm trees, to the whole island. A lamp devising the perfect doomsday plan, but ‘truly miserable’ inside, and ‘bullied ruthlessly.’ ‘Nobody wanted lamps with dark shades after 9/11,’ Aunt Kelly whispered, as she sipped cold chamomile tea in china cups, clarifying that the lamp’s messages were short but to the point – Brothers and sisters, Black Shade, Black Shade calling. That it used weird nicknames and different languages to cause a distraction, that it was a lone wolf, a mastermind, panning its shade like a radar, feasting on clues and transmissions from nearby stations.
Aunt Kelly was such a good storyteller. Grown-ups called it schizophrenia, but I knew mum would never leave me alone with someone who heard voices, just to fuck a boyfriend. And anyway, as mum said throughout my whole childhood, Aunt Kelly was too lonely to lose her mind.
Scuba diving in her puffy armchair, with her bony arms swinging above the floor, Aunt Kelly coughed, ‘I’m telling you kid, all this is true,’ and insisted that the lamp was suffering from what was called an Electra Complex. ‘She’s in love with her father, a five-thousand-euro chandelier.’
Retreating into my comic book, its edges slipping from my constantly sweaty fingers, I wondered whether lamps could have fathers, and be in love with them, and talk like spies or terrorists, beep, beep, light and darkness calling, darkness, darkness calling, beep, beep, whether this whole thing made any sense, like my parents’ divorce, like seeing a smiling stranger in the street and wishing he was my father.
When a fire broke out in a neighbouring building, Aunt Kelly rushed to the balcony, in her underwear, pulling me along as if I were a water hose, screaming ‘She did it! She did it! I fucking knew it!’ She then turned the lamp into a ‘zze’ and started calling her Electra. ‘Zze just needs to gather more voltage. Zzzer followers will cheer. All cables will transmit zzzzer act of sacrifice!’
Electra would eventually burn everything to ashes. Corrupted bankers, sunbeds, plastic bags, wigs and ‘extremely rude, heartless’ young men.
Aunt Kelly would then cough and cough, cough herself out of this world, and whisper with sticky, smelly lips, ‘Nobody stays sane after all this voltage.’ Her exhausted, bald head gleaming in front of Electra’s light, ‘like a lighthouse in the dark.’
by Maria A. Ioannou
At this height I feel sublime, like I’m floating above a snow globe lighting up the plot with my big stupid face. But I am not in the mood to take a photo. I want to hurl. Though I will be stay still and smile so I can Saran wrap this moment for later.
You can see the whole town at the top of Hallgrímskirkja. Up here in this monumental tube, you can marvel at the completed set of Reykjavík 101. Which I do, between begging to be squashed and squeezed out in a smooth paste straight into oblivion, do not pass Go.
When it’s this chilly there is nothing to smell. There is a vague quality of being thin, sharp, and unforgiving. Like a single mom police inspector on the hot trail of a cold case. I try a bit of spotting in the distance to keep from unraveling. I lock onto Cafe Loki, sitting blissfully in the prime corner spot down the street, its pale yellow shell not so much screaming for attention but clearing its throat. I would love nothing more than fly there to get a latte and a lobotomy.
The airline said they still don’t know where my luggage is, but they’re working on it. They do not realize that tucked away in my precious cargo carrying approximately 20 pounds of cardigans, beneath the hair iron and falsies is a neoprene pencil bag encasing a bottle of generic Zoloft, and within those lily white tablets, my peace of mind.
The withdrawal was immediate. I was expecting it to hit, but I’m still pissed off. The fact that 50 mg of anything could have such a colossal effect on my entire being is outrageous. That I wouldn’t also be able to still look simple yet striking on this photo tour is the other blow. I had imagined this moment in Italian lace, not my mother’s clothes like I’m going to buy bulk salad.
Speaking of my mother, she won’t stop scowling at me every time I forget to act natural. It is impossible for me to relate that this has absolutely nothing to do with her soon-to-be new husband who took us on this trip in the first place to get me on board with the program. Nothing at all. After waterfall #1, we hit waterfall #2 and then we go as far as a giant body of water that stays on the ground the whole time. On the way back I run up to a horse and pretend to give it a kiss and the resulting shot my never-father takes really is the best photo of me ever taken that I think it must be fate for the two of them to find each other. For dinner I have the horse steak.
Alone in my hotel room it’s just me, myself and my nausea. It’s 10pm but it looks like afternoon delight outside. I put a hand down my mother’s thermal leggings to sooth myself. It’s not entirely loveless. I know how to me faire chouchouter, you know, chipped Chanel nail polish and all. I imagine I get a call from the reception desk.
I’ve been watching you.
Oh? That’s a gross invasion of my privacy.
Actually, if you read the fine print of the Terms and Conditions of your rental, you’ll see it’s all kosher.
I turn over on my belly and I start to ride the crests of my knuckles.
Why don’t you tell me something more interesting, big boy.
Björk goes to my hot spring.
And then he is dry-railing me on the bed in his tweed pants. For a devoted employee, he is rather reckless about the damage the headboard is doing on the wall.
I’m close. Say it.
I don’t want to.
Oh please, I came all the way to Iceland.
It’s not a party trick.
…
Eyjafjallajökull.
Switching the channel to watch him fuck the brains out of a local sends me over the edge. When I finish, I look out the window and see the hot hotel girls stalk away with their long legs and long hair to their main event. The tag of my rice toasted matcha once told me the sincere belief that life actually happens when we’re not looking and I really haven’t been settled since.
“I think I’m depressed,” I said out loud for the first time to the campus nurse practitioner who practically throws me the pills on the way out. I was tired of crying. I was watching X-Factor auditions hours at a time, utterly exhausted from being moved by human achievement. I thought I was doing something brave and unprecedented by asking for a little help as I lay dying of thirst. And then I find out that water is all around me.
At waterfall #3, I can’t hear anything. I can’t move my face either at this wind speed. I am pure feeling. I love when nature externalizes my insides. If I take the plunge now and get swallowed whole on my way down to the floor, I’d hope my eyes stay open.
The sisters, light and dark, rain and shine. Corene, blunt cut burnt sienna and poems about midnight. Dawn, wavy and feathered, as blonde and buoyant as the day’s first glow. The scent of cinnamon and oranges. Corene would wander into the woods for solitude, spend all of Saturday in the library to avoid birthday parties and team sports. Dawn was a magnet, a hub, warm, loved everyone, stacked up a few dozen Valentines every winter. One sister does gold highlights, pastel blouses, a quick peach gloss over lids and mouth. The other has lips like a cardinal and holes everywhere for hardware. Dawn is married to her teenage sweetheart, takes her three flaxen-tressed boys to a big box church with drums and hands lifted in the air. Corene was an atheist for a long time, and is usually still wasted on Sunday mornings. She has no children and her husband is dead. Today Dawn is flipping flapjacks for a choir. Still in capri pajamas. Corene rinses the blueberries, slices up bananas. Dawn does not understand her sister’s paintings, but even so, her room is covered in them. Corene does not get new country, but she is bobbing along to the heartache as she drizzles the pancakes in nutmeg and maple. It was an impossible promise, to never be divided, but they have kept it since tweenage pinkie swear. They are refuge and sanctuary. You’ll never be friends, Mother used to say, in that trademark singsong taunt of hers, because your Father’s traitor juice runs through your veins. And they both saw right through it then and there, knew that his blood was the glue.
She didn’t like tea. She wasn’t even sure why she was drinking the murky brew. Except maybe, that it had become their evening custom. His custom. She looked down at the pinched teabag and sighed. He’d come home from work with new episodes of his office saga. Small businesses drowning his calendar. His officemate working long nights and still getting in before everyone in the morning; stubbled face and wrinkled shirts telling a different story. And there was always some major client he was trying to sign. She’d sit and pay attention as he poured over his day, asking all the right questions; responding with the expected sighs and hmm’s. Always over a cup of tea.
Afternoon tea had become one of those English traditions she’d deemed lofty. Like calling a backyard a ‘garden’, even in the absence of flowers. Her red puffy eyes shifted to the long strip of lawn beyond the glass doors. The rain pounded down on the manicured grass now. Their garden, she thought. The single, most unified decision they’d made since moving there: getting the house, getting that garden. A space to bandage the festering wound he’d made.
She sipped. The shadow of the raindrops on the window dotting pages of the eulogy sitting on the table.
Sip.
Michael had, at once, rubbed elbows with London culture. Fussing over silk ties and finding the right barber. Tweed blazers quickly becoming a staple in his wardrobe. He’d leave through the door each morning with an eagerness she was jealous of. Heaps of applications – positions she knew even she was overqualified for – and still nothing. But he was happy. And that had to be good enough. She’d have dinner ready for him; usually whatever he decided. “Looking forward to dinner, tonight?” had become some of his most endearing words.
His work colleagues made for instant friends. And Michael loved hosting them for dinner. She loved the cooking. That kitchen. The reclaimed barnwood table that she would ready for the crowd; an easy conversation piece during dinner. The kitchen island was an extension of her. Her purpose. The granite top classy and camouflaged. Unsung. “You deserve this kitchen” he had once said to her, sounding every inch the conservative English patriarch he had so passionately renounced. And she loved the comfort of their new home. She did.
His workmates, now her mates, would be at the church tomorrow. Lending her their pity again, an actual tragedy this time. They had raved over her cooking the first time Michael hosted. Parmesan truffle risotto, roasted sweet potato and almond crusted salmon with honey garlic sauce. She recalled the look of pride on his face when Dan’s incessant compliments led the table in an orchestra of full mouths and nodding heads. Now as vivid to her as the pages on the table. She was warmed by that pride. Depended on it. She would smile and nod, visibly enjoying everyone’s banter without adding much more than her dessert to the table. Michael was the talker. The storyteller. When it came to that phase of ‘friend-dom’ – the inevitable, get-to-know-you, backstory blab – Michael led the charge. And everyone had a story.
She had hated him telling hers. But she never let on. Besides, he knew. He knew that even the smartest, most open people were so often prone to backward thinking.
“Our compliments to the chef! Micheal, I envy you.” Dan’s plate was polished, she remembered, the fork hanging from his mouth. He sat back in his chair, giving more breathing space between his stomach and the table. But Michael had been tongue-deep in a spiel. “…the job market is brutal … NGOs and contract law … 3-ish years of experience,” He shrugged his shoulders rather animatedly, then. “Better than nothing, amirite?”
“…..!” the dense chatter was indistinct. But, from across the table came,“Trinidad?!! Where’s Trinidad?”
Every time.
Truth is, she wasn’t American – not by birth – but an immigrant.
“You know? South Caribbean? West Indies?” Michael‘s wide grin was met with blank stares. “The Commonwealth? Ex-Brit colonies? Those islands..” he continued.
“Is that where you met her?” they’d often ask, if someone hadn’t already blurted “so how’d you two meet?” Fucking white people, she’d think. And suddenly she was a part of his story, devoid of her own.
The smell of rain barged into the kitchen and sat there with her as she sipped her lukewarm tea. She deliberated over each sip, the liquid barely getting past her lips, like wine during communion. The sound of a million drops, like the familiar static that would take over late night television, frayed her thoughts. And he was there. Michael was there. Making himself a cup of joe like he always did. A shadow sipping a black brew.
“You’re no saviour, you know … no knight in shining armour” she whispered to the dark. “All that privilege… and nothing,” she clutched the mug.
She had travelled the world with Michael. Lived in four different countries on three different continents because of him. His successes bought the kitchen she now sat in. She’d had a good life thanks to him. She’d had a good marriage. A good, sexless marriage. After all, his work was his passion. But their union had set her apart. Down. She was suddenly a fortunate girl; blessed to have landed an accomplished and sensitive husband. Yes, a girl. Because despite her mature age, she was relegated to the naïveté associated with her race. With minority races.
The rain clouds quickly shifted evening into night. Her hand searched blindly into the dark cupboard, behind the sink and pipes, for the half bottle of brandy. The grief she expected never came. Her resentment never left. She topped off her cold tea with the alcohol, sips turning into gulps. The bottle dripped liquid across his eulogy, reddening the words she’d soon recite.
Jenna was saddled with three kids for a bum mechanic. Becky had a womaniser in her bed. Compared to them, she knew she had every right to be happy. Nine years happy. Sometimes – often – she wondered if Michael thought her privileged to have him. The wild and cavernous love they shared was gone. Their marriage had settled into a comfortable friendship. Maybe less comfortable. His stories always seemed to box her in the kitchen.
She towelled the washed mug and hung it from the cabinet with the others. She once loved that kitchen.
For as long as it remains in motion a falling plate remains complete. If one were to prolong the fall, the plate would gain a precious respite before the shattering.
In principle, should one somehow find some miraculous method of prolonging the fall indefinitely, the plate could deny its fate.
This afternoon Kee is making a broth from chicken bones and cabbage leaves; the pungent concoction is bubbling on top of the stove. She snaps now from her reverie and walks to the window to watch Johannes at play. Her son is hiding behind the apple tree and is doing it poorly. Half of his body juts visibly beyond the trunk. Not only that, he is also moving, convulsing with nerves and laughter.
Vincent roams the garden, pretending he cannot see the boy. He searches ineffectively, this way and that. He takes in the potato patch and the chicken coop despite the clear futility of both endeavours. Vincent takes in just about every conceivable location but the most obvious one, to the great amusement of Johannes.
Nearly two decades separate them, yet at this moment they are like two children playing together.
Vincent meanders past the tree, seemingly on his way to inspect the distant cowshed. This ruse proves one too many – Johannes breaks cover, screaming, to leap onto Vincent’s narrow back. The sight almost forces a smile onto Kee’s lips.
It is the first time she has come close to a smile in months. Shame courses through her. She is wearing black; a smile would be profoundly incongruous.
Kee steps away from the window and finds tasks for her restless fingers. The bread needs to be unwrapped and taken through to the dining table; there is butter in the pantry, also milk for drinking. Kee takes two bowls from her cupboard and places them on the table. She starts back to the kitchen before the thought occurs to her. Although she cannot recall seeing him eating in many months, she should at least offer a lunch to Vincent. She takes a third bowl from the cupboard and places it on the dining table.
When Kee returns to the kitchen, Vincent is standing in the hallway door, wet patches across his shoulders. Kee can hear it now, a burst of rain that has arrived rudely and without forewarning.
“Where is Johannes?” she asks instinctively.
“The rain started. I sent him to his room to practice his letters,” he replies tentatively.
Vincent is a voracious reader. He reads not just the Bible but also poetry and novels. He speaks and writes fluently in five languages. With Vincent’s help, Johannes can now draw the entire alphabet and recite lengthy passages of Scripture. “Was that right?” he continues. “Or would you like me to call him back down?”
Vincent seems nervous. He always seems nervous. He twitches in the doorway, moving from one pose to another, as if ease is forever elusive.
“No. It is good for him to practice. Thank you.”
Vincent’s face breaks into a bashful smile at her gratitude; the blood rushes to his cheeks.
He is a strange man. Everyone in the village says as much. He walks the streets barefooted, wearing dirty clothing, clutching his ragged Bible, and preaching – always preaching. He had been sent away to Borinage last year; Borinage had quickly returned him. Rumours were that he had proved too zealous in both belief and action even for the evangelicals. However, despite his eccentricities, Vincent is generosity itself. A man who sees time and possessions solely as means for charity.
“Will you eat with us this afternoon?” Kee asks.
In truth, she is indifferent to his answer. Like the others, she does not truly relish time around such an intense presence. Yet Vincent has done much for her and her son since Christoffel’s passing, so much that she cannot begrudge him their company. He stares back at her in silence, almost as if he is trying to ascertain the honesty of her offer. Kee feels herself blushing slightly, wondering if her mind is being read.
Vincent says nothing.
“Forgive me,” Kee continues correcting herself. “I meant to say, I want you to eat with us. You are skin and bones! Please, you are most welcome, stay, and eat a good, hot meal.”
“You are blushing,” Vincent declares, moving tentatively towards her.
Now it is Kee’s turn for silence. Hers emanates from her struggle against the ingratitude of her thoughts, against the shame she feels in acknowledging just how much effort it takes to truly like the person trying hardest to help her and Johannes in their time of greatest need.
“Can it be? Do you feel it too?” he asks.
The question is unexpected.
“Do I feel what?”
Vincent removes his straw hat. He is staring into her eyes, unblinking. He is searching ineffectively once again, only this time in earnest. Kee is at a loss to know what Vincent might possibly be experiencing.
“What?” she queries, unable to endure the protracted silence.
“There,” Vincent replies softly. “Love. Between us.”
Kee wonders if this is a poorly conceived joke, though Vincent rarely jokes. As always, he radiates sincerity, and real need.
Kee can blush no more.
“Vincent… No… No, I am deeply fond of you. Sincerely grateful for everything you have done for us…” She falters.
Vincent cocks his head slightly to one side.
“I am fond of you also!” he says. He begins to look around her kitchen with inexplicable purpose. “Can you see it?” he asks forlornly. “Fondness. Love. It is here, swirling and rippling, filling the room.”
“Vincent. Must I… need I say why that… that is wrong?”
“You are not long-widowed,” Vincent speaks in a voice cracked and wavering as he draws close. “You see only impropriety in a new love. Yet in love, you will – to your amazement – find God’s force. That which compels us to action: feeling! God’s love. It is the only true propriety.”
He continues, though the specifics of his turbulence washes over her like the spray of some miserable storm. Kee hears of Christian duty, of the importance of family, of Vincent’s new passion for painting and drawing, and of how his work is austere, joyless and devoid of love. He is frenzied, pressing until Kee loses patience and slaps him hard across his face.
“Cousin! Have you lost your mind?” Kee demands in a raised voice.
“If my mind is lost, it is lost in thoughts of you…And love is the sweetest lunacy. A desire has been sparked within. One that has rendered me insensible. I am wallowing in obsession, groping blindly through pink mist.”
“Adulterer! Drunk! Incestuous degenerate!” Kee’s accusations come with fresh blows, wild ones that are easily parried. “It is not God’s love you feel. It is a bestial perversion. A carrion desire for grieving relative. A lust to shame Gomorrah!”
Vincent looks confused. He steps back from Kee and her wrathful palms.
“Mother, why are you attacking Uncle Vincent?”
There is a note of fear in Johannes’ voice – or if not fear, then at least alarm. Vincent turns his head to the boy and does his best to reassure him.
“Please do not be overly concerned, Johannes. I simply raised the possibility of moving into this house, to live with you both.”
Vincent glances ruefully back at Kee. She only wants him gone.
“Your mother is cold to the notion,” he mutters in a voice soft and uncertain, “though perhaps, in time, she will thaw.”
Vincent lingers in her kitchen. He is a different man to her now. Kee understands why he was unable to join the priesthood; she sees behind the veil of innocence to where a sinful heart resides.
He does not yet understand this of himself. He returns her attention with a dumbstruck expression, as if the hostility that this most indecorous solicitation had been met with came as a genuine surprise.
Vincent retrieves his hat and makes his way out of the kitchen. He stops to rustle Johannes’ thick hair. For the first time, Kee feels uneasy about their contact. In this second, she knows there will be no more play between them, and no more tuition.
Vincent walks out of her house, moving quickly through her garden.
He cannot look back.
He takes the path outside, the one that leads away from Kee’s house. It will take him eventually through wheat fields and cypress groves, beneath liquid mountains, and under shimmering constellations.
Although they’d agreed to link up by the steamboats, Brendan found his wife, Esha, outside the firebreathers’ tent. There was a large wooden sign propped by the entrance: Learn to Breathe Fire and Amaze. He had dropped their daughter off at the pop-up nursery in the next field. Esha’s idea. And they were either going to have a talk or pretend to enjoy each other’s company. Brendan checked his festival programme. It was the fire workshop or the steamboat parade; both started in five minutes.
“Looks dangerous,” Brendan said.
“It’s not dangerous, it’s artistic,” Esha said.
“They don’t even wear any protective equipment, just…hairless bare chests.”
One of the firebreathers started to swing his rods inside the taped-off area, flameless but with skill. He was muscled. When he’d attracted a small crowd, he stabbed both rods into the grass and spoke in a voice like water.
“Over the next sixty minutes you will learn what it takes to swing, toss, swirl, throw and extinguish but, most importantly, to treat the fire with respect as it is a living thing, just as the earth or the wind or the trees. My name is Scorch, and I will be your teacher. Please form a line, and we will get each of you sorted with your equipment and, more importantly, the knowledge to command fire safely.”
As the crowd became a queue, Scorch began playing techno music, shaking his pectorals in time with the pulse. Esha dragged her middle finger along the table in her programme. Brendan noticed she no longer wore her ring. He prodded at his with a thumb. How long would it take for a tan line to disappear? Esha’s finger was now the same colour all over. He’d remove his when it became more official. She nodded and made sounds of consideration.
“Oh, but your steamboat thing is on now as well,” she said. “How badly do you want to see that?”
Brendan saw through her veneer of sensitivity, noticing the fire in her. This would happen often. She’d say one thing without any care for what it was or what it meant to him. Her passion surpassed his interests. But it didn’t matter anymore.
“We can try this,” he said.
“Yeah, you’ll give it a go?” Esha said.
“I might catch the boats further down the river.”
They joined the back of the queue. A young girl at the front blew bubbles from a plastic sword until her father replaced it with a small rod.
Brendan received his rod, Esha hers. They stood side by side on the patch of grass. She swung high above her head and down below her knees. Scorch stalked the perimeter of the tape. He knelt by the young girl, corrected her stance and did the same for a few excited others. Brendan held his rod out in front of him. He pierced an imaginary enemy in the back. He heard a steamboat horn from the river to the north. The firebreather was at his side. Brendan felt the breath at his ear, smelt gasoline and smoked mackerel.
“In first stance we always keep our batons aimed at the ground, remember, for safety and grace – that’s it, just down like that.”
The firebreather moved to Esha. He said something close to her neck, and she laughed while looking into his face; then her eyes dipped down to his torso and back up. Brendan saw the fire in her as had her new fella, Steve, and apparently, as did Scorch as he patted her shoulder a little too long then went to stand at the front of the workshop. Esha turned her head.
“Excited?” she said.
“They’re not actually going to light our rods. It’ll just be basic skills and tricks. There’s children running around,” Brendan said.
She domed her mouth and turned to the front. Scorch stopped the music and gave his instruction.
“In your hand you hold a symbol of power and virility, and when the flames take to it, that symbol becomes a totem of all the energies you possess: for the men it will be strong like a bull and for the women a graceful life-giving goddess will reveal itself and, most importantly, the children, their innocence and playfulness acting as a fuel. Please raise your totem as I do.”
Scorch rolled his shoulders – a pectoral bounced – and raised his arm into the air. Brendan performed the movement. He watched Esha, how her spine bent and her neck straightened. She was eager to receive the fire, experience a slice of danger, but he knew she wouldn’t know what to do with it once she had it. She would be a kitten with a dead thing, a thing she had killed with all her whimsy.
There was drumming from a tent across the field – Brendan saw families, the flags whipping towards the river. He heard Scorch, the firebreather’s words an adhesive, bonding each rod to its wielder.
“Visualise a circle, draw it in the air, see it spin into existence.”
Esha focused on her movements, pursing her lips like she did when she gave her full attention to something that wasn’t important. The young girl was showing off with her speedy loops. Her father laughed at her.
Brendan wanted to fetch his daughter from the next field and take her to see the steamboats, tell her about her grandfather, the sailor that went to sea and never returned: My daddy was the captain of his own steamboat, my daddy was a pirate with a wooden leg and one eye. If he carried her, they would get to take part in voting for best boat. One nice thing to happen before he drove them back to Steve.
“Bring your circles in smaller and smaller until…They. Fizzle. Out.” Scorch clapped for everyone’s attempts as their displays came to an end. Then he was serious.
“I will give a demonstration of what is possible when you let go of fear.” Another firebreather swept into the workshop area, lighting the raised pit by Scorch’s feet
Scorch dipped his rod in the fuel and rolled it above the pit. The flames lit with ease. He puffed his cheeks and wrapped his jaw around its end. When it came out of his mouth, smoking black, the other participants cheered. Esha looked at Brendan.
“You can’t say that isn’t amazing,” she said.
All of this for what was, essentially, a party trick, Brendan thought. The young girl and her father were enthralled.
“Should have brought Abby along with us,” Brendan said.
“She was the one that said she wanted to draw daddy a picture,” Esha said.
Two other topless firebreathers joined Scorch in a menagerie of flame-eating and rod-twirling. The tutorial had turned into a performance, but no one seemed to care. They’d all forgotten what they had been promised at the start.
“I want her to get used to seeing us separately,” Brendan said.
The crowd drowned him out with claps and cheers.
“Who wants to come up here and breathe some fire?” Scorch said.
“Maybe she can stay with me next weekend? Get her used to having another bedroom,” Brendan said. The drummers went into double time with hoots and yells.
“She’d love that – give me and Steve some time to ourselves,” Esha said.
“Let me see your hands,” Scorch shouted. The crowd was hesitant.
“I was thinking I could catch the end of the steamboat parade. I can go and get Abby now if you want?” Brendan said, but Esha was taken with the firebreather’s commands and had flung her arms into the air, jumping on her spot of grass.
“Over here! He’ll do it, my husband will do it,” she said.
The young girl and her father smiled at Brendan. And soon they were all smiling at him.
“A round of applause for this brave gentleman here,” Scorch said.
Esha pulled her husband from his spot of grass, squeezed him into her arms, and pushed him forward. She laughed. The crowd clapped. The young girl was on her father’s shoulders. As he came to the front, Brendan could smell the smoked fish again.
“Don’t worry, we won’t make you take your shirt off, sir,” Scorch said.
Esha’s hands were to her chest. The fire in her became a mother’s kind, the same look she had when Abby received a Fantastic! sticker for her homework.
“A warning to everyone. What we are about to teach this man is extremely dangerous, so do not for one second think you can try it at home. Do you hear me, children? Fire is dangerous and if misused can bite you. It is a wild animal, and luckily for this man here we have learnt how to tame it.”
Brendan heard more steamboat horns, much further away this time. While Scorch fitted him with a glove, he whispered into Brendan’s ear, the performance patter dribbling away. “This is really dangerous, mate, so just give me a nod if you want to carry on and do exactly as I say, yeah?”
Brendan nodded.
The drummers came to a stop, and Esha was still smiling, and the young girl and her father were astonished that someone like them was going to breathe fire.
Scorch tipped a shot glass of the fuel into Brendan’s mouth. “Do not swallow this, mate, okay?”
Brendan thought it tasted like running behind his father’s car as it left the drive; his father always told him not to get too close, but he also told him they’d still see each other, even after the separation. The last time he followed that car he remembered it turning right at the end of their street, shrinking as it raced towards the river. The boats on the dock were waiting to harness the spirit of the northern wind, and his father’s car was on its way to meet them. That’s what he liked to imagine when he was a boy: My daddy the pirate sailor went down with his ship, never to be seen again. Until he was, with his new family up north.
Scorch addressed the onlookers, “On the count of three this man is going to spray like there’s no tomorrow letting go of fear making sure this match is at arms-length.”
He lit a long match and placed it in Brendan’s gloved hand.
“Ready?”
Brendan nodded.
“One… two…”
Esha filmed with her phone.
“THREE.”
The crowd screamed and cheered. Scorch grabbed Brendan’s wrist and scaffolded it up high. The drummers celebrated; steamboats sang.
*
Esha and Abby were sat on a bench outside the nursery tent. Brendan returned to them with an ice cream, a beer for himself, and a lemonade for his wife. Abby was colouring in the picture she’d drawn for him, her mother’s phone in her lap, crayons dotted about the grass.
“More days like this,” Brendan said.
“Maybe next year you can take her. Go see the parade,” Esha said.
“And where would you be?” Brendan said.
“Hopefully, on my honeymoon.”
“He asked?” Brendan said.
“He asked,” Esha said.
Abby held up her drawing for inspection. The burst of orange on the page was like an explosion.
She looked at her father, and the love was rooted deep. Esha had helped with the writing: My daddy the dragon by Abby aged 5.
The first thing he’d do when he got back to his flat was fix it to the fridge. Then he’d get down to sifting through the forms he left on the table that morning.
…lots of us eventually succumbed to the tide of stay-at-home reality. I gradually gave up my outside-world façade: sweatpants became daily attire, bras were almost forgotten about, my straighteners sank to the bottom of the drawer and I began to only apply makeup for my online classes. And then, eventually, not even for those. That final development might not sound like much of a landmark, but for me, it was unprecedented.
Kathryn Tann
Can face masks become liberating? In this piece, Kathryn Tann shares with us a surprising silver lining from this pandemic.
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This piece was first accepted for publication in its written version by Santes Dwynwen Magazine.
Did you like this podcast? Listen to The Making of Legacy by Michele Wheeler next.
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Before flying to Malmö for the funeral of our recently deceased colleague, I check the octopus tanks one last time. It’s re-chipping day for our cephalopods.
‘Kevin, microchips at two-thirty. Understand?’
‘Where will you be?’
‘Malmö.’
Kevin looks down at the floor. ‘They’re violent. They don’t like me.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Kevin.’
Our recently deceased colleague wanted a sea burial. We circle the Ribersborg bay. The anchor drops as I receive a message from Kevin. The buzz of my phone continues to be covered by the splash and bubbles of our
recently deceased colleague’s casket.
*
Incorrect hypotheses arise from a group of children as they look into the sea at a jellyfish bloom.
‘They’re not made of electricity. The zinging you claim to see is only a trick of the light,’ I say. ‘I hope you see the error in your assumption.’
The children, shielding the sun from their eyes, turn toward me.
A girl in a dark dress says, ‘Why are you smiling?’
‘It’s a nice day.’
I wish I wasn’t so hungry, otherwise I would happily chat to these children about jellyfish, but it’s at the buffet I cross paths with our recently deceased colleague’s wife. She is launching into an anecdote about her husband as I stare at my pile of food, a story about a rare trip to the cinema she took ‘alone’, a trip, she claims, her husband forced her to make. It turns out this was the day her husband met with funeral directors to organise our cruise around Ribersborg harbour, final wishes he’d resolved to keep secret as his wife watched the new James Bond film.
Shoulders slumping, she then says, ‘It all makes sense. I don’t even like James Bond.’
He had not gone jet-skiing as she originally thought, instead, she found her husband lifeless and blue in the bath. Just as well my food is cold, I think, my appetite diminished.
*
I spoke to our recently deceased colleague three weeks ago, after the introduction of the new regulations. The department needs to tighten up its procedures and practices before inspection. Our recently deceased colleague’s fierce last words to me were about how no ‘satanic bureaucrats’ were going to stop him delivering his research.
As I sit on the train I try, with text messages, walking Kevin through the microchipping procedure, but I know he isn’t our most dexterous assistant and will need closer guidance. Standing in the train’s vestibule, I call Kevin’s phone.
‘Stand down Kevin, get Debra to do it…Of course your hands are wet…No, I left early, I will be there in ninety minutes.’
When I heard the news, the death of our recently deceased colleague was a surprise. Even if I knew that would be the final time I spoke to our recently deceased colleague, I doubt I would have been brave enough to tell him to do things differently.
I never believed in miracles until I witnessed one in the summer of 1989. Back then, my granny was always going on about how the end times were upon us while my mother said we should focus on the miracles that were all around. They both claimed I’d see the truth for myself if I bothered paying attention. I didn’t believe either one of them, really. But then I met the boy.
I could tell he was a strange one from the start. Watching him from the window, I wondered what made him so different from the other kids I’d babysat. Far more delicate than the others, he was unnervingly quiet, barely speaking a word most of the time. All over his body, blue veins pressed up against the surface of his pale, almost translucent skin, visible in a way that seemed unnatural. And he bruised so easily. Thinking of all the ways the world might hurt him terrified me. The other children I’d watched were hearty and more substantial, always running around with endless excitement. They rushed up to me, placing both feet firmly on the ground, begging for more – more playtime, more snacks, more television, more stories to help them fall asleep. But that first day, and the second, the boy outside the window remained silent and immobile, like he was waiting for something to happen. If a strong enough wind blew around the corner of the house, I feared he might blow away. Children shouldn’t be so still. I didn’t know what to do with a child who just sat in the grass, frozen like a statue while staring out at nothing I could see. Every now and then, he tilted his head to the side or pushed his wispy blond hair back with one hand, but more minutes passed than I could count without him moving. I couldn’t imagine what he was waiting for.
He and his family were new to town. His mother must have heard that I occasionally watched neighbourhood kids, mostly in the summer. She asked my mother if I was available for a few hours during the day, only two or three days a week. She couldn’t offer to pay much, she said, but my rates turned out to be more than reasonable. Perhaps babysitters back where they came from were more expensive than ones in our small town. Maybe I should charge more, I joked with Mama – city rates. We laughed, but as soon as I met the boy, I saw there was nothing to laugh about. Even though I was only fifteen at the time, I could tell something was off.
And then the thing with the bees started. At first, I assumed it was an accident. I’d been sitting in the rocking chair on the back porch with my feet perched up on the railing, keeping an eye on him. Despite feeling a little unsettled in his presence, he was an easy assignment. I had plenty of time to read while he sat around doing nothing. He accepted a snack or a cup of water when offered but never asked for anything. Since he hadn’t budged in nearly an hour, I was mostly focused on my book, but then a sudden flurry of movement caught my attention. By the time I looked up, I realized I’d missed most of whatever had just happened. The boy had somehow gotten to the far end of the yard, out near the fence. He was sitting in the grass, leaning over like he was studying something closely. I put my book down, surprised he’d wandered so far without me noticing. Though he never called out and didn’t seem hurt or anything, I ran over anyway, taken aback by the sudden change in his routine.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
He looked up at me, smiling. It was the first time I’d seen his expression change. It spooked me, actually, but I took a deep breath and smiled back, relieved that he seemed alright. He turned away to examine his foot, which he held crossed over his leg.
“What happened?” I asked again.
“Bee sting,” he offered calmly.
“Oh! Let me see.” I walked around, bending down to take a look. The bottom of his foot was red and had already started swelling. “Does it hurt?”
“Not really.”
I stood back up, worried all of the sudden. What if he was allergic? Did I need to rush him to the hospital or get in touch with his doctor? Maybe I should call his mother? Glancing down, I saw he was gently rubbing the sole of his foot with his fingertips. “Have you ever been stung before?”
“No,” he answered without looking up.
“And you feel okay?”
“I feel okay,” he said.
But what if he wasn’t okay? I didn’t know how long it took for a severe allergic reaction to take hold. Just as I was about to rush inside to call his mom, I felt pressure around my ankle. The boy had grabbed me with one hand, gripping more firmly than I thought him capable. “Don’t worry,” he said, staring up at me with wide, unblinking eyes. “I’m fine.”
So I didn’t call anyone or go for help. It was just a bee sting, after all, and he did seem fine. Worried that his mother might think I’d been neglectful, I braced myself at their front door when I arrived to drop him off. It took her a while to answer, but when she did, I couldn’t get a good read of her mood. Her eyes were hidden by a large pair of sunglasses even though she was indoors. She also seemed a little wobbly on her feet, like she’d just woken up. Taking the boy’s hand, she yanked him in. I barely had a chance to mention the incident before she shut the door in my face, offering nothing but a shrug in response to my apology.
The boy seemed different the next time he came over. Before, darkness clouded his eyes, but when he looked up at me, smiling, a new spark of light gleamed, like he had found some sort of clarity. He raced through the house, reminding me of all the other kids I’d watched. I heard him open the back door and rush outside. By the time I reached the porch, he’d already run off into the yard. I gazed out at him, relieved to see him so full of energy. Then I noticed a pair of tiny sandals at the bottom step that he must have just kicked off. I wanted to call out to him, to tell him to be careful running around barefoot, but something stopped me. He looked so happy and normal. Maybe I was worried about disrupting his sudden transformation. So I sat in my chair, picked up my book, and pretended to read, all while keeping a close eye on him. If he noticed he was being watched, I feared he might revert to his old sullen self.
Walking around the yard, taking care with each slow and steady step, he seemed to be looking for something in the grass. This went on for a while, until he suddenly froze, staring down at the ground. I remembered hunting four-leafed clovers when I was his age; finding one was so exciting and felt like a real accomplishment. If that’s what he was doing, I should join him, I thought. But as I continued watching, he lifted his leg and stomped down. He then tumbled back into the grass, grabbing his foot. I should have known he wasn’t after lucky clovers.
I made it about halfway across the yard before stopping in my tracks. With his head bent back, the boy stared into the sky with such a rapturous look on his face I didn’t know what to think. A part of me wanted to go back to the porch and let him be. My presence felt too much like a violation of this private moment he was enjoying. I’m not sure how long I stood there, waiting for a sign. When he lowered his head again, I finally walked on, knowing I had to make sure he was okay.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Bee sting,” he answered without bothering to turn around.
I sighed. “You should keep your sandals on when you’re playing.”
He pulled his foot up closer to his face, examining the wound. I walked around to get a better look. “Does it hurt?”
“At first.”
“Want me to carry you back?”
“No,” he said, “I like it in the grass.”
I smiled. “I like it too, the way it feels cool against your skin.” I hesitated to leave him, but he did seem fine. “Sure you’re okay?”
“I’m okay.”
For a few moments, I watched as he gently rubbed the bottom of his swelling foot. As I made my way back to the porch, I worried I should be doing more. A few minutes later, when it was time to take him home, he hobbled a bit but seemed alright otherwise. Just as we reached his front door, he surprised me with a quick hug. Touched by his affection, I forgot to mention anything about the bee sting to his mother, who once again yanked her son inside before quickly shutting the door.
The next time it happened, I saw everything from the kitchen window. Barefoot, he walked around the yard, keeping his eyes trained on the grass. He moved in an odd pattern, pausing at times to squat down or backing up a few steps before quickly darting forward again; sometimes, he walked around in a circle, only to dash off to one side or the other unexpectedly. Actually, there was no discernible pattern in the way he followed his bees around, waiting for the right moment to pounce. That must have been what he was doing, I figured. Instead of going out to stop him, I simply observed. His was a careful process. A couple of times, he lifted his foot, but then something caused him to change his mind. His pursuit continued for a while, until he abruptly stopped again. This time, he lifted his foot even higher. Standing over the unsuspecting bee, he must have felt like a giant. I held my breath as he stomped down at last. There was no scream or yelp of pain as he tumbled back into the grass, pulling his foot up to study closely. I waited a few moments before going outside to check on him.
“Why do you do this?” I asked, taking a seat beside him.
“It feels good to scratch,” he answered.
“But doesn’t it hurt?”
“Not for long.”
I watched, mesmerized as he rubbed the bottom of his foot with his fingertips. Later, I imagined he would scratch harder, scraping his fingernails against the swollen, delicate skin. If he drew blood, would that stop him from scratching? Or would he go on, wallowing in the relief? I had a feeling the sight of blood would do little to deter him.
“What about the bees?” I heard myself asking.
“They die.” He turned to look at me, sighing. “Maybe it’s a good sacrifice?”
“Maybe we should pray on it.”
“We don’t pray at my house.”
“I’m not much for praying either,” I said, playfully nudging his shoulder. “But don’t tell my mama or granny.”
“I won’t,” he said, still going at his foot. At one point, he closed his eyes and leaned back, smiling with the sun on his face. He looked so happy despite the pain he must have felt. Never had I seen a child or anyone else react in such a way to getting stung by a bee. And I knew I never would again.
“Does your mother know you do this?” I asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“And your father?”
His body tensed up as he dropped his gaze down and started scratching his foot so hard I worried it would start bleeding. I grabbed his little hand and held it in mine. “It’s okay,” I said. “Here, lie back.” We both stretched out across the ground and gazed up at the sky. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t answer, and I didn’t push him. I pulled up a few blades of grass and dropped them over his chest. “I love the way the grass feels, the way it smells,” I said.
“Me too,” he offered in a quiet voice. After a few moments, he asked, “Are your parents nice?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer at first. My father had left us years earlier for a secretary working in his office. My mother liked to say he was such a cliché – that is, after she’d finished saying much more colourful things about him. For a while, he tried to stay involved in my life, promising that I would always be his little girl, but when he and the secretary moved to another town, he stopped trying so hard. And after a while, I stopped taking his calls when he bothered to ring us up. I didn’t know what to say to him, especially as I got older. Besides, he and the secretary had their own kid to worry about.
But I couldn’t explain all that to the boy. “I guess they’re okay,” I told him. “What about your parents?”
“They ain’t okay.”
“What do you mean?”
“They fight a lot,” he said in a low voice. “My dad yells at us all the time. And my mom sometimes falls down and doesn’t get back up.”
Before I could think of a way to respond, he leapt up and headed back to the porch, telling me it was time to go as he stepped into his sandals.
That evening, I moped around the house, wondering if I should seek advice about the boy and his strange habits. When my mother asked how things were going with him, I must have paused a moment too long. She could tell something was bothering me. “Honey,” she started. “Do you know why you never go to his house to babysit?”
Surprised by the question, I realized I’d never thought about it. Most of my other jobs took place at the child’s home, usually somewhere nearby. But I’d never even been inside the boy’s home. My mother explained that his parents didn’t get along, that the father had a drinking problem and there’d been an incident involving the police when they first moved in. There were things about the world I didn’t understand, she said, though she really should have given me more credit. Kids soak up everything, like a sponge.
She made me promise to tell her if anything ever happened that made me uncomfortable. And if I ever saw bruises or other marks on the boy, I was to let her know right away. I thought of mentioning the bee stings, but I felt protective of the boy, like I’d be breaking a promise if I told. Besides, I didn’t think Mama would understand. I’m not sure I completely understood, but I didn’t want to deny him the relief that came from scratching at an itchy sting. Though it was a small thing, it might have been all he had.
He continued stepping on bees but rarely did it more than once a week. Each new sting seemed to rejuvenate him, like he was feeding off the poison. It worried me, but I couldn’t help but notice how much he’d changed over the course of the summer. He was more playful than ever and much less tense. Our time together must have offered a break from whatever was going on at his house. I didn’t want to take that away from him, but perhaps it was a mistake to let the thing with the bees continue.
One day late in the summer, while looking for my book in the living room, I heard a faint humming sound coming from somewhere outside. It started low but quickly grew much louder, like something was closing in. I went to the kitchen window to make sure the boy was okay, but I didn’t see him anywhere. I ran outside, stopping when I found his clothes strewn across the porch steps. They were so small without him there to fill them, like a doll’s clothes. The buzzing got louder and louder until it was all I could hear. Unable to discern where the noise was coming from, I felt dizzy for a moment; just putting one foot in front of the other was difficult. But then I thought of the flowerbed at the side of the house and somehow knew that’s where I had to go. As I rounded the corner with the noise pounding in my head like a steady drum, I saw the shape of the boy lying on the ground, rolling back and forth over the bright flowers my mother had planted. So many bees covered him they were like a second skin; their black and yellow bodies twitched and vibrated as they crawled all over him. I couldn’t see anything of his soft, delicate skin beneath the bees, but I imagined him covered with so many stings and so much swelling that no one would ever recognize him again. I froze in place, putting a hand over my mouth as I watched the bees crawl inside his.
I’m not sure if I imagined it or not, but I could have sworn I heard a small burst of laughter escape his mouth, which remained wide-open to the invasion. As the bees flew in from every direction, I couldn’t help but wonder if they were there to deliver the peace he’d been after for so long or if they had arrived seeking vengeance for all he’d done. Either way, I don’t think it mattered to the boy since his days of suffering were over at last.
Overhead, another swarm appeared, and then another, filling the sky until everything turned black.
Picture credits: Joshua Gilgart-Roy
Platform shoes, long hair and flares, / Tank tops, maxi skirts and bright shirts, / Slade, Sweet and T-Rex topped the charts, / As well as the Carpenters, Mud and Gary Glitter. / People didn’t seem to have a care, / But then there was the three day week, / Britain joined the EEC, / Some felt this shouldn’t be / The path that the country followed;
Sarah Lipton-Sidibeh
‘Who controls the past, controls the future’ was Georges Orwell’s great insight. This piece takes us back to a hopeful past that managed to break some damaging cycles. Yet, it doesn’t let us forget that there is still much work to do…
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This piece by Sarah Lipton-Sidibeh is from her book The First Collection published by Jacaranda. You can find it Waterstones, Foyles, Walmart, The Book Depository and Amazon.
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Overnight, the house has been requisitioned by The Committee, and I come downstairs to find all those famous but interchangeable white men and token others huddled round the breakfast table, strategizing over take-out coffee and croissants. They’re all shorter than they look on TV and, if anything, whiter. Perhaps they’re a little less male. They smell of new cars and indulgent nannies, and of holidays on islands with familiar names and no budget flights. The Minister for Insincere Appeasement moves to let me sit and explains that my house was chosen in order to offer insight into Diverse Britain, and that they want to get closer to The People. I point out that I, too, am white, male, and in a pretty decent job, but the Minister for Telling It How It Is waves his hand like a silk handkerchief from a passing motorcade and assures me I’m diverse enough for his focus group, and that if I could answer Other to a list of questions about my parents, my sexuality, my cat, and my religion, it would be helpful in Getting Things Done. There is a round of applause, and the Minister for Sincerity presents me with a cheque for three thousand pounds to tide me over until Christmas or, possibly, next Christmas. It isn’t signed, and nobody has a pen. The Minister for Facetious Pragmatism takes a rubber stamp from his expensive but tasteful briefcase, breathes on the dried red ink, and presses it decisively onto a slip of paper that he tosses into the waste bin. There’s another round of applause. When the press arrive, they leave en masse, mugging for the cameras and joking in schoolboy Latin, slapping each other’s backs, jam-smeared knives tucked ready beneath blue cuffs. The dining room’s all crumbs and coffee stains, the silverware’s gone, and the phone’s ringing. It’s the Minister for Afterwards, reminding me to pay the breakfast bill.
An intriguing and thought-provoking sentence opens the novel His Only Wife by Peace Adzo Medie and demands an undivided reader’s attention. “Elikem married me in absentia; he did not come to our wedding,” the young Afi Tekple narrates her story. “The ceremony was held on the third Saturday in January in the rectangular courtyard” of Afi’s uncle’s house. The two families gathered to execute an arranged and forced marital union that would bind the young couple to an equally rectangular life within the strict and absurd confines of their community. Afi’s uncle, the head of the Tekple family, saw significant financial relief in the wealth and kindness of Elikem Ganyo, a successful young businessman from the country’s capital. Elikem’s mother, the head of the Ganyo family, despised the Liberian woman her son had chosen and with whom he has already had a child. She hoped that Afi’s youth and modesty, as well as her lack of support and education, could come in handy in luring his son out of “that woman’s” embrace. The couple was forcefully and absurdly united, after which Afi was sent to live alone in the groom’s spare condo in Accra, awaiting the stranger husband’s infrequent and unexpected visits.
In this fast-paced confessional story that in essence follows the structure of a romance, Peace Adzo Medie quickly and unapologetically penetrates the troubled soul of the corrupt modern-day Ghanaian society. Issues that Adzo Medie unearths right from the start of the novel reach beyond the contemporary feminist narrative and the concept of equality.
In His Only Wife, we meet men who are defending their societal right to live with more than one wife and women who are feeding to the men’s power by teaching their daughters to play by the rules no one is still allowed to question.
We encounter a world in which older women, mothers and aunts, are not setting the example but gatekeeping a system in which their daughters grow into dutiful leaches that exist only to, through the right marriage, provide a good living for the entire family. The sons, equally deceived and used as mere providers, remain unaware of their right to experience love and to fight for a woman of their choosing. Even accomplished sons like Eli Ganyo are still mute in front of the women who raised them. Their biggest concern seems to be keeping the older adults satisfied and the community free of gossip.
The sentence, “All men are the same, they only know how to love themselves and to sit on women,” resurfaces resentment. Are those societal rules a cursed wheel that can’t stop? Or can there be someone at the right moment who would dare raise a question? What if I don’t want to answer to the mothers? What if I want to fight for a man I’ve fallen in love with? Afi Tekple challenges the social norms as she decides to fight for a life she imagined, a life where she would be his only wife, loved and respected. She understands that “marriage shouldn’t be a never-ending competition where you spend your life fighting to be seen and chosen.” However, society fights back with their seemingly reasonable and realistic explanations. Different voices come forward and blend into a harmonious chorus, preaching:
Afi, look around you, look at the life you have. A beautiful flat, a car and driver parked in front of the building; you even said he’s promised you a boutique in the new mall. On top of that he’s kind and loving. So what if he sometimes goes to stay with another woman? Men have side-babes, that’s just the way it is. But it doesn’t matter because you are his wife. You are the one his family and friends recognize, and that’s what’s important.
The narrative structure, characterisation, and the language that Peace Adzo Medie employed to write the story turned out simpler than I had expected, considering the theme’s complexity. Still, I kept turning the pages in urgency as if my continuous presence in the story would help save the heroine. Afi Tekple shone throughout the story with her honesty, defiance, and loving heart. She proved that even inside a rotten society, one could remain uncorrupted. For the story is told through Afi’s eyes, Eli’s character did not come fully alive, but his heartache came through as overwhelming. The dualism consumed him: his honest love for his first wife that nobody approved is now opposed to his new and growing sentiments towards Afi.
Peace Adzo Medie dared write about the world in which new generations of men and women are equally victimized and doomed to emotionally empty lives to keep the old world’s definition of marriage and coupling alive. Marriage in such society is the unbreakable financial agreement between two families, made to answer to the needs of the tribe. Afi Tekple dared write an alternative ending.
By Alexandra Panic
We have expanded and diversified our online presence to become a hub for new fiction, literary journalism, essay, audio, reviews, reportage and more. We publish everything from book reviews to video interviews. We are looking for a new team member to fill our online editor position.
As the Online Editor you will be responsible for overseeing all online content, developing ideas, liaising with contributors, shaping the direction of the online platform and managing the section editors. You will help maintain the back-end of a complex WordPress site, working on new features and managing our membership platform.
As the ideal candidate, you will:
- Be passionate about literature, culture and writing
- Have editorial experience
- Have solid experience of WordPress, and basic knowledge of HTML
- Have a good current knowledge of what’s going on in the literary world
- Be able to provide examples of your published writing (online or in print)
This is a paid, full time position. It is an advantage to be London or New York based, as you will be required to attend events on behalf of Litro in either London or New York as we slowly ease out of the pandemic, office work will be a long term environment but for the remainder of 2021 and first quarter 2022 there will be the option to work primarily from home.
To apply, please send your CV and a sample of your writing (preferably something published online or in print), to eric.akoto@www.litromagazine.com by Friday 16th April.
We are seeking a creative leaning, Full Stack Developer with SEO able to handle data analysis, who can also accurately identify specific issues in user experience and provide recommendations and codified solutions to help influence the design of Litro. They also need to be able to fluidly work with other team members across Litro to understand specific goals, needs, and our opportunities, and then execute on those directives. Must have a strong mastering of HTML, CSS, and Javascript programming. As well as fluency in PHP, Ruby, Python, Java, and .Net and tools like MySQL, Oracle, and SQL Server to find. Also will need experience with PHP frameworks like Zend, Symfony, and CakePHP; experience with version control software like SVN, CVS, or Git; and experience with Linux as a development and deployment system. And knowledge of frameworks like Bootstrap, Foundation, Backbone, AngularJS, and EmberJS, and libraries like jQuery and LESS, experience with Ajax.
Responsibilities
- Designing and implementing new features and functionality
- Establishing and guiding the website’s architecture
- Ensuring high-performance and availability, and managing all technical aspects of the CMS
- Produce fully functional programs writing clean, testable code
- Design user interface and web layout using HTML/CSS practices
- Upgrade and repair existing programs
- Create technical documentation for user support
- Stay up-to-date with industry developments
Skills and Qualifications
- Good understanding of front-end technologies, including HTML5, CSS3, JavaScript, jQuery
- Experience building user interfaces for websites and/or web applications
- Experience designing and developing responsive design websites
- Comfortable working with debugging tools like Firebug, Chrome inspector, etc.
- Ability to understand CSS changes and their ramifications to ensure consistent style across platforms and browsers
- Ability to convert comprehensive layout and wireframes into working HTML pages
- Knowledge of how to interact with RESTful APIs and formats (JSON, XML)
- Proficient understanding of code versioning tools {{such as Git, SVN, and Mercurial}}
- Strong understanding of PHP back-end development
- Proven work experience as Web programmer or developer
- Hands on experience with various programing languages, like PHP, ASP.NET, Javascript and Ruby on Rails
- Knowledge of Object Oriented Programming and web application development
- Attention to detail
- Project management skills within a fast-paced work environment
An ability to communicate and work in a team
Application Deadline: 12th April, 2021
To apply, please send a CV and any other information you feel to support the application to work@litrousa.com
We are looking for a Business Development Executive to help us grow and expand Litro. Help us tell and, crucially, sell our story without loosing our culture. Our community value independence and transparency and fairness and so do we. We require a self-driven, well connected and engaging individual to help secure partners and brand sponsors for our live events and content, including podcasts, short form video and online content. Existing partners include the London Library and The National Arts Club, New York and past events and partnerships have featured Virgin Atlantic, the Brooklyn Book Festival and James Cohan Gallery.
Key qualities and experience
• Be able to pick up the phone, engage with people at events and send effective emails.
• Have strong, existing relationships and contacts with brands – especially lifestyle and culture.
• Have a proven track record of developing and maintaining brand partnerships and creative collaborations and grant application experience.
• Understand that diversity isn’t a box to tick but how we live and work.
• Be self-motivated but know you can ask for help and share ideas.
• Strategic thinking/planning and a strong focus on tactical objectives.
• Love books, writers and readers and associated brands Have proven experience of negotiating.
• Be excited about stories- help us develop and monetise new formats and ideas.
• Grant writing experience welcomed.
Key objectives
• Help us identify the brands and people we want to work with.
• Work with our existing relationships and network to maximise opportunities.
• To oversee and lead on the completion of high-level proposals and pitches this will involve working closely with the Litro team, ensuring proposals meet company needs.
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• To set, manage and monitor an excellent quality standard for new business written documents, proposals, presentations and pitches.
Working hours and salary
Part time / Freelance Role working from home with meetings in New York and London.
Salary is dependent on experience and to be discussed.
Who are we?
Litro is a community in-print on and offline which began in London in 2005 with a monthly print magazine and live events. A literary and creative arts platform that champions emerging and established writers globally—in print and online. At its heart is the nurturing of a literary & creative community that produces works that are enjoyed and appreciated by the general public while connecting cultures and building creative communities. Published four times a year, each edition of Litro features various literary genres including short stories, long-form essays, fiction, interviews, poetry, and more.
Litro wants to be a platform for writers to write, emerging voices to be heard, and for readers to enjoy.
As well as our live events we have a strong online presence, with a lively and engaged social media following on Facebook and Twitter (including influencers and big names), and we’re producing an increasing amount of original content, including videos, podcasts from our Litro World Series, and an original series currently in development for our YouTube channel. Previous partners & sponsors include the Brooklyn BookFestival, The Booker Prize, United Airlines and the ACE Hotel.
Application Deadline: 22nd February, 2023
To apply, please send a CV and any other information you feel to support the application to work@litro.co.uk
I met Katie the same year I started working, when I was still with Oliver. She had started dating Oliver’s older brother, Matthew, even though she was barely out of school and Matthew was nearing thirty. I kept my thoughts to myself.
The brothers lived together in a disorganised two-bedroom apartment with thin walls. I was still living at home then, saving up to try and buy my own place, but I spent most nights in Oliver’s bed. Katie’s belongings gradually accumulated in the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room, and then she lived there too. I don’t know where she was before that.
Oliver was a creative type, working freelance in graphic design and trying to make enough money. Matthew was his opposite, a high-level banker of some kind who worked in one of the grey high rises in the city. Katie was ostensibly on a gap year, unsure yet what she wanted to study, and she took occasional shifts in a café down the road. She seemed so much younger than she was, small and childlike. She left intimate notes to Matthew on the communal message board on the fridge, and signed her name with a love heart over the i. But I liked her, liked her easy smile and the way she asked me for advice.
Matthew got a promotion, and his celebrations with work friends lasted from Friday afternoon until late on Sunday. We didn’t see him, and I was glad of it – the drunk and drugged up version of him grated on me in a way his everyday personality did not. But Katie fretted all weekend, leaving him voicemails, asking Oliver if he’d heard from his brother.
The promotion meant international travel, to Hong Kong, Singapore, London, New York. He bought new expensive business shirts and packed them carefully into a slim black suitcase. I passed their room and saw Katie, kneeling on the end of the bed, watching him. She didn’t want him to go away, not even just for a week.
“You’ll call me every night, won’t you?”
“Our nights won’t line up baby.”
“But you’ll call me?”
He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.
“Don’t worry about me.”
His flight was early in the morning and still they stayed up late, talking on the couch. I made myself tea at the kitchen bench, watching them.
“I have to go, it’s my job now,” Matthew said.
I couldn’t hear Katie’s whispered reply, but I watched him wrap his arm around her thin shoulders.
“I love you,” he said, and he placed his hand on her chest.
In the morning he was gone. I went down to the kitchen to make breakfast and found Katie still on the couch, eyes squeezed shut. She was wearing an ill-fitting singlet that she wore to bed, but as she lay back I saw how strangely it fell across her.
“Katie?”
She opened her eyes, made small with the puffiness of the skin around them.
“Are you okay?”
She could see I was staring at her chest, at the hollowness of it. She tugged her top down at the front to show me. There was a hole in her, about ten centimetres across, square and clean cut at the edges; a glass-less window straight through.
“It’s fine,” she said. “It’s only temporary.”
Sure enough, when Matthew returned the following week, the hole disappeared as though it had never been there. Katie spent a whole day in the kitchen preparing a welcome home meal. At night, I heard them giggling in bed together. When I came home from work the next evening, I found the words you are my one and only on the message board, in Katie’s usual rounded handwriting.
Matthew left for work in the dark of the morning and didn’t get home until the rest of us had finished dinner. Some nights he didn’t get home at all, sleeping on the couch in his new large office. And then he was told he’d be going to a conference in Madrid and he’d be away for two weeks.
Katie’s soft face became crinkled with anxiety.
“You’re worried about the hole?” I asked her, out of Oliver’s earshot.
“No,” she said. “It’s fine.”
While Matthew was away, Katie tried to do things. She played jumpy pop music in the house and bopped around as she cleaned it from top to bottom, the vacuum running over the same bit of carpet until it was flat and worn. She baked elaborate cakes that no one ended up eating. She alphabetised the DVDs. As she knelt on the carpet, stacking the cases – Dead Poets’ Society, The Descendants, Die Another Day – her t-shirt bunched around the hole that went straight through her, and I saw its harsh lines.
She hung a calendar up in the kitchen and marked off the days until Matthew’s return – thirteen sleeps, twelve sleeps, eleven sleeps. She stayed up late hoping for international phone calls that never came.
When he finally stepped through the door, joy and relief came off her in sparks.
But this time, the hole was not so easily filled. I found Katie in the bathroom, poking at her chest. The part that had returned was misshapen somehow, rounded at the edges, so it left gaps where the harsh light of the bathroom shone through.
“It needs some time to settle into place,” she said.
But it didn’t settle, and when Katie stood in front of a window, I could see the slivers of light even through her shirt.
Even so, her happiness was infectious, hardly dimmed by Matthew’s comparable quietness. In the evenings she waited impatiently for Oliver to stop watching the news so she could put on a silly movie or a TV show. She and Matthew watched a lot of TV together, sitting in silence with their bodies touching. They didn’t talk much, and I didn’t hear them at night anymore. But when she sat on the couch entwined in Matthew’s arms, and with his body pressed against hers, the hole seemed to have truly closed up.
On the message board were the words you are everything to me above Katie’s name, signed with the heart.
It was a while before Matthew went away again. He seemed to be on top of his workload more, coming home by dinnertime once or twice a week. But there was another big deal to negotiate, and he had to go, for even longer this time.
“This is the reality of the situation,” I heard him say through the walls. “If you can’t handle it, you don’t have to be here.”
This time, Katie did not try to keep herself busy. She was pale; her skin flaked and drifted off her body like snowflakes. She stopped taking shifts at the café. Some days I came home to find her still in bed, the room dark. When she fell asleep at random times of the day, restlessly tossing on the couch in front of the muted TV, her hands clutched her chest protectively.
Matthew never called when he said he would. Katie sat in the middle of their bed, staring at her silent phone with the wide-eyed intensity of an addict, underweight and unsteady. The edges of the hole became frayed and rough from being exposed too long. It seemed bigger.
When Matthew finally returned, all the soft edges had been sawn off his face. Katie, throwing her arms around him, was greeted only with a grimace. The deal hadn’t gone through; he was irritable and jet-lagged. He didn’t want the food she’d made, didn’t want to watch anything. He went to his room to sleep. Katie went to the bathroom to check the hole and I followed her. The missing section of her chest was there, but it was wrong; a strange, deformed thing that no longer fit into her chest. It was difficult to see how it had ever belonged there. She turned it over, desperately trying to make it fill the space. But the piece was too changed, and the hole too big, and it sat uncomfortably crooked within her.
Despite the hole, Katie was ecstatic with Matthew’s return. On the weekend when he slept half the day trying to adjust to the time zone, she shushed Oliver and me as we moved around the house. In the afternoon he sat on the couch and she brought him beers, one after another. He was very tired that week, so she slept in the lounge room to avoid disturbing him. One night I heard him walk to the lounge, then muffled, pained moans. His footsteps were heavy returning to his bed. Hers were light creeping to the bathroom.
It was around this time that a friend of mine bought an apartment and asked me to rent her spare room. I liked the place, and it was close to my work, so I began to spend less time at the boys’ house. Oliver was depressed about his own career, even talking about moving interstate where there might be more work opportunities. I wasn’t worried. I knew I wasn’t the type to have a hole in my chest.
When I did go to the apartment, it was as much to check on Katie as to see Oliver. She was always there. Her skin was so pale I wondered if she went outside at all. I made us tea, and we sat at the table. As she leant forward, clutching her mug with a desperation subdued by fatigue, her buttoned shirt gaped open and I saw the torn edges of the hole. After that I avoided going around as much as I could.
A few months later, Oliver and I broke up. I went back to the apartment one more time to collect the few things I had left there. I walked through the kitchen on my way out. On the message board were the words my heart belongs to you.
Oh, how I’ve missed you! The sound of your voice intertwined with the octaves of friends, the chinking of glasses and tapping of tableware. / Where have you been? Behind glass? Behind screens? Behind masks? Masking your smile. Only hints of your crinkled eyes visible.
Lucia Cascioli
Check the news. Be there to support your loved ones. Help children go through schooling online. Do shopping for an elderly neighbour. Keep your friendships alive via Zoom. Go out with your face mask on, gloves and hand sanitiser. In the midst of it all, when was the last time you managed a moment of calm to simply be with yourself?
This podcast is a letter the author writes to a former self living in an easier past. She recalls the things that are lost: dinners with friends, travelling, watching someone else smile. Through honesty and acceptance, she checks in with herself and reminds us all that it may take a bit of time – but things will get better.
You can listen to the podcast on the player below, or subscribe to “Litro Lab” on Spotify or iTunes.
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Did you like this podcast? Listen to To My Girls by Emily Black next.
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She knew why they referred to it as ‘falling in love’. It’s a giddy and queasy sensation, she thought. Exactly like falling. The ground gives way and you start to drop. You can’t breathe, you gulp air, you flail your arms and legs, but still you fail to gain purchase. You fall, fall, fall with a rushing sound in your ears and rising panic at the back of your throat. Your heart raps urgently on the rib cage, aching to burst out. But the euphoria! As though the blood starts running the wrong way in your veins. The desperate gasp for air makes you panic but laugh at the same time. And you never want to land but you can’t wait to arrive.
‘Capture that,’ Lucy had said, thrusting her chin up at the doctor.
He smiled down at her gently. ‘Now, just a reminder Mrs Chase, that this is permanent. You won’t be able to access this memory again. Of course, we’ll send a small vial home with you, but it’s only a few drops worth.’ A team of doctors surrounded her, only their eyes showing.
‘But I can put a drop in a glass of wine and experience it again, right?’
‘Well, we don’t yet know the effects when mixed with alcohol…’
‘Pfft! I’ll be almost dead by then anyway.’ The doctors and some of the nurses tittered and indulged her.
‘Now, now Mrs Chase. You’re only 73!’
That didn’t matter. Most of Lucy’s family had died of dementia. And not at a ripe old age either, but in their 60s and 70s. She was always checking her memory, patting her temple as though looking for keys in her pocket. That’s why she’d volunteered for the Memory Extraction trial. Most of the volunteers were there for trauma. The boy who was raped in the school toilets. The girl who was beaten almost senseless by her older brother. The mother who accidently ran over her child. The volunteers were nominated by their therapists because nothing else seemed to work.
Initial results looked good. The memories were siphoned off as an electric signal and then catalogued and stored in a supercomputer. But lately they had tried distilling memory into a liquid form, giving the volunteers something to take home. Like a kidney stone. The therapists had research to prove that this physical ownership of memory gave the patient power and control.
Lucy’s memories were tolerable and the pain of remembering had never almost killed her. Even the moment she lost Phil from a heart attack. She was there. She held his hand until he went cold. That pain galvanised her and urged her on to defy his early departure. And she wouldn’t erase that moment for all the tea in China. They were bound together forever then, in a way she couldn’t explain to anyone. But her favourite memory was the moment they fell in love, and that’s the last memory she wanted close by, when it was time.
She’d had to convince the lead researcher that she was a good candidate for the surgery. She was in good health, but the potential dementia angle seemed to do the trick.
Lucy raised her head from the surgery table a little and a nurse moved forward. Lucy took her hand and gripped it hard, crushing it with surprising strength. ‘Make sure they take the right one.’
Lucy met Phil at a Friday night dance. She wore a big full skirt and a blouse with tiny red roses. As she sipped lemonade from a paper cup, she watched a group of lads laughing and smoking. Phil’s shirt was ironed, his hair was cut short and neat. She remembered thinking he had strong shoulders. His eyes were kind but bright and mischievous too. When he caught her staring at him, she grinned like a fool, instead of looking away demurely. He winked in return, making her blush.
Soon after he led her to the dance floor and she stared past his ear, too afraid to look him in the eye. But he took her chin gently and turned her to face him. He smiled at her then, as though he already knew everything about her, reassuring her that it would all be ok from now on. Up close his eyes were almost violet and she thought of jacarandas in summer. She smiled back and took half a step closer. He folded his arms around her and they stood almost still, her head tucked under his chin. Through his shirt, his body was hot on her cheek and the smell of cloves made her yearn for something she didn’t even understand.
She felt herself falling, falling, falling, flailing and laughing at the same time.
‘Start counting backwards from 10, Mrs Chase.’ But Lucy was already far away.
Our cover artist for this issue is the artist Mari Katayama. Titled Bystander (2016) it is taken from a series inspired by Naoshima Onna Bunraku, a traditional puppet theatre practice that is performed exclusively by women from the Naoshima region.
For these works, Katayama photographed the hands of members of the all-female traditional puppet theatre group, printing them onto material and crafting them into a many-handed doll. Against the backdrop of a natural landscape the vastness of the sea, Katayama alludes to the mythological beauty of Venus, or Aphrodite and appears herself to be born of the sea. The tentacle-like arms and hands that have become her own limbs, repairing the fragmented image of her body, one rebuilt by borrowing those of various others.
Featuring, travel writing from Pico Iyer, an exclusive short story by Japanese literary star author of Breasts and Eggs Mieko Kawakami we delve into and celebrate the emergence of Haiku in Africa and much more.
It’s 1972. The Maiden sea tower stands 15 miles from shore, shining her light for seafarers. Last night she was manned by three keepers, but this morning …. she’s empty. There’s no sign of disturbance, the doors are locked from the inside and both clocks stopped at 8.45am. The men have vanished.
Hooked yet? I was. The Lamplighters begins with a classic locked room mystery, inspired by a real-life event in the Outer Hebrides in 1900, but the mystery is just the starting point for this ambitious novel. 20 years on, it’s 1992 and the men still haven’t been found. Author Dan Sharp decides it’s time to unlock The Maiden’s secrets. “Someone out there knows more than we realise,” he tells a newspaper and embarks on an investigation that centres on interviews with the three women that the Keepers left behind.
Sharp meets with Helen, Jenny and Michelle several times and in the book’s 1992 sections we are provided with transcripts of their words, accompanied by a more conventionally written chapter that provides insight into each woman’s life. We also go back to 1972, to the days leading up to the disappearance, and hear directly from the missing men, as if Sharp is showing us their secret journals.
This structure allow us get to know each character directly. Each monologue displays their biases and insecurities. Their accounts often conflict. Jenny tells us she and Bill have a happy marriage – so why does he spend so much time at sea? Bill thinks that Vince, the youngest member of the team, is crude and shallow – but Arthur tells us Vince writes poetry and Vince’s girlfriend Michelle still thinks of him as her only love 20 years on. And why do Helen and Arthur so seem so estranged when they appear to love each other? Each chapter reveals a little more and offers up another mystery. It feels like the lapping of an outgoing tide, coming forward to leave a new clue, retreating to show more of the beach.
The sea, as you might expect, dominates the novel. Vivid descriptions of its shifting moods create the prevailing atmosphere of the book. The characters love the sea, or hate it, but they are never indifferent and they are all drawn to it. The Maiden, too, is an imposing presence. She ‘looms palely magnificent against the horizon’. Visible from the Keeper’s cottages on shore, she is at times a Siren calling the Keepers back, at others an ominous warning to keep away. She has a mythic quality, The Maiden, built, as legend has it, ‘on the jaws of fossilised sea monsters’ and she knows how to keep her secrets.
The atmosphere that Stonex so cleverly creates is why The Lamplighters reads as more than a mystery novel. The Maiden exists in that liminal spot between land and sea, and the novel exists in a similar space where the worlds of the natural and supernatural dissolve into each other. Bill tells us, “there are keepers who stay so long on the towers they start to hear mermaids.” Do the keepers, driven mad through solitude, imagine the mermaids? Or are their senses sharpened so they can hear better than we can? Helen believes the men’s disappearance is a terrible accident covered up by their employers, Trident. Jenny suspects a strange supernatural event. Who is right? How can we know? The book does not exclude any version of events but treads the line between them with, for the most part, the lightest of footfalls. Seabirds appear like omens, there’s a Silver Man who could be a drug-dealer but is reported to occupy two places at once. Always we have a sense that if you turn around fast enough you might catch sight of … something … out of the corner of your eye.
The novel is most satisfying when we are allowed to draw our own conclusions, to live with the tension resulting from the ambiguity that saturates the novel. There are points when, for me, the mystical elements seem too substantial (I didn’t feel we needed the Silver Man, for example) but for the most part we feel the sands could shift at any time and we need to read on to see what happens next because, in the world of this book, it could be anything.
The Lamplighters is hard to put down, not only because I wanted to know what happens but because there’s a richness to the language that borders on the poetic, no detail too small not to be lovingly crafted. In the empty lighthouse the investigators find, “the table laid for a meal unseen … two empty cups. Salt and Pepper. A Tube of mustard and an ashtray, cleaned.” This extraordinary level of care and attention, both in detail and word choice, is sustained throughout the novel. The world of the Keepers, and their living conditions inside the sea tower, is particularly detailed – it’s a fascinating insight into a profession with which most of us are unfamiliar.
Similar care is evident in the creation of the characters. Helen is central to Sharp’s investigation. She is still alone after 20 years, neither Arthur’s wife or yet his widow, and she is struggling to move on. Although Helen is the one who tells Sharp there must be a rational reason for the men’s disappearance, she’s also the person most haunted by the past. At the outset of the story, “the ghouls continued to slip between her clothes in the wardrobe, making her shiver when she got dressed in the mornings,” an example of the kind of beautiful phrasing that permeates the book and makes it a treat to read. Jenny has her children, and Michelle a whole new family, but Helen only has her memories – and they won’t let her rest.
It’s the descriptions, the language, that I think I will remember most about this novel, that and the eerie evocation of a liminal world where we are poised, characters and readers alike, on the cusp of knowing and of not-knowing, of knowing and of not-wanting-to-know. As a mystery it kept me engaged, though I felt that the ‘aha’ moments didn’t always live up to expectation. We find out the true identity of Dan Sharp, for example, right at the end, but I’m not sure it was worth the wait, given keeping him out of the narrative until that point forces some artificiality into the transcripts that grated a little.
Having said that, I did enjoy his last-minute destruction of his manuscript. “You write the ending,” he tells Helen, releasing her from her old story. It’s a neat device, leaving us to wonder which parts of the book Dan wrote and which, therefore, may be fictions within the fiction. How can we ever know the truth of events on the sea tower? Of course, Dan is himself a fiction, as is the novel … a satisfying circularity that leads us back to our own world, holding the book in our hands, wondering what might have happened on the real lighthouse in the Outer Hebrides, all those years ago.
Jackie Morris
Two years before he became the first Scottish writer to win the Booker Prize, James Kelman wrote a searing essay, The importance of Glasgow in my work, in which he railed against the lack of real, authentic, Scottish characters and voices in English literature. He saw Scottish characters “confined to the margins” and “imprisoned” within speech and quotation marks, completely otherised when compared to “the proper and pure and pristinely accurate” grammar of the traditional “upper class English hero”. In this essay, Kelmanposed a deceptively simple question: “how do you recognise a Glaswegian in English Literature?” Some 28 years later, the only other Scot to win the same prize has provided us with a novel of rare quality that, in many ways, tries to answer this central question.
The writer, of course, is Douglas Stuart, and the novel in question is his first; Shuggie Bain. Here, we follow the trials of the titular protagonist coming of age in 1980s Glasgow. Industry is collapsing, unemployment and poverty on the rise, and people faced with increasingly grim and difficult choices. Violence – physical, psychological, and sexual – is everywhere, as characters struggle to cope in a system and society that has, in essence, confined them to the margins.
As we delve into the heart of this debut novel, Stuart draws these characters out from the margins and places them centre stage. It makes for a story that we too rarely get to see or hear (many of the issues Kelman identified in 1992 remain true to this day), and it is all the more remarkable, and important, for it.
Told through a mixture of close and distant third-person narration, Stuart vividly depicts a world of high-rise flats and forgotten Council estates. It is a world where people can “rot into the settee for want of decent work” and people are easy prey for addiction.
Our rather precocious Shuggie Bain (junior) sets the narrative ball rolling in this novel. His sexuality and identity hover over the entire plot. Yet while the novel takes its name from him (who in turn gets it from his father) in many ways this story is not really about Shuggie at all. Rather, the real soul of this story belongs to his mother, Agnes, and her desperate descent into alcoholism.
Reading the book from Agnes’s perspective is to understand the role played by the two Shuggie Bains we meet. The father and son [TJ2] are, fittingly, two polar opposites; a ying and yang; the devil and the angel on Agnes’s shoulders. We see these oppositional characteristics reflected in Agnes’ own self (she is prone to destructive behaviour, negligence, and cruelty; but can also be warm, loving, quick-witted, energetic and kind).
There is a kind of inverse Kafkaesque existential anxiety to this novel; a restrained or stunted metamorphosis. For Shuggie Jnr, this often takes the form of the oppression of societal norms that seek to restrict his real identity (mocked as “a wee poofter”, he is constantly advised by others how to walk, and how to talk, as neighbours and family members alike say his queer tendencies ought to be “nipped in the bud”). For Agnes, meanwhile, we, as readers, share a vain hope with young Shuggie that his mother might be able to turn her life around and stay off the booze. Yet, like the metamorphosis of a butterfly, any such change is ultimately revealed to be so fleeting and transient. Indeed, as a teenage Shuggie looks back on his mother’s sole year of sobriety, the weight of his memory, “my mammy had a good year, once, it was lovely,” is earned entirely by the author’s nuanced and thoughtful exploration of addiction – and the relationships it shapes.
“It’s the hope that kills you” is a phrase that seems to cry out from many of Shuggie Bain’s pages; and it is easy to see why the novel has been variously described as a “harsh, bleak, novel”, “rare and gritty” and “brutal and tender”. There is a reason that many reviewers have been drawn to the book’s unflinching portrayal of life below the poverty line. And it is true that T.S. Eliot looms large in the background (particularly as we watch Shuggie and his older brother, Leek, scrambling over the dangerous, dystopian wasteland of an old coal slag heap). There is a delicate balancing act to be done here, and it would be easy for this novel to fall into the clichés of misery memoir or poverty porn. Yet Stuart walks this tightrope well – giving us just enough glimpses of light (and sometimes even laughter) to keep the story moving forwards, even if the characters don’t necessarily have that same luxury.
In many ways, it seems almost churlish to point out that a book about poverty might not leave the narrative smelling of the proverbial roses. And the fixation of many reviewers upon the novel’s bleaker actions/aspects perhaps once again hints at why this book stands out from many others (certainly, from many other Booker Prize winners).
Because what we are really observing, when we look at the ‘bleak’ or ‘harsh’ elements of Shuggie Bain, is reality. The reality of real, authentic, lived experience for millions of people across the UK.
Lacan suggests that what we might think of as “the Real” can never be fully seen. In an age when Governments and their allies in the media try to suppress reality (for us, this might mean catastrophic climate breakdown, or rampant inequality and poverty), this suppression of the Real makes it something of a traumatic void that can only be glimpsed in the fractures and inconsistencies in the field of apparent reality. The reason for this suppression of reality is obvious; as Scottish writer and professor Michael Gardiner suggests, “British social consensus is reliant on the state’s continual cultural effort not to expose its divisions”.
There are, however, scraps of culture that do scrape through the establishment’s filter that signify something that we are all aware of but don’t often talk about or see. And an example of this are these so-called “bleak” aspects of Shuggie Bain.
Because the reality is that these aspects of Shuggie Bain – the mental illness, addiction, the poverty, the squalor of run-down high-rises and forgotten council estates – these things are not mere oddities of the 1980s. The reality is that even before the Coronavirus pandemic hit, poverty was on the rise in the UK (up 50% between 2017-2019), with 14.5 million citizens living “below the breadline” after a decade of failed austerity politics.
In his book The Selfish Capitalist, Oliver James convincingly posits a correlation between rising rates of mental stress and addiction and the neoliberal mode of capitalism practiced in countries like Britain, which inevitably produce the kind of unequal societies where poverty rises, which in turn creates the conditions necessary (existential precariousness; stress, etc) in which addiction flourishes.
It’s also interesting to note the similarities that the character of Agnes shares with the mother of another Glaswegian writer, Darren McGarvey. In his 2018 Orwell prize winning, Poverty Safari, McGarvey shares intimate memories of his mother who at times bares an uncanny resemblance to Agnes; both are addicts, both prone to violence, and both even have a habit of setting things on fire (McGarvey notes, “my mother fancied herself a bit of an arsonist”; while in one particularly traumatic scene, Stuart’s Agnes sets her bedroom on fire – with both herself and her young Shuggie still inside). Any resemblance, of course, is sure to be found in the recollections of the loved ones of so many addicts.
Part of the reason Shuggie Bain feels so authentic and real, then, is because it is. It is that best – and rarest – sort of fiction; which when reading feels as though another soul is somehow connected with yours; holding a mirror to your own memories and lived experiences and validating your own; letting you know that you are not alone.
In some ways, the real fixation, then, should not be on whether or not Shuggie Bain is a “bleak” book. What we should be really asking is why three years after the Grenfell Tower tragedy so devastatingly showed us that inequality and poverty so entrenched here in the UK, the “Stalwarts” of English Literature (as Kelman would call them) haven’t given us more books like Shuggie Bain, which so clearly reflect what we might call ‘the Real’?
These Lacanian fragments of signified reality are also found around the edges of Shuggie Bain itself. Set in the decade that Margaret Thatcher tore the industrial soul out of Britain and confined millions of people to the margins just as she declared there was no such thing as society, it would be easy for Stuart to labour the point explicitly. Instead, there are fleeting references; anti-Thatcher graffiti, the odd throwaway reference to the then-Prime Minister. But in every page we experience the reality of Thatcher’s policies; the “sour” smell of the poverty the characters live; the stressful and long dole queues; the sad sight of groups of unemployed former miners huddled together at an increasingly forlorn old miner’s club; and we see it, too, in the hunger and pain of our main protagonists.
But of course, just because something is real and authentic and political doesn’t mean it is necessarily a masterpiece. What’s the writing like? Does it leap from the pages and burn into your retinas? Does it pain you to close the pages and put the book down?
The short answer is that the writing is engaging, nuanced and thoughtful. It is a book that you’ll think about when you’re not reading it, and long to talk about with friends in non-Zoom book clubs. This is not only thanks to the themes it explores, but also supported by Stuart’s often brilliant descriptions of everyday pieces of existence – staring at an Artex ceiling, “with its icy, stalagmite texture” – that sit alongside the author’s exceptionally keen ear for dialogue.
It’s true that the book could do with a tighter edit. A journey by car to a new house is at least three paragraphs too long, and while the author’s prose can be beautiful and poetic, it sometimes leaves precious little space for the dialogue to breathe.
There are also some unresolved tensions in Shuggie Bain that do require some further investigation. The most notable of these is in the use of language. Just as Adam Smith began attempts to “standardize” and “cultivate” what he saw as “the most imperfect” aspects of English language (i.e. regional dialects and languages like Gaelic), so too does Agnes attempt to standardise her own child’s speech (there is an endearing scene where the boy’s mother tells him off for speaking, essentially, too much like a Glaswegian when he asks if there is “a moose aboot the hoose”). This standardised way of speaking sets Shuggie and his mother apart from many of those around them, and it is interesting that an exchange with one particular Scotsman brings incomprehension from the man – who “cannae hear” Agnes with her “Queen’s best.”
Darren McGarvey has noted how growing up in a so-called deprived community can force you to modify the way you speak and behave, writing in Poverty Safari how “it became very apparent to other people if you started dropping fancy words into conversation.” It’s true that Shuggie’s use of language is another facet of his character that marks him out as being inherently “other” from those around him, while an ‘othering’ of a different sort occurs through Agnes’s own control of language, which helps elevate her to a status somewhat above many of the other stricken characters who she mixes with.
These are interesting ideas to explore, and one does long to hear Kelman’s take on Stuart’s decision to imitate Shuggie’s ‘standard’ English in the wider narrative – once again placing speakers of Scottish dialect back to the confines of quotation marks.
Rather than be consumed by what other reviewers perceive as being bleak or grim, therefore (what would one expect to find in a world of economic and mental depression?), it seems far more pertinent to read Shuggie Bain as an astonishingly real and moving account of human relationships within such an environment. Indeed, there is a huge amount of sympathy in this book, and a fair few happy and stirring moments (one particular scene in which Shuggie, urged on by Agnes, dances like his life depended on it – perhaps because it does – is incredibly powerful and uplifting). That these moments do appear of course serve to make Agnes’s perhaps inevitable and complete fall all the more devastating; but they also carry an important message – that there is no life that is without beauty; no environment in which you cannot find love and power, and unique grace. To focus on elements of the novel you perceive as “grim” or “bleak” is to dismiss all this.
Each of the themes and ideas that spring forth from the novel deserve much more thorough exploration than a 2000 word review will allow. But this isn’t to suggest the book is overly complex or inaccessible; quite the opposite. When it comes down to it, in many ways this book isn’t about addiction, or poverty, or violence, or language, or politics; it’s about love. And what could be more real than that?
How do you recognise a Glaswegian in English Literature? James Kelman asked us in 1992. A good guess would be they’ll probably love their mammy.
In her second poetry collection, which was nominated for the 2020 Forward Prize, Natalie Diaz explores the conflict between violence and love, pleasure and pain, colonial genocide and Indigenous resilience, and environmental destruction and spiritual relationships with the land. She is a US-based poet and identifies herself as queer, Latinx and Mojave. In her poems, the English language, the language of the colonisers, prevails, mingling with Spanish and the Mojave language in a flowing rhythm that relies on alliteration and line breaks to achieve excellence, creating an alternative way of communicating her viewpoint. She feels brutalised by her own nation, which persecuted and tried to erase Indigenous peoples from 1492 and still does today. It is a war that has never ended ‘and somehow begins again’. In her previous collection, When My Brother Was an Aztec (2012), she developed the story of her brother’s drug addiction and mental illness, which were the consequence of colonisation. In Postcolonial Love Poems, the destruction of the land and the pollution of water are connected with the murder and marginalisation of Indigenous peoples, a loss that is a threat for all humankind.
White colonisation and Indigenous culture do not seem to agree or merge but are instead in opposition to each other, with different and conflicting points of view, that is, different ways of conceiving life, relationships and the environment. In fact, the effects of colonisation brought Indigenous peoples to the verge of extinction and triggered a long resistance. Nevertheless, they still exist and resist in a radical act that has preserved their culture, although it has been changed in part by the influences of the colonisers. In the dedication, Diaz chooses ‘a way of love’ and remains open to new possibilities that imply disruption and empathy but do not accept surrendering to the colonisers’ act of exploitations. The white gaze separates and classifies according to assumed categories of colours and ethnicities that the poet questions and challenges:
Police kill Native Americans more
than any other race. Race is a funny word.
Race implies someone will win,
implies, I have as good a chance of winning as –
Who wins a race that isn’t a race?
(‘American Arithmetic’)
Natives have been called red forever. I have never met a red Native, not even on my reservation, not even at the National Museum of the American Indian, not even at the largest powwow in Parker, Arizona.
I live in the desert along a dammed blue river. The only red people I’ve seen are white tourists sunburned after staying out on the water too long.
(‘The First Water Is the Body’)
This is the colonisers’ way of controlling, of exercising power and consequently exploiting other populations and/or ethnic groups in order to appropriate their lands and resources. The economic aims are therefore supported by cultural conceptions that diminish and marginalise the colonised culture. Diaz voices Indigenous ethics, speaking about the pleasure of queer love and the centrality of the body that suffers and rejoices with the land. The body is the land, that is, plants, rocks and water. The wounds inflicted by the colonisers are open and fruitful at the same time in a constant creation that is linked to erotic love but also to a transcendence that the poet finds in the land, especially in the relationship between the body and water, the water of the Colorado river:
My river was once unseparated. Was Colorado. Red-
fast flood. Able to take
anything it could wet – in a wild rush –
all the way to Mexico.
Now it is shattered by fifteen dams
over one thousand four hundred and fifty miles.
(‘How the Milky Way Was Made’)
we blossom from the original body: water,
flowering and flowing until it became itself, and we, us:
River. Body.
(‘exhibits from The American Water Museum, 99’)
Environmental concerns are connected with resistance in a comprehensive vision that includes being human in a close connection with the land, which is nourished by water. The river ‘runs through the middle of my body’, she says; the river is her body, a ‘moving body’ – it is a verb rather than a noun, a body in flux that metamorphosises and is menaced by pollution and exploitation, that is, by the ongoing colonisation:
To kill take their water
To kill steal their water
then tell them how much they owe
To kill bleed them of what is wet in them
To kill find their river and slit its throat
To kill pollute their water with their daughters’
busted drowned bodies washed up
on the shores, piece by piece
(‘exhibits from The American Water Museum, 123’)
The protest is ancient and enduring, as testified to by the Elder Mojave woman’s prayer; she was killed by two rubber bullets while she was protesting against the installation of pipelines. Therefore, the scars of the land wound the body; they are open and fresh, a source of pain but also the place where love happens:
‘I confuse instinct for desire – isn’t bite also touch?’
(‘Wolf OR-7’)
I feel the junk of it all in my body – rising wild.
I can’t stop the happening. The rusting is in me,
like how a deep wound heals – glimmering, open.
(‘That Which Cannot Be Stilled’)
Desire is evoked against the erasure of the self in an affirmation of identity that maps the body, that is, the land, which is nourished by the river flowing through the body. Her body refuses to surrender to domination, to the loneliness of the American cities. On the other hand, the act of love implies violence and is both physical and transcendent.
Diaz’s poems display mesmerising images that celebrate the personal and global resilience of marginalised populations who resist and exist by cutting out a space for themselves in an occupied land; it is an endless fight that they must continue in order to be accepted, to have the right to coexist with the dominant culture. Similarly to the Minotaur’s adventure in the labyrinth, Diaz leads the reader on a journey of self-awareness where choices are crucial for the future of our personal and global survival. Her compelling poems keep the momentum going throughout the collection; the poet refers to this movement, stating that ‘we go where there is love’.
Carla Scarano
In Alligator and Other Stories, Dima Alzayat fuses factual events, from the lynching of a Syrian American man in 1920s Florida to the abduction of Etan Patz in 1970s New York, and the imagined lives in between. Threads of belonging and displacement can be found throughout the short story collection, as too can the subsequent intergenerational issues of trauma, identity and loss: of country, family, and self. Alligator and Other Stories ends with the start of a young woman’s period. Looking at her blood she thinks, ‘This can be anyone’s … not just mine or my mother’s.’ It is this recognition, how blood both unites and separates, that is at the heart of these nine stories. Alzayat has won several awards for her writing, and Alligator and Other Stories was recently long-listed for the Dylan Thomas Prize.
If, after turning over the book to read a blurb, a reader categorized Alligator and Other Stories as a collection of ‘Syrian Immigrant experiences’ they might be missing the point. While several pieces focus on troubling facets of migrant identity and racism, Alzayat’s writing puts under a microscope the innate urge to belong to something and some place. In stories that are as familiar as they are shocking, a woman navigates sexual harassment while trying to achieve professional success, a religious man reckons with his sexuality, a sister thoughtfully prepares her brother’s body for burial, and a classroom hamster is accidentally smashed underfoot. Alzayat artfully zooms in (the thoughts of a woman jumping from a window, concerned her suicide might disgust or inconvenience) and zooms out (observations of chipped toe nail polish amid domestic violence), trusting the reader to pay attention, to read between carefully constructed lines unobstructed by italics or translation.
‘Daughters of Manāt’ and ‘Alligator’ are perhaps the most stylistically complex stories in the collection, with ‘Daughters of Manāt’ comprising three separate narrative strains and ‘Alligator’ collaging historical records, news articles, and letters. ‘Daughters of Manāt’ is a poetic piece that moves back and forth in time, as well as through it, ultimately becoming inconsequential as a woman falling to her death observes the shape of the earth. ‘Alligator’ is historically grounded in the enduring history of American racism. It is a story that connects the hostility and violence experienced by Seminole Indians and enslaved Black peoples to the brutal murder of The Romeys, a Syrian American couple living in Florida. In organizing factual documents alongside a fictional account of the intergenerational trauma experienced by the Romey children, Alzayat swiftly takes readers through decades of polarization and injustice arriving, tenderly, at an all too recognizable present day.
Dima Alzayat’s debut is deliberate and urgent. For all its sprawling historical and political analysis, Alligator and Other Stories is always intimate in its portrayal, as seen in a woman’s reflection of her grandmother.
‘She had been married at fifteen, had borne seven children before she was twenty-four. With her hands she had sorted a lifetime of rice and lentils, had gutted fish and deboned chicken. She knew how to upholster furniture and help grapevine spread and climb, how to cover bruises and scars so no one could see them, how to measure the value of her life and still rise.’
“I think I’m in lust,” the fisherman slurred as we played naked in his borrowed truck, now full of sand after our first date. I sucked his middle finger like a crawfish head. His hands did smell of fish and engine grease, black under the nails and roughed up with callouses. They rubbed like sandpaper when he jammed his hand down my Levi’s, but oh how I relished getting hooked by this lanky, long haired sailor.
He was still a stranger to me, but I bit the bait hard. I was charmed the moment he took my hand in the dark and rubbed the back of my thumb with his. A sucker for a thumb rub, I’ll pucker for a thumb rub: just intimate enough to remind me I’m a woman. A tight grip around that most useful finger says, “You belong to me now, but don’t worry…,” like how sometimes you gotta caress a kicking, spurred catfish’s head before it’ll let you pull the metal from its mouth. Then you toss it in the cooler with the rest. Later, you gobble it up whole with a dash of pepper and a squirt of lemon.
In return, I gave Sailor the best thumb rub of his short life. He told me so, right when he fell asleep on my breast as I scratched his coconut scented head. While he quietly dreamt, I braided our hair together—fishtail style—and I drove that truck straight into the Gulf.
Photo credit: “Hand Touching Glass” by homegets.com
The flat hands of horse–chestnut leaves palm the road. Scattered like bones under high branches, the nubs are exposed knuckles. Clara forgot how small the roads were. After the expanse of New York highways, the twists of suburban Hampshire are tiny.
The house is at the end, on the corner, facing the bluff of the park. Tired hands used to peel her from the climbing frame there, insistent on going home. It was not a destination that appealed, even then. The silence was dusty. Her voice wasn’t welcome under those tall ceilings. And now, treading her way back, excuses and delays run out. He is dying, after all.
A gust gathers, the wind pressing her coat, sticking to the damp patch on her back. It’s silly, to be frightened of your parents. Brown leaves dance in circles on driveways, scuttling under cars as she walks past, as if embarrassed at their show of emotion. They will come back out to play once she is gone. The houses are bigger at this end of the street, some of them gated with locks, shiny hulks of cars brooding behind them. Dad would be disappointed at such displays of wealth.
The hedges begin to diminish, the houses shunting closer to the pavement, more apologetic, the windows draped in self-effacing nets.
There it is. The same metal fence with sharp points, the redundant square of lawn; even the apple tree looks the same size. Some difference nags at her, like the game where you look away and someone takes something from the tray but you can’t tell what it is.
It will be her who answers the door. There are ways of doing things. Clara hears the bell echo in the hallway. Perhaps they’ll have a sherry in the front room, like the Gaulton’s do. The door swings out.
“Ah.” It’s dad.
“Hi.” They said he couldn’t walk. She’d pictured him in the spare room, hooked up to wires. “How are you?” She winces at her own question. Her arms start to lift, hands reaching. A hug is surely acceptable this time.
“Oh, you know.” He ignores her gesture, turns. As he walks she sees the change. A lurch, one leg drooping behind the other. He goes into the kitchen. No “aperitiv” then, as mum called it. There’s a large bulge under his shirt. That must be the place. Where he’s being eaten alive.
“I made some sandwiches.” Mum is flamboyant next to the cooker, a bright apron around her stoicism. She wouldn’t let something like impending widowhood affect her appearance. Looks like ham and cucumber, cut into careful triangles and laid onto a two-tier tray, as if Clara is a visiting priest, someone from the rotary.
“I got lunch at the airport.” A slobbering bowl of noodles, the bite of ginger and chili still warming her mouth.
“You know I always get a meal ready.” A reproach already.
“They look lovely.” Dad takes a napkin and rests it on his plate. Reaches over.
“You shouldn’t be stretching that wound.” Mum slaps his hand away, delivers the sandwich directly to his mouth. Clara looks away as he is fed.
“Garden looks nice.” This patch of green had always been mum’s terrain. Dad was permitted to mow the lawn but not do the edges; he always fudged up the borders. It looks sparse, lots of clipped branches.
“Well, it’s pruning time. Not for looking at.” There’s something more severe than Clara remembers, more merciless in the stunted growth. Perhaps the arrival of growths and tumours, the bacteria that leached into the open places while he was in hospital, made her more severe.
A liquid sound behind her. She imagines her mother clasping a cup around the edge as she tips it up to his lips.
“You can still see the holes in the lawn from the swing.” Anything rather than turn around. Admit that his illness is not the only reason for her presence.
“I told your father that was a waste of money. You hardly used the thing. Ruined the grass.”
Clara loved the swing. All morning she’d loitered impatiently by the kitchen window, looking out for the van. It hadn’t disappointed – a huge thing, blue-walled, the delivery man even wearing a hat. Then hours of waiting. Dad filled the base with cement instead of water (no point in doing half a job) and buried it beneath the lawn, digging out careful holes so you couldn’t see where the base lay beneath the turf.
Once it was ready to be used, she lay her belly over the bright square of plastic and turned and turned. When her toes could barely touch the ground anymore, she lifted them up. The grass blurred into water, the chains groaning behind her back as her hair whipped around and around. It was important to get up straight away so you could feel the rush of nausea swoop all the way down to your toes. Head light, she tottered as far as she could go before letting gravity pull her into the damp grass. For hours she repeated it until mum caught her having fun.
“You’ll break it,” she said. Placed her on the swing, pushed her like she was a little girl, told her that was how you played. After that, she’d barely touched it.
The rushing of the tap; it should be safe to turn around. Her mother is wiping his mouth, dusting the fallen crumbs on the table. It must be bad, if he’s letting her do that.
“Is there anything I can do?” Clara sits at the table, tries to join in, her coat still on. Her reasons for coming seem selfish.
“Need to get him into bed.” He stands and leans, his weight lurching to one side. Mum lifts one arm up, flops it over her shoulders. “He wanted to be up for when you arrived.” He hasn’t spoken to her, looked at her. She’s never been able to figure out which one of them decided it would be a good idea to have a child.
“Let me help.” Clara rushes around, takes his other arm and hoists it over her shoulder. There’s a popping sound. Dad groans.
“Oh, for goodness sake.” Her shove pushes Clara against the doorframe. “You haven’t been here.” She scoops his body into her arms – he’s so small – and carries him into what used to be the playroom. The place they would shut her when she was too loud.
There’s always washing up. Clara gathers the things to be done, places them next to the sink. There’s a bright pink spot on her arm where she’d collided with the door. She dithers over the plate with the sandwiches on – would it be bad if she cleared it away? It would be a nice gesture to eat one.
The bread is that spongy white stuff, the ham those curled thin slices she’s forgotten you could buy – she and Robin have been veggie for over two years now. It still smells nice. Just one bite, Robin wouldn’t know. It’s a bit slimy, the flavour sets off something at the back of her tongue, and she devours the whole thing. Halfway through the second, she remembers the book dad read to her when she was little and makes it to the bin just in time to spit the rest out.
“You don’t have to eat them.” Mum is accusing in the doorway.
“It’s not that.” But she can’t explain, not now. Instead, she makes her apologies through the cleansing of spoons and knives, the practised speech in her head ticking over. She could tell them over dinner.
Playground calls like seabirds come through the open window as she dries and puts away. Mum is being busy somewhere else.
“I’ve put your things in your room.” She’s back, fussing over Clara’s coat, putting it in the hall.
“You didn’t have to do that.” Why won’t she sit still? “Look, let’s have a cup of tea, a sit down.”
“In a minute, I just wanted to water the plants while your dad’s asleep.” She bustles out again.
Clara puts the things away, opening and shutting drawers, trying to remember where everything is supposed to go. Robin never puts things in the same drawer twice. Last week she ended up opening a packet of pasta with a bread knife when she couldn’t find the scissors. It brings a sudden smile, their kitchen. It’s so light, the opposite walls yellow and orange, a stack of the leaflets that get stuck through the letterbox in a heap on the counter. They go through them together, choosing menus and services they’ll never order. A double serving of General Tsao’s chicken and a declawing service for their imaginary cat. They still mock each other’s accents, after three years.
“Tea?” Mum’s questions always make her feel guilty.
“Lovely.” Make her feel useful, then talking might be easier.
The spoon clatters in the special pot they have for discarded teabags. Something to show they’re grown-ups. Back home, the leftover coffee gets chucked into the compactor with the rest. Robin, as a kid, thought there was a hungry monster chomping at all their leftovers who lived under the sink. She’d lean over and talk to it as she fed cereal down the hole.
“It makes me think of home.” Wrong word. “I mean, where I live in New York, we have this disposal system, everything gets churned up.” There’s still this need, to share things with her.
“Sure, you have all sorts of fancy things.” Mum pours in a careful cloud of milk.
“You will visit, won’t you?” Robin has asked this question so many times.
“Never could get on with planes.” Now it would come, that same story. “Went to Greece once with your Aunt Georgie. Next thing we knew it was bumping all over the place.” She laughs, her hands imitating the bounce of the wings.
“And the woman next to you was sick in your lap.” How many times has she heard it?
“Sorry if I bore you.” A tray is brought out, a box of Family Circle. She chooses one of each and fans them out on a plate.
“It’s not always like that. I thought you’d like to come.” Guilt is a lowly form of bribery. “There’s people I’d like you to meet.” It’s a start, at least she’s mentioned someone.
“We have quite enough to deal with here at the moment.” The back of her head as she walks out of the room signals the end of the conversation.
They waste the rest of the afternoon in front of Agatha Christie mysteries, the plate of biscuits between them a reconciliation. Mum goes to bed at five, leaving Clara to eat a tin of tuna and baked beans mixed together for dinner.
That night, a beeping in the dark. A flashing light, pulsing red. Clara is still lost in dreams of the subway – a train just at the bottom of the stairs but she can’t get there before the door closes – when mum knocks on the door. It opens without a pause, the shadow of her small in the dark.
“What’s up?” She’s asking a retreating back.
“I’ll call the hospital, give them the readouts, you stay with him.” Clara is ushered into the playroom. It’s depressingly similar to her suspicions. A raised bed, wires, machines that have silenced but keep their pulsing light show. The enormity of his trip to the door to greet her – why had he done that?
His face is lit red, orange, yellow, each colour peeling away his wrinkles, revealing the man she remembers. His eyes remain shut.
She approaches the bed, willing some movement from under the sheets. The flashing is too wild; it’s hard to make out the rise and fall of breathing. A twitch, nothing more. Perhaps he will wake one last time and mouth things that aren’t meant for her, and she won’t be able to remember.
Clara sits and touches one of his hands. It’s warm. After a while her arm gets tired so she shifts it onto the weight of the bed. Near his skin, but not touching it. Her reasons for coming seem selfish. Robin was so disappointed when this trip was clearly a solo mission. No, not that, perhaps more sneering, judging her weakness.
A sigh in the dark. There’s no time for this now. The red thing stops flashing, all that is left is a yellowish hum. He is so thin. Perhaps there were times when he sat here, like this, watching over her. She can’t remember any.
Only once did he read her a story. The BFG. Different voices for the characters, his face screwing up with concentration as he spooled each word from his mouth. It didn’t matter how jolly he was, how big his ears; there was one thing Clara asked, every night.
“Are there people that eat people?” At the end of each chapter, even if it was about dreams and “snozzcumbers” she wanted to know. Every time he’d smile, ruffle her hair, tell her to go to sleep.
Apart from that one night. He’d been late home, she was already in bed. His footsteps in the hall roused her.
“Are you coming to read me the story?” By now she knew he was tired of it. Something more like determination around his mouth, flicking ahead each time to see how many pages were left in the chapter. And she hadn’t been able to help it. The words had popped out, just before he was going to turn the light off.
“Are there people that eat people?”
“Yes, but they live in the middle of the jungle somewhere. Or maybe sometimes if people are desperate, if it’s the only way they can live.” It came out in a rush. Clara swallowed it down, nodded her head and clutched at her fluffy cat, for when the light went out.
After that her dreams were plagued with bearded men who gnawed at bones, feet still attached at the end. At the weekend, they’d had roast chicken, and she’d refused to have a bone on her plate, even though she usually loved having a leg, it made her feel important. Mum had spoken to dad in her tight little voice and they hadn’t read stories after that.
“Dad, I’m gay.” She drops the words by his hands. “The one time I kissed a boy we played skeletons in the closet and the thing in his trousers stuck into my leg, like a bone.” It seems absurd, her presence, this confession. Their dealings with each other have always been slight. He wouldn’t be interested in whom she shared her bed with, the grip of Robin’s hand on the back of her neck when she came. The words are for her. Now that they’ve been spoken, she’s glad of their silent reception. It has been said, at least.
“He’s going to have to go in.” Mum is back at the door, pulling a coat on.
“I’ll get dressed.” Clara stands, calmed by the need for action.
“You don’t have to come.”
“Give me a minute.” This can be something that unites them. Like those families on TV who congregate in hospital waiting rooms and discover hidden truths about each other.
“Don’t.” Mum’s face is in shadow, but there’s something in her tone. She must have heard.
“Wait for me.” Clara goes back to her room, pulls her jeans over the shorts she wears in bed, the material bunching up at the top of her thighs. T-shirt, jumper. The weight of her breasts is slack, but there’s no time for that. She cups an arm under them, pockets her phone, and rushes out of the door.
Two paramedics are sculling him down the hallway, the metal wheels clanking over the slate. Mum has a fully packed suitcase, her coat and shoes on. They must have known, been preparing for this. Clara walks behind, like a funeral procession already. What a morbid thing she is. Perhaps in the hospital she can make contact, touch the skin of mum’s hand.
“You’re not coming.” Mum turns, a solid figure in the doorway.
“Of course I am.” She shouldn’t have to assert her rights. “I’m his daughter.” It should be obvious.
“He wanted to see you. That’s done.” She closes the door and Clara is left stranded on the rug. Looking down, there is a patch of blue in one corner. When she was eight she dropped a bubblegum-flavoured Mr. Freeze on the floor and the stain wouldn’t come out.
Image courtesy of Burberry.
Stony-faced, besuited, a long scarf draped over his shoulders like a superhero’s cape, the polished image of British footballer Marcus Rashford modelling for Burberry would look at home in any luxury fashion campaign from the past few years.
But the London label’s decision to employ Rashford, a Manchester United player now perhaps better known for his food poverty campaigning than his considerable sporting ability, is something fresh and special. Something that could only happen at this particular, pandemic-inflected cultural juncture.
Because thanks to Covid-19, cool ain’t what it used to be. Our fashion idols were once rebels with varying degrees of cause; from Elvis to Jimi Hendrix and Kate Moss to Lady Gaga, we were accustomed to subversive individuals setting the trends by holding their manicured middle fingers up to the staid status quo.
But that was before the status quo got quite so bad. Mainstream reality is now a hellscape in which 2.5 million people have died globally in a mismanaged pandemic, Texas has frozen over and kids even in the richest countries are routinely going hungry. To rebel against the norm is now by definition to advocate positive change through community and kindness.
Rashford’s appointment reflects this shift over the past year, as activism, charity and accessibility have come to redefine the style zeitgeist. Sustainability has come to the fore, with the resale market expected to be bigger than fast fashion within the next decade, Net-A-Porter is selling “Kindness Is Magic” beaded bracelets, and our fashion heroes look very different to a year ago.
British Vogue spurned supermodels for its July 2020 cover, instead featuring a train driver, a supermarket cashier and a midwife in recognition of the sacrifices of key workers. The current It bag is the Telfar tote, a sleek, practical shopper which retails for a tenth of the price of a Gucci piece and is frequently spotted on the arm of grassroots US politician Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. And a streetwear-designing nurse from New York secured his breakthrough in 2020, and now uses his Covid-19 hospital experiences as inspiration for pieces.
Fashion’s rediscovering of its soul doesn’t mean the industry is losing its edge. In fact, it might be unearthing its roots. Cool has always been reactionary; “a resistant mode of being in the world” as writer and professor Joel Dinerstein puts it. The concept of American cool can be traced back to jazz culture, and Dinerstein credits African-Americans with inventing coolness in “stylistic defiance against racism during World War II”.
But in the decades since Billie Holiday, Humphrey Bogart and Muhammed Ali first modelled the countercultural mode of self-possession we would come to understand as “cool”, the concept was commoditised by corporate culture, eventually hollowed out to something sellable, filtered to the masses through style leaders like Kim Kardashian and Justin Bieber and available at bargain prices through fast fashion retailers.
No one can pretend that pre-pandemic life in the rich world was a bed of roses. We lived with climate change, structural inequalities and economic malaise. We had plenty to rebel against. But quite how bad things were, and which things needed to be fixed, was a point of debate, not a fact. Deepening culture wars meant we couldn’t coalesce around a single cause. Now Covid is our common enemy, and the counterculture is earnest resistance to its outcomes.
What’s cooler than being cool? Being kind.
Picture credits: William Goodwin
After I sat on the floor and cried and asked you Will I die? Will I die? Will we die? Will you die? When my dad got sick with lung cancer, just weeks before he died in his sick bed, I asked my mum over and over again When will he die? When will he die? When?
Katie Buckley
Having a temperature. Change of taste. Dizziness. With a global pandemic going on, illness is on everyone’s minds. Having cold symptoms is not an irritating matter but perhaps a catastrophe. Will you pass it on to those you love? To the vulnerable? Will it get worst? Will you drown?
The protagonist of this podcast knows this well, as she had her own close encounters with death in the past. Through her own illness, she’s forced to relive an old trauma and face her worst fears. She’s become a sailor in sick bay.
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When I met Rhoda, every bell inside off me started ringing.
Some of those bells sounded like the siren on a fire truck, warning of potential danger. Some of those bells sounded like a gentle chime, inviting a sense of calm and beauty. But mostly, meeting Rhoda was an alarm, waking me up from a life I didn’t realize I had been sleeping through.
“Why do people run away from me?” she said, her sandy fingernails clutched the hem of her blue dress.
I quietly slipped away to the nearest bathroom, a wooden shower stand off the boardwalk, trying to breathe through the musty, baby-powder smell of the toilet. I pressed my forehead against the graffitied door.
The line of a song played in a passing car. “Love is a burning thing,” the song said.
Love should burn like that, I thought, not like this.
Rhoda was waiting for me on the beach outside. It was the seventh day I had spent in her presence. One full week of my life.
I wish I could say that our connection was instantaneous, clear and perfect. One coin seeing its other side, like the moon and sun sharing the sky at the same time. Saying this would feel more real, and in some ways, more accurate. But unfortunately, it isn’t true. When I first met Rhoda, I hated her.
A body, deep in sleep, hates to wake. Even if it needs to. Even if waking up and walking around would be good for the body. The soul is the same way. It often most resists the very thing it needs most.
She was already drunk when she got to the sculpture. I vividly remember the moment I first laid eyes on her. Our mutual friend was throwing a party inside a large circular outdoor sculpture, and had lined the rim with candles and homemade muffins for ambiance. I was wearing a long dark dress that night, and had even attempted to put on make-up. I was hoping to hook up with a guy named Brendan, that I had had a fun summer fling with. Brendan was adorably sweet and lanky, bordering on gangly. I didn’t see why that fling couldn’t continue into the fall.
And then there was Rhoda. She peeked her messy blonde head over the top of the sculpture, and started cheering for no particular reason. It seemed obnoxious to me, but then everyone inside the sculpture started cheering too. They were happy to see her. They were ready to have fun.
But I was not cheering. I was scowling.
“Why was everyone so taken with her?” I thought, “She’s clearly a mess.”
Rhoda was holding a large mason jar containing some mysterious alcoholic beverage, and sat in the middle of the circle. She moved the pastries out of her way and began playing an out of tune ukulele, singing. Her voice was sharp and child-like, but she sang with joy. Brendan couldn’t stop looking at her. No one could. Not even me.
The candlelight bounced off her bright blue eyes, her golden hoop nose ring. A mysterious scar was visible on her right cheek. While singing, she leaned over and casually kissed the boy next to her. He seemed startled by this, but not upset.
At one point she loudly announced she had to pee, stepped maybe two feet outside of the circle, lifted her skirt, and squatted.
“Was Brendan seeing this?” I thought, in shock.
But at the exact moment that I was relishing in my superiority, my dress caught on fire. One of the candles had snagged it, and it erupted in flames. I quickly stomped it out, but I was embarrassed, afraid I looked ridiculous. But Rhoda wasn’t embarrassed at all. She was just laughing and singing and kissing people and lifting her pale butt up in the air to pee freely on the grass.
The next day, I went to see a play that was being put on at the college. They had undertaken the massive operation of performing the entire two-part series of Tony Kushner’s ‘Angels in America,’ an epic tragedy focusing on religion, homosexulatiy, and the AIDs epidemic of the 1980s. It was powerful and well done.
There are a lot of reasons one might cry during this play. There is death, deception, disease. But, at one point in the show, I heard someone in the theater openly weeping. Not just sniffles, but a full-on ball. As I turned to see who it was, I noticed other heads were turned too. People were no longer looking at the stage. They were all staring at Rhoda, who could not seem to contain her emotions. Tears were running down her cheeks and into her hands. The fabric of her scratchy sweater was damp from crying.
“How can she feel all that?” I thought.
I was annoyed, but also strangely jealous. I wanted to cry with abandon. I wanted to laugh and kiss and sing. Seeing her open, unguarded river of emotion made me recognize how dammed up my own had become. I was numb, and she was alive, and it was unfair, because I wanted so badly to be alive.
This could have been the end of our story. A girl I had mixed feelings about. Who annoyed me twice. But that night Brendan had a dinner party, and we were both invited.
I was convinced that this party would be the perfect time for me to reconnect with Brendan. Maybe we could sing some of the same old songs from the summer, I thought. Tell some of the same old jokes. No one in the world was a better snuggeler than Brendan. He had a way of contorting his entire boney body to completely envelope me. I fantasized that the party might end with a snuggle like this.
When I arrived at Brendan’s house there were maybe six other people rolling sushi. Flattening the rice on to the bamboo mats, carefully measuring out the ingredients.
“Have you met Rhoda?” Brendan asked.
She didn’t remember me from the night of the sculpture. She was either too drunk or too surrounded by admirers to notice me. As we said our introductions, I could feel the energy shift in the room. She looked at me with an intensity that forged through my body. It was as if she was not looking at the person in front of her, but my future, my past lives, and everything I could be.
What happened next? How did I go from jealousy to skepticism to friendship to worship? All in the course of a single night? Music and wine; I don’t remember how it happened. I felt like I was under a spell. Suddenly I was the one holding the mason jar with the mysterious alcoholic beverage. Suddenly I was the one laughing. Rhoda took my hand and I ran outside with her. Suddenly I was the one lifting my pale butt up in the air to pee freely on the grass.
“Doesn’t it feel better to pee outside?” she asked.
I wasn’t sure if I agreed or not, but I nodded enthusiastically nonetheless.
“If you’ve never menstruated into the Earth, you should try it,” she said. “It really connects you to nature.”
The person I was two hours ago would have rolled my eyes at this comment, but now I was reformed. In fact, I regretted that I was not on my period at that very moment, just so I could try to menstruate right into the Earth.
I was wooed. Smitten. Warmed by her light. As we ran back into the party, I had completely forgotten about Brendan. It appeared she had too.
“I know some partner yoga moves,” she said.
Her eyelashes fluttered up at me.
“Will you be my partner?”
The night ticked on. We stretched together. We sang together. Brenden appeared confused as the two of us stole away to the nearest bathroom, holding hands and an oversized bottle of wine between us.
That night Rhoda told me she always thought she would die young. She had already been in a tragic car accident two years before I met her. A passenger in the front seat. Everyone in the car died, except for her.
“The doctors kept yelling at me to stop crying,” she said.
Her back was pressed against the bathroom door, dirty bare feet on the tile.
“That they couldn’t stitch up my face because my tears kept getting in the way. But I couldn’t stop. I was just crying and crying.”
The life-line on her palm was noticeably split. A reckless spirit trailed behind and around her at all times.
Meeting Rhoda marked the end of what I consider to be the first chapter of my life. I was 23. I was living alone in Boston. I was sleeping on an air mattress. I had dyed my hair black and no one was in love with me. I was looking for something, and it arrived in the form of Rhoda.
“Want to move to California with me?” she asked. “I’m going the week after Christmas.”
I was struck. In a trance. I had just met this person. I had never been to California before.
“Yes,” I said. And I meant it.
I called in sick to work and spent the next few days gallivanting around town with Rhoda. We did a polar bear plunge in a local lake. It was a week before Thanksgiving and there was a light frost on the ground. I had never jumped into water that cold before, and was scared.
“We could get sick,” I said.
“Nonsense,” she said, “It’s good for the nervous system!”
We were an odd, but appropriate pair. She was fun and approachable, with her short stature and sun-bleached hair. My look was more dark, serious and demure. She tore off her paisley skirt, screamed, and jumped into the water. I bit my lower lip and followed, one slow foot at a time.
Afterwards, we soaked our legs in a hot bathtub to warm up. A boy named Max, who lived in her building, brought us dark stouts to drink. Max was unconventionally handsome, tall and lean, with a crooked nose and a wide smile. He talked about his father’s death the previous fall, and Rhoda showed us the scars from her car crash. I listened, feeling both grateful and strangely naive. I had never experienced such devastating loss. Rhoda leaned closer to Max in the bathtub, and he stretched his arm around her, visibly pleased. I was outside of her knowledge of grief. I was outside of her knowledge of joy.
Later that night Rhoda and I traded earrings, each of us wearing one of the others. Her silver moons and my turquoise stones. I wanted everyone to see that we were matched like twins. That I was her left ear and she was my right. That she had chosen me.
“This is only the beginning,” she said, and pulled my palms close to her face.
I could feel her soft breath on my hand. It was my third day in her presence. How could there have ever been a time without Rhoda? How could there ever be a time again?
“Promise me we’ll keep each other safe,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “I promise.”
That night we fell asleep holding hands.
When the time came for our California trip, I nearly bailed. I had exactly one thousand dollars and no job prospects. This was no time to launch myself across the country with a girl I barely knew. My memory of her stopped sounding like a gentle chime, and started sounding more like a fire engine. But the tickets had already been bought, and I couldn’t convince myself not to go.
There was a lot I probably should have been afraid of: the crime in the Oakland neighborhood where I was moving, how I would eat, where I would work, but I was most concerned about seeing Rhoda again. What would it be like with her?
I took a bus to Rhoda’s hometown. The plan was to spend a few days catching up, then we’d fly out to California together and start our new life. She met me at the bus station wearing pink lipstick and a noticeably sweet perfume.
“You’re here!” she said. “Oh, I love you. I love you. I love you.”
I expected Rhoda’s family to be a lot like her: old hippies, with dried herbs and mandolins hanging on the wall. But they were surprisingly conventional, Midwestern. It was like Rhoda had sprung up from the Earth itself. She could not be contained to one story, one bloodline.
I learned that Rhoda had been a cheerleader in Junior High. An image formed in my head of her waving pom-poms and chanting. Her father joked about how she used to beg them to buy her a Fendi brand purse. Rhoda showed a sliver of embarrassment at his mention of her former self. With her interest in natural healing and her devotion to all things counterculture, she looked so different from that person now. And yet, I could see it. That intensity that surrounded her must have been present at an early age. The very traits about her that pushed me away also pulled me in.
That night Rhoda and I slept in a room that used to belong to her younger brother. His room was filled with posters of hockey players and basketball teams. She brought out some homemade peppermint lotion and offered to give me a massage.
“Most people get a massage naked, if you want to,” she shrugged.
I shyly took off my clothes, and she noted the curve of my spine, my winged scapula.
“You make scoliosis sexy,” she said, and I giggled, unsure of what to say.
It was getting late. We turned off the lights and she nuzzled close to me.
“I’m so cold,” she said. “Let’s cuddle.”
I could barely see in the dark but somehow our lips found each other. I had never been with a woman before, aside from a few drunken kisses that were meaningless. This was different. With men, the anatomy seemed straightforward, the desires clear. I felt lost with a woman. This lust was new and confusing, needing both more gentleness and more strength. I fumbled and grasped at her, ultimately letting her lead.
“I love you,” she said. “I really love you.”
The next day I met some of her local friends at a commune she used to live in. Her friends were all ages, all walks of life. The house smelled a mix of basil and body odor, smoke and essential oil. Rhoda hugged every person we met with enthusiasm, squeezing them hard and always holding them a little longer than I would ever consider hugging a person. All of the people in her life seemed unique and kind, but most importantly, they all loved Rhoda.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” she said to each one.
A middle-aged woman with short gray hair and a red linen dress told us about a girl she had met who affected her life substantially.
“The moment we touched, I knew something special had happened.”
Rhoda looked at me, wide-eyed.
“That was the way I felt when I first met you,” she said.
“I know,” I whispered back, but I was surprised to hear this. Though I had clearly felt it too, her love for everyone around her seemed so extreme. It was hard to pick out which feelings were genuine, and which ones were just Rhoda. How could I be special, when she loved everyone so deeply?
I turned to the woman, “What did you do when this happened? Were you inseparable from then on?”
“No. Not at all,” she said. “I ran away. It was too much. I didn’t talk to her again for a year and a half.”
Rhoda and I flew to San Francisco the following morning at 6:00 AM. My trance continued. Hadn’t I promised to protect her? And wouldn’t her magic and love somehow protect me? There was so much that was unsaid. So many questions I didn’t have the words to ask. Was she my girlfriend now? Was this just a fling, like it had been with Brendan? Or had Rhoda evolved past all definitions of traditional relationships? An orb of love floating freely through the world?
She kissed me as the plane took off but I couldn’t tell what kind of a kiss it was: romantic, familial, or a desperate grasping for connection? The kiss didn’t seem to belong to me at all. It just hovered around in the stagnant air of the plane. Somehow our relationship had shifted with the time zones.
When we landed we took a shuttle to the apartment in Oakland. Lugging giant suitcases, the colorful box houses of San Francisco gradually faded as we rode the BART east.
Rhoda had no idea how to handle a city. She laughed openly at the homeless men talking to themselves, like a child who had never witnessed such behavior. She peed casually in random yards and stroked the long hair of a stranger’s beard on the trolley. Anxiety began to fill in my lungs, pulse in my bloodstream.
As I dragged her into the nearby grocery store to buy apartment essentials she stated that we really should be shopping at a local organic food co-op. I rationalized with her that we needed to save our money, and besides, we didn’t even know where one was yet. But Rhoda seemed unfazed. Her commitment to her cause went beyond convenience, economics, or even hunger. I admired her pluck even as it annoyed me. On our walk home she offered raw broccoli to a homeless woman, and seemed shocked, almost offended, when the woman turned her down.
Her whimsey, which was fun in the safety of her home, now felt careless. The reckless spirit within her was running wild, and I felt powerless against its force. I didn’t know how to take care of us. I didn’t know how to take care of myself.
That night we met up with Max, from the night of the polar bear dip, at a crowded bar. He was in San Francisco briefly to visit friends, but had managed to set aside some precious time to see us. He was grinning from ear to ear as he bought us both beers and sat in between us.
“I feel like a pimp out on the town with two lovely ladies,” he said.
I cringed and pulled away, but Rhoda laughed. I couldn’t tell if she was just enjoying the attention or was genuinely taken with him. I searched myself for any flicker of attraction I had towards Max, but I came up short. He was childishly sincere and oblivious in a way that repulsed me.
“Are we all going to sleep together tonight?” he joked.
The bar was covered in a thick dark wood. It looked like the inside of an old ship. I had always felt at home on a bar stool. The dim lights mixed with the faint ethanol smell were usually calming to me. This bar met all the typical criteria, but I felt far away. Was home my new apartment in Oakland? Was it by Rhoda’s side? Or was it somewhere I’d lost? Somewhere I had yet to find?
“Do you think Max loves me?” Rhoda asked, as he went to get us another drink.
“I don’t know,” I said, and my words spit with venom.
“Why don’t you touch him and find out?”
It was late by the time we left the bar and the trains had stopped running. Max suggested we stay at his friends apartment nearby. Rhoda lingered next to him. I walked ahead. I wanted to be alone, but I was scared in the new city. A taxi back to Oakland was out of my budget. I felt tired in a way I had never felt before. My eyes were nearing a tunnel vision of sleepiness as we struggled to unlock the unfamiliar door to his friend’s apartment.
I slept on the couch, they slept on the floor. The cool San Francisco air drifted in through the windows. Distant blue lights and sirens. As I closed my eyes I could hear the sounds of Rhoda and Max kissing, their whispers to each other. I imagined her soft breath on his hands. I wasn’t invited to the floor, and I didn’t want to be. I didn’t feel betrayed or heartbroken at that moment. I just felt exhausted and very much alone. I was feeling, I thought, but this feeling wasn’t fun. It wasn’t cheering or singing or laughing. Instead, I felt more like my skirt was on fire, embarrassing and scary. My dreams that night were full of fear.
I didn’t see Rhoda again for several days. She was off with Max, turning her intense gaze towards him. I could feel the numbness returning to my body. Her declarations of love for everyone around her now felt insincere. My protective layer was unwilling to budge and I became stern and closed off, avoiding her calls, and filling my days with online job searching and hiding in my tiny Oakland bedroom. The way I defined love and the way Rhoda defined it appeared to be fundamentally different. For her, it was given freely, easily, passionately. For me, it had to be earned.
When I did see Rhoda again, she was noticeably upset. Max, too, had abruptly run from her side. As we walked along the busy boardwalk of Ocean Beach, she agonized over every decision she had made in regards to Max. Every sentence, gesture, or choice could have been a grave error in her calculations. We held our shoes in our hands and let the cold sand of the beach squish between our toes.
“Why do people run away from me?” she said. “I feel like a conquest. A trophy.”
I thought of how I first craved an association with her through our matching earrings. I looked, and she was still wearing hers, turquoise and silver, but I had taken mine out long ago.
It seemed that every person we passed looked at Rhoda. They couldn’t help it. They were drawn to her, even if they didn’t know why. Her dress was navy blue. Her blonde hair was pulled back loosely with bobby pins.
I felt small next to her magnetism, but I also just felt small in general. Her light had once warmed me, but now, through no real fault of her own, I felt the chill of her shadow.
As we made our way to the sidewalk, an elderly woman approached us, holding a large porcelain angel the size of a bread box.
“Take this!” she yelled. “You can have it!”
We shook our heads and backed away, “no.”
“That’s alright,” she said. “I only offered it to you because I can tell you are sisters. Sisters of the universe. You two should never be apart.”
I bought a train-ticket home the next day, leaving without telling a soul. I left a note and a check for the next month’s rent tacked to a cork-board in the kitchen. I couldn’t bear to face Rhoda. I couldn’t put words to my own failings. Anxiety was housed inside me now, clinging to my bones. My breaths were short and shallow, my heart beat constant and fast. I thought going to California would help me learn to feel alive, but birth and growth are never without pain. We all have our own methods for coping with this: hiding from love, or drowning in it, spreading it far too thickly or far too thin. I didn’t see Rhoda again for a year-and-a-half.
I was standing when I got the voicemail.
“It’s Rhoda,” her voice played in my ear. “I’ve been in another car accident. Again as a passenger.”
It haunted me how factually she spoke about her own body. She had broken her sternum, three ribs, and several of her vertebrae, but she was alive. Alive and wanting to see me.
It was all written out on white paper: the skeletal sketch of circled bones. But imagining the slamming, the screech of the wheels, the calamity, shattered glass, the fear she must have experienced lying on her back in the gravel, staring at treetops while floating in and out of consciousness. The long drive through the mountains to the hospital. I audibly gasped alone, to myself, in the kitchen, and listened to the voicemail a second and third time.
Three days later I drove to her hometown, where she was staying to heal. It was the same house I had visited years ago, before we flew to California. And there she was, lying in her brother’s bedroom, the basketball and hockey posters still hanging on the wall. Her blonde hair was stuck to the pillowcase, a neck brace choking down her smile. She was unable to give her classic long hugs, but when she saw me her face brightened, and her eyebrows raised.
“My lady,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
And in a way, I couldn’t either. I thought of her broken life-line, her premonition that she would die young, and I realized I had been preparing myself for this phone call since that night she first wooed me at Brendan’s house. But the call came, and here she was, still breathing, still smiling, still laughing and loving too hard.
I spent two days with her there, helping her in and out of bed, holding her arm as we walked around town (her first trip out since the accident). We saw some of the same old friends from my first visit. We stayed up late into the night, drinking wine and talking and laughing. We fell asleep next to each other, but we did not hold hands. There was no promise of safety. No thought of anything other than the now.
Rhoda’s life would continue to be a restless adventure. Full of joy and heartbreak. People running towards. People running away.
As I drove out of town, I felt an ease in my breath. Rhoda would be alright, she would heal, she would live. But would I? Maybe I’d never be alive in the same way that Rhoda was. Maybe I’d never be that brave. Maybe I didn’t want to be.
There are so many stories about the pain of living in the shadows, but what of the pain of the sun? To be too beautiful to touch? Too beautiful to look at directly? To be so full of life, and yet always alone?
“Live,” I thought, as I clung to the steering wheel. “Live.”
In these most dismal of the pandemic days, in the last, grey gasps of loneliness and anxiety, fashion explodes with neon-bright colours, clothes are layered, ruffled, indulgent, and designer logos are big, brassy and bold.
At a time when any sentient human could only feel restless despair, the new season’s trends declare us happier than ever. Fashion seems to operate in a parallel existence, ignorant of mounting death tolls and mutant variants, apparently unaware that most of us are still wearing blankets as clothing.
This bare-faced joy is unsettling. It is jolting, strange, to see Gucci selling accessories festooned with Disney characters for hundreds of dollars apiece, or to receive instructions from our loungewear to “spread positivity” when we are more concerned about spreading disease.
So what’s going on? Fashion is grinning manically through our collective breakdown, still dancing when the party is decidedly over (McKinsey estimates the industry’s profits declined by 93% in 2020). The elite spectacle of fashion week has moved online, robbing formerly invite-only events of their splashy cachet and leading some top designers to cancel events entirely, while High Street retailers haemorrhage money as stores remain shuttered through extended lockdowns.
Fashion faces a genuine existential crisis. The industry is inherently social – designers sell us transformation, promising social acceptance and personal betterment in every garment. Fashion knows who we are and who we want to be, from the free-living, bob-haired flappers of the 1920s to the sharp-shouldered, permed executives of the 1980s.
But the industry cannot sell us a vision of our future selves when our prospects remain shapeless, unpredictable and more than a little frightening. Instead, the adaptive beast of fashion now offers something intensely personal, and at this particular historical juncture, priceless. Hope.
Labels promise light-hearted redemption in luxury purchases, from Stella McCartney’s sold-out SMILE-stitched rainbow jumper to Christopher Kane’s celebration of “More Joy” across everything from scarves to socks, while budget online retailers urge buyers to join the “Good Vibes Club” (established in the annus horribilis that was 2020, no less) and promise that “everything will be OK”.
But can a simple slogan T-shirt shift a mood, or alleviate the emotional and financial pain of the past twelve months? The theory of enclothed cognition holds that the clothes we wear can impact the way we think and feel, and fashion psychologists like Dawnn Karen point to the “healing modality” of colour.
Wearing a yellow sweater or announcing contentment through a stitched quip won’t make COVID-19 disappear, but may help to shake us out of our pandemic funk. Adam Galinsky, whose research has demonstrated that wearing a white lab coat can improve people’s ability to pay attention to a task, thinks that staring at ourselves on video calls all day might mean our clothes have even more psychological impact than normal because their symbolic power is “even closer to our consciousness”.
But while seeing ourselves and those around us as at least surface-level happy could well lift our spirits, it is equally true is that we often choose clothes which reflect our existing state of mind – “mood illustration”, as Karen puts it.
And right now fashion’s “new optimism” feels too out of step with the prevailing gloom. Disco dresses and gelato pastels are tempting, but too sweet for the current palate. Of course retailers want us to feel better – feeling positive about the future encourages spending today.
I’ll get to the 2021 trends in time. But first, I might need a vaccine for a dose of scientifically-approved optimism.
The wiper blades swung maniacally across the windshield as rain and hail poured down. James leaned forward, peering across the steering wheel into the pale green light of the storm. He had known it was coming the moment he stepped out into the heavy Florida air at Tallahassee Airport that morning. He and his wife, Cynthia, had flown out from New York for his uncle’s funeral and rented a car to reach the backwater town where his mother’s family had once lived.
An hour later, the storm broke. James slowed the car to 30 and sat back in the seat, bringing one hand to rest on the shifter. Cynthia put her hand on his and smiled.
*
The rain had mostly stopped when they pulled into a service station outside Chipley. James got out to look around and stretch his legs while Cynthia lay asleep in the passenger seat. There was another gas station across from the one he had parked at and two fast-food restaurants on the other corners. The thought of coffee occurred to him, and he went inside the gas station. A tired electronic chime announced him, but the clerk didn’t look up from his phone. James went to the coffee station and poured himself something that tasted like burnt peanuts. The clerk rang him up without speaking, and James handed him his credit card. The door chime once more rang as he left, and the clerk went back to his phone.
Cynthia was awake when he went back to the car, scrolling through her own phone. He tapped on the window and pointed to the convenience store. Cynthia looked up, shook her head, and mouthed, “Nah.” James got back in the driver’s seat and merged back onto the highway.
*
Puddles spotted the funeral home parking lot, quickly evaporating in the July sun. James spotted a pale blue scrub jay picking among the mulch of the landscaping and, feeling nostalgic, wondered in vain why it reminded him of elementary school.
A sombre employee asked which service they were attending and held the door open, directing them to the last room on the left and inviting them to refreshments in the dining room. Cynthia took James’s hand in her own as they made their way quietly down the hall.
Standing in the threshold, James surveyed the crowd for any familiar face. Finding none, he moved towards the casket.
To his surprise, it was open – he must not have been in the water long. His uncle lay poised, as though patiently awaiting the end of these formalities.
The man inside looked older than he expected and was so gaunt that his skin appeared taut, the lips straining to cover his teeth.
James reached to touch his uncle’s sinewed hands but hesitated and placed his own hands upon the edge of the casket instead. He tried to recall some fond memory that might rekindle his love for the dead man that lay before him, but truthfully James hadn’t known him well. The memories he did have were of a violent drunk who would not hesitate to discipline his children or the children of others. Feeling foolish, all James could muster was a quiet amen.
There was no receiving line of friends or family (his cousins were nowhere to be seen), and James thought that perhaps he should initiate one. Looking around at the small segregated pockets of people and listening to the low murmur of their conversations, he abandoned the thought. He and Cynthia briefly toured the scant memorials that had been displayed before they made their way to the dining hall.
Again, James looked around the room and this time spotted his cousins sitting at a table by themselves. James took his wife’s hand and led her to the table.
Eric was James’s age, and they had been close in childhood. Jane was three years younger, and James remembered her as quiet and reserved. It appeared not much had changed.
Eric stood up and shook James’s hand. Jane remained where she sat.
“Thanks for coming, it means a lot to us.”
“Of course, I’m sorry we couldn’t make it sooner.”
Eric waved off the apology and gestured for them to take a seat.
“Y’all want anything,” Eric asked, indicating to his own cup. “Coffee, tea?”
“I’m alright, thanks.” James said and turned to Cynthia, who smiled warmly and shook her head.
An uncomfortable silence followed.Attempting to break it, James asked, “Is there anything we can do to help?”
“No, thank you, everything is pretty well taken care of. We’re just going to wrap up here, then head back to our place and start clearing some stuff out.”
James knew their dad’s place was a trailer in an oak grove on the banks of the Choctawhatchee River outside Brixton.
In the sixties, when Hurricane Betsy swept through, the river flooded and washed out the trailer park where James’s uncle lived. Most of his neighbours left and never came back, but his uncle was stubborn, making him one of the only inhabitants left among the old oak trees.
“Let us help. We’ll meet you at your dad’s place, give you a hand, maybe have something to eat.”
“There isn’t much left to do, but the company sounds nice,” Eric said. Jane only sat staring at her untouched cup of tea as before.
James and Cynthia checked in to the local chain hotel, having an hour or so to kill before heading to his uncle’s. They dumped their bags on the floor and collapsed onto the bed.
*
They awoke half an hour later, showered, and changed into more casual clothes. James stood by the door with one hand on the handle, watching Cynthia put on her shoes. Ten years into their marriage, he still loved watching her do the most ordinary things. She zipped the back of a suede boot and fixed her hair in the mirror one last time.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
*
James drove them out under a slowly fading sun. They rolled leisurely through the oak grove’s winding dirt roads with the sound of crickets drifting in on the humid evening air.
The trailer was exactly how he remembered it, if not a little faded. It was white with pale blue shutters and a matching blue lattice skirt along the base. Garbage was piled up along the front, and a barbeque sat with some patio furniture in the yard, all of it rusted and webbed with the neglect of years.
James parked on a dead patch of lawn like his family always did, and let out a sigh before heaving himself out of the car. The property was hemmed on all sides by scrub and trees. He wandered across the yard and found the old path down to the river. He had heard his uncle had wandered, intoxicated, to the river’s edge and fallen in. It was said his cousin Eric heard a splash and went to investigate, and found his father only moments too late. James was surprised to hear it, as he remembered his uncle as a strong swimmer; but he was not surprised to hear it had happened while drunk.
James had anticipated that his uncle’s drowning would have tainted the place more. Not that the trail and their little stretch of river wouldn’t always be haunted by it, only he was surprised to feel the comfort of familiarity that seemed to overwhelm it. He stepped onto the path, and the air grew a fragment cooler but infinitely quieter.
He remembered playing with his cousin Eric, swimming, building forts, catching frogs, slinging slingshots. Once, they had caught a pair of mice and kept them in a bucket. He remembered how one mouse ran frantic, trying to gain a purchase on the slippery plastic walls, while the other sat still but for the panting of its breath. He hadn’t felt right about the mice and asked his cousin to let them go, but he refused and teased him for asking.
James heard the trailer door open behind him, a greeting called out, and Cynthia making pleasantries. He took one last breath of childhood and went back toward the sounds of conversation.
Eric stood with his arms folded just outside the door making small talk with Cynthia. James came up to them and shook his hand. “Everything good?”
Eric shrugged. “Good as it can be. I appreciate y’all coming all the way out here.”
James waved the comment off before slapping at something that bit him. “I haven’t missed the mosquitoes.”
“Them jokers are real angry this year. Plus, they just don’t taste city folk too often.”
The three of them laughed and went inside.
*
Not much differed from the trailer of James’s childhood. The orange shag carpet was still worn to a flat pale pile, and the wallpaper, unchanged since the late seventies, was yellowed and sticky from cigarette smoke. The leather recliner in the living room was the same, though cracked and peeling, while the scratchy old sofa had been replaced by a fat brown leather one that stretched along the far wall. To his left, James saw the old wooden dining table and remembered blowing out birthday candles at it. Beyond the island bar to his right lay the same narrow kitchen, everything still covered in the same gummied-up linoleum.
“Drink?”
James and Cynthia looked at each other before nodding. “Sounds good.”
Eric went into the kitchen and pulled some mismatched drinking glasses from a cupboard, some cola from the fridge, and a bottle of vodka from another cabinet. Vodka cola – his uncle’s favourite drink. James and Cynthia sat on the stools at the island and Eric stood on the other side, pouring their drinks.
“Where’s Jane?” James asked.
Eric pushed their glasses towards them. “She’s in her room. I’ll go grab her.”
“Oh no, that’s alr–” Cynthia started to protest, but Eric was already across the living room and into the hall. A second later there was knocking, and a moment after that both Eric and Jane emerged from the hall. Jane sat down in the recliner and stared into the dark TV. James looked at Cynthia, who also appeared disconcerted by Jane’s catatonic air. Cynthia picked up her glass and made her way to the living room, taking a seat on the sofa across from Jane. James followed, going to sit next to Cynthia, and Eric came last, carrying a bar stool to sit on.
The conversation moved like a shy dog. They talked about the weather and the humidity and the bugs. They talked about the town and how it changed in the ten years since James’s last visit. The Maynards still ran the grocery store, but the Taylors had sold the bowling alley, which was now occupied by a Mexican restaurant. Eric tried to turn the conversation to race but was diverted by Cynthia, who asked Jane if she was seeing anyone. Jane shook her head.
Two more vodka Cokes and the topics of discussion had grown unsustainably thin. They sat quietly, listening to the chorus of bullfrogs outside, offering polite questions as they occurred to them, like the solving of a riddle. James excused himself to use the bathroom.
“Remember where it is?”
“Of course.”
“Holler if you get lost.”
Some laughter then, and he left.
*
James washed his hands in the same pale pink sink he remembered from childhood and dried his hands on a towel that was probably new but felt familiar all the same – rough and worn and stale.
As he stepped out into the hallway, he could hear the plodding of their conversation but had no desire to rejoin them. Family was important to him, but he agonized in small talk. Instead, he quietly made his way down the hall towards the bedrooms.
Eric and Jane’s rooms were on the left, as always. These he passed by undisturbed. It was the master bedroom, his uncle’s, that he was curious about. As kids, they were forbidden from venturing inside, and the only time they had (to jump on the king-sized bed), it had earned them a vicious belting.
James pushed the door open slowly, not wanting it to creak. Like everything else in the house, it was almost exactly as he remembered. It was sparse, the few furnishings dominated by the massive California king. James stepped into the room and hesitated as if his uncle’s voice might rumble out to scold him. Only quiet laughter came down the hallway. He smiled. Cynthia had a way with people.
James went past the bed to the closet and looked inside. A few shirts still hung there, along with a couple suit bags, though earlier at the viewing had been the first time James had ever seen his uncle wear one. He closed the folding door on the smell of mothballs and turned back to survey the rest of the room: long narrow windows along the far wall and a dresser against the wall at the foot of the bed. That was it. He went to the dresser and looked at his reflection in the mirror. It was unnerving, as if he was seeing through his uncle’s eyes and was caught red-handed. He shook the feeling off and started to open drawers. T-shirts, in the first drawer, some old porno magazines and a bag of marijuana underneath a pile of socks in another. James shook his head, smiling at the mundane stash. Thinking he had already hit the old man’s jackpot, he half-heartedly opened the next drawer, mostly in the interest of being thorough.
More clothes.
He was about to close the drawer when he noticed, tucked behind them, the edge of an old shoebox. He lifted a pile of cargo shorts and set them up on the dresser, then pulled out the box. He listened for signs that he was missed, but the conversation seemed to still be inching along without him.
James lifted the lid from the box. There were photographs inside, mostly Polaroids. At first, he thought it was another collection of pornography, though this time apparently homemade, his uncle featuring prominently in many of them; but the other participants were mostly obscured. With growing horror, he realized who they were. He slammed the lid back on. There was a sound, and he realized Eric was standing in the doorway. He looked from James to the dresser and back. James felt his heart racing. Could Eric see the box, or was it obscured by the clothes he had taken out as well? He tried to angle himself so that the bulk of it was hidden.
“Hey, sorry, I was just having a look around.”
Eric gave off nothing but a silent gaze, then came into the room, hands in his pockets.
“He was a mean old bastard.”
James turned to face him, leaning against the dresser, hoping to block the fruits of his intrusion from view.
“He was alright,” James managed to say, his voice only quivering slightly.
Eric sat on the bed, sighing. Here it comes, James thought.
“We’re talking about ordering something to eat. You hungry?” Eric asked, staring at the wall.
James’s tension slackened ever so slightly. Perhaps he hadn’t seen the box. Even if he did, maybe he didn’t even know what it was. Maybe his uncle only kept it for himself.
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
The quiver was gone from his voice now. He even managed a smile, but Eric did not look up to see it. Silently, he rose and walked out. James stuffed the contents back into the drawer and closed it, feeling stupid and lucky.
He came back to the living room and sat back down on the sofa next to Cynthia. Eric brought everyone another drink, and Jane sat quietly as before. They ordered pizza and ate it in awkward silence.
*
Finally, mercifully, their social obligation seeming satisfied, James and Cynthia started to hint at their departure.
“So soon?” Eric asked.
“Yeah, we better get going. We’ll see you at the service tomorrow, though.”
Something frantic seemed to come over Eric. “Why not stay for one more drink?”
“Any more, and we’ll be driving back to town with one eye closed,” Cynthia said, covering one eye in an attempt at humour. James laughed, but it failed to hide their discomfort.
Eric paced around the room, agitated, fussing with this and that, making his way to the kitchen and pouring more vodka into their glasses. “Just one more, really, you’ll be fine. Cops ain’t out much on a weekday.”
James attempted to convey some finality with his voice. “No, thanks Eric. We’ll hang out some more tomorrow after the funeral.”
Eric stopped fussing about the kitchen, his back to them. “Alright. Just hold on one second then.”
Before they could argue, he was across the living room and disappeared down the hallway. James and Cynthia looked at each other then sat back down on the sofa. Eric came back a minute later.
James saw the shotgun in Eric’s hands, but his brain didn’t register what it was until the first blast rang out. Jane looked up at her brother but did not move as the first shot sent her spinning lifeless from the chair. Blood filled the air like a fine morning mist. James could hear Cynthia’s scream through the high whine of a perforated eardrum. He saw his cousin slide the forestock back and forth, and his brain registered the shuck-shuck even without hearing. The second shot seemed muffled but still rattled his brain. He looked at what remained of his wife slumped on the sofa next to him. His body began to respond. James bolted for the door as his cousin shucked the next round into the chamber.
*
The police arrived the following afternoon after being alerted by a friend of James’s uncle, who had gone to check up on them when they failed to show up to the funeral. They found a man sprawled out on the lawn, the grass around him soaked in blood. When they entered, sidearms drawn, they found the two women in the living room. Room by room, they made their way through the house before coming to the master bedroom. Inside, another man lay on the bed with a shotgun in his arms and photographs piled in his lap. Everything from the jaw up was sprayed upon the wall behind him.
To investigators, the scene told a fairly straightforward story. Naked violence no longer moved them. The forgotten inhabitants of Brixton relished in the tragedy’s retelling, until finally the reporters packed up and moved on to the next one.
Eventually, the cars were towed away, and the house was boarded up. Kids started to break in, to test themselves against the ghosts, before it was decided to have it demolished. The old oak grove stands as it ever did. Countless rains have fallen since then, washing it all away, and the sandy Florida soil drinks it in.
On the tube that took me directly home / The station named after the Saint of Rome / Looked almost deserted, hardly a guest / Laid down their caps or anoraks to rest. / I myself, sporting wet assassins’ rags / And akimbo, rain soaked, brown bookshop bags.
Keir Batchelor
A son writes an honest letter to his dad from a very rainy London. This is a lyrical piece that invites us to think of longing and nostalgia. In those times when distances remain insuperable, words can paint a scene, recreate a feeling, bring the ones we miss closer. If you could reach someone with a letter, who would that person be?
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Sweatpants are not going to save us.
As our year of lockdown living draws to an end, there is a groundswell of opinion that terry towel trousers might stick around post-pandemic, becoming as acceptable to wear on the street as on the sofa.
And it is thrilling, is it not, to imagine a soft, cosy future in which we are no longer enslaved to ever-changing trends and subject to the tyranny of buttons? Wearing an item once dismissed by acerbic Chanel designer Karl Lagerfeld as “a sign of defeat” and condemned by Eva Mendes as the number one cause of divorce in America feels transgressive and progressive, as the best fashion should.
The fashion press is volubly pro-sweatpant. Harper’s Bazaar has declared sweatpants, sneakers and a long coat “the unofficial uniform of Winter 2021”, while Cosmopolitan suggests office workers returning to workplaces will wear joggers as a reflection of a new brand of corporate ambition – “getting through each day with our sanity intact, style be damned!” Even Vogue’s impeccably turned-out editor, Anna Wintour, has been photographed wearing sweats at home.
It is very tempting to imagine the sweatpant might be the great leveller, the Coca-Cola of clothing, a utilitarian uniform accessible to all. But that’s about as likely as Covid-19 being the “great equaliser” Madonna claimed it might be in March last year, when we ended 2020 with ten of the world’s richest people having grown their fortunes by more than $400 billion, while millions of ordinary workers struggled to put food on the table.
And work is at the heart of the sweatpants story. We wear joggers for comfort, sure, but also because of what they symbolise. GQ’s Rachel Tashjian posits that sweatpants have replaced jeans as the ultimate American clothing as traditional cowboy dreams have give way to fantasies “about leisure—about not working”.
And that’s just the thing. Leisurewear can be worn by everyone, but not equally. The current hype about sweatpants forgets that while some white collar workers might get away with office-friendly joggers on the job, those in lower-paying work are often mandated to wear uniforms or expected to follow strict dress codes.
Wearing sweatpants for social occasions or to engage in non-manual labour is the reserve of those who already possess sufficient social status that it will not be diluted by casual attire.
This privilege is why Paris Hilton could spend the early 2000s slouching around LA in Juicy Couture tracksuits and still secure tabloid front-pages, just as today Jay-Z can seal a business deal in Grace Wales Bonner joggers. And it’s why singer Jess Glynne took to social media in outrage when an exclusive London restaurant turned her away for her casual attire, while you or I might at least have worn jeans to try to secure a table at Sexy Fish.
Not only that, but not every sweatpant is the same. The New Yorker drily documented the gradations of sweatpants status with a humorous column claiming “These Aren’t Sweatpants, They’re Joggers”, and as sweatpants become ubiquitous they will also continue to evolve as status symbols, working to send out microcues about the wearer’s social position. Some of these hints may be subtle (material, cut, colour); others will be less coy (see Gucci’s logo-emblazoned “lounge pants” currently retailing for over $1,000).
A recent podcast from The Atlantic explored sweatpants as “a void”, a way of opting out of the self-projection inherent in getting dressed fuelled by our lockdown habit of prioritising comfort over cool.
But once we’re back out in the world, sweatpants, like everything we wear, will once again bristle with fashionable meaning and social codes. Fashion is an ever-regenerating system, adapting and thriving in new circumstances, making itself relevant to fresh realities. Even fleece-lined ones.
You might be done with fashion, but fashion is never done with you.
The Dead Are Arising is the first major biography of Malcolm X, and has been twenty-eight years in the making. Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Les Payne has attempted to condense hundreds of interviews with Malcolm’s known associates and still-living family, to give us a story that deepens and in places contradicts much of the established narrative about Malcolm’s life. Payne died before the biography could be completed; his daughter and principal research assistant Tamara Payne has finished it from his notes. The book is 523 pages long, plus endnotes, an extensive bibliography, and an appendix that reprints Malcolm’s responses to a questionnaire sent to him by the Islamic Centre of Geneva, which he was working on the week before his assassination. The biography is without doubt a landmark achievement, but it is not without weaknesses.
The most significant of these from a casual reader’s perspective is Payne’s employment of what might be called a very journalistic style. It is not unreasonable to expect that the prose of someone who spent nearly four decades as a print journalist would have acquired a somewhat headline-y flavour; it is, however, frustrating to read so many “tags” for characters and events that we have just been told about. A characteristic example comes from the end of an early chapter recounting the circumstances of the death of Malcom’s father:
Yet the precocious six-year-old first grader had much growing up to do in the shadow of his family’s twin midnight tragedies: the incineration of their home and the death of their father on the capital’s streetcar tracks.
The Dead are Arising: The Life of Malcolm X: 86
The adjectives in this sentence give us a sense of breathlessness but are also unnecessary. “Twin midnight tragedies” veers close to the tabloid, and “six-year-old first grader” is redundant; most first-graders in America are six years old. “Precocious” is committing a good deal of emotional manipulation here, as though Payne feels he needs to put a thumb on the scales of our sympathy for young Malcolm. Most frustratingly, “the incineration of their home and the death of their father” are precisely the events that Payne has just spent the last twenty-three pages describing. The chances that we have forgotten the general outlines of the twin midnight tragedies before the end of the chapter are slim; the repetition makes Payne appear to be either over-egging the pudding, or extremely absentminded.
Emotional manipulation is a general problem, in fact, particularly in the early chapters; a few pages later, Payne writes of “the dishonest scheming of the insurance company”, which acted “with wanton malice against a hapless black widow and her seven children”. The material is strong enough to stand on its own: Malcolm’s mother, Louise, whose upbringing in the West Indies had instilled her in a strong sense of self-worth that the American Black community in the 1930s often found difficult to access in the face of white supremacist terror, was devastated both emotionally and financially by her husband’s death. Her teenage son’s increasingly uncontrollable behaviour (he repeatedly stole housekeeping money meant to provide food for the family, and spent or gambled it all in downtown Lansing) contributed to her eventual breakdown and institutionalisation. It’s a tragic story by any standard. Extra authorial attempts to ensure sympathy land gracelessly, and make the reader feel distrusted.
Louise’s self-belief was the foundation of the Little children’s confidence in the worthiness of their race, and of Malcolm’s later political gospel. Payne has interviewed several of Malcolm’s brothers, most notably Wilfred and Philbert, who were close to him in age; both mention their family’s unusual standing in school, where they were the only Black children attending but were also difficult for white children to pick on, because they all fought back. Louise and her husband Earl were acolytes of Marcus Garvey, whose tenets included Black self-sufficiency, contempt for lighter-skinned Black people and the concept of race-mixing, and education for children that focused on African history and Black achievement. Payne spends a lot of time on these childhood years, and gives us a lot of background. This is clearly done to provide a full picture of the intellectual and social environment into which Malcolm was born, but it’s also easy for the general reader to lose interest, particularly as Payne maintains a high emotional pitch, demanding as much investment and engagement from the reader here as in later sections.
Likewise, chapters detailing Malcolm’s life before prison—the burglary, the affairs with white women, the con tricks, the petty drug dealing—are colourful, giving a detailed picture of Midwestern and East Coast criminal life in the 1930s and ‘40s, but they are not what a person opens a biography of Malcolm X for. The most interesting revelation here for readers seeking insight into Malcolm’s character development is that many interviewees reiterate his primary interest as being the acquisition of power. In his early life, this involved street smarts, charisma, money, and manipulation—sometimes physical abuse—of women. Malcolm’s prison conversion to a more intellectual style of conflict is shown to be a function of his recognition that an older inmate, named Bambry, who was educated, possessed a rhetorical power and depth that Malcolm himself lacked. In Payne’s telling, Malcolm’s autodidactic turn in prison was an attempt to rise to Bambry’s level, to unlock a kind of power that might be more lasting than thuggery.
He was also converted to the Nation of Islam while in prison, though the evangelizing came from his family on the outside: brother Wilfred was an early and zealous convert. The Nation of Islam, as Payne demonstrates, was less a religion or even a sect than a cult. There are details of a foundation myth involving something called the Mother Ship, and the revelation that the entire white race descends from test-tube babies created by a mad Black scientist named Yacub, six thousand years ago. Malcolm seems generally to have avoided discussing these details, in favour of Elijah Muhammad’s advocacy of Black separatism. For years, Malcolm was the national spokesman for the NOI, and adhered strictly to promoting Elijah’s teachings in his public appearances.
The first cracks in his unquestioning devotion appeared when the Georgia Ku Klux Klan reached out to the NOI, asking for a meeting on the grounds that both groups opposed racial integration. (This was virtually the same reason that the Klan and Marcus Garvey had met in the 1920s.) Elijah Muhammad was not present at that meeting; he instructed Malcolm to be deferential to the Klan at all times, while also asking them for help in securing a Black homeland in North America. Deference to whites, particularly the uneducated and unsophisticated men the Klan was fielding, was not part of Malcolm’s playbook. At one point, the Klan’s chief representative, W.S. Fellows, suggested the NOI pass them Martin Luther King Jr.’s Atlanta address; the Klan would arrange for King’s murder, the NOI would keep their hands clean, and they would be both be rid of an integrationist. Malcolm’s instructions were to give the Klan what they wanted, but that would be to make himself an accessory to the murder of a fellow Black man. He refused; Elijah Muhammad was furious.
The rest of the story is the best-known: Malcolm’s discovery that Elijah had fathered ten illegitimate children with his young secretaries, whilst demanding celibacy and strict living for his followers; Elijah’s meetings with increasingly right-wing white supremacist figures, including George Lincoln Rockwell, leader of the American Nazi Party; Malcolm’s defection and conversion to Sunni Islam, including his experience on hajj during which he witnessed white, Arab, light- and dark-skinned Black Muslims all worshipping together; his further travels in Africa asking the leaders of newly decolonized African countries to mention the plight of Black Americans in the United Nations; the FBI’s increasing surveillance and obsession with him as a dangerous Black radical leader; the NOI leadership’s embarrassment as he revealed Elijah Muhammad’s hypocrisy in speeches and writings, and their determination to assassinate him. Payne’s stylistic showmanship serves him better during the second half of the biography: conspiracy, covert operations, murder and a government cover-up lend themselves more readily to dramatic retelling.
The Dead Are Arising won a National Book Award in the US last year, and it is certainly a monumental act of biographical reconstruction. Perhaps its monumental status is part of the problem: for a general reader, Payne’s devotion to detail can drag, and the forward momentum of Malcolm X’s life is often lost amidst minutiae. If, however, the purpose of this book is not to tell a story—if it is, in fact, to provide future biographers and scholars of the civil rights movement with a wealth of information and resources on which to draw—it is a success. Ungainly and subjective phrasing is possibly a small price to pay for a work of this magnitude; I suspect it will depend largely on the reader. Had I not intended to review it, I would have skipped or skimmed the first ten chapters. Having read it all, however, has given me a much clearer picture of the ideas and development of a radical Black icon and his milieu; if that’s of interest to you, too, this book should be on your reading list. Just don’t expect undying prose.
The Dead is Arising: the Life of Malcolm X, by Les Payne and Tamara Payne, is published by Viking, an imprint of Penguin.
Christina often complained that the work environment at Pedderton Investment Advisors was too mundane and uneventful and provided no feed for her writing activity. Though technically she was the secretary of the Innovation department, she nurtured a secret desire to produce a novel but always found herself short of interesting things to write about.
All of that changed when Shaun Mayor arrived at Pedderton as the Director of Innovation and boy, did he stir the pot! Brash, dynamic and aggressive, Shaun was in charge of investing in disruptive technologies but he managed to completely disrupt the staid culture at Pedderton. Shouts from his office became commonplace and junior analysts were often seen rushing out of his chamber in tears. Old timers found themselves “graduating” i.e. being fired from their jobs for not performing to his satisfaction. Christina started making copious notes of incidents in her diary and was surprised to find the pages fill up in quick momentum. Rumors of Shaun’s extracurricular activities also wormed their way into the office conversation – strip clubs, dubious Middle Eastern companions, wild parties. Team members would huddle in twos and threes by the coffee machine to natter about the latest canards and their general insecurities. They started craving for the good old days and wistfully reminisced about the time when days merged into each other without much friction.
Slowly the angst against Shaun started building up and in three months since his arrival, it reached such a level, that the team members were grossly reluctant to even celebrate his birthday. One by one, they unenthusiastically got off their chairs and congregated in the conference room that had been decorated with balloons and bunting. They grudgingly clapped as Shaun blew the candles on the cake and cut the first piece. Just then the power supply went off. Not just in the conference room but for the entire floor. The team members fired up their mobile phones and spoke in hushed tones to half-lit faces. The doors to the room swung in and out and soon, the party that no one wanted to attend came to an abrupt end. The team members shuffled back to their desks. In five minutes, the power was back on and approximately ten minutes after that, Alex came staggering out of the men’s room, the color drained from his face like he had encountered a ghost. “Someone slit Shaun’s throat”, he managed to mumble out. The team members stared at him in utter disbelief. Christina stopped typing, Sarah let out a loud gasp and cry, Tom dropped the sheaf of papers that he was holding, and Martin shot off towards the men’s room to verify. He emerged moments later trembling like a water pipe on the verge of bursting. “Shaun’s dead”, he announced before collapsing to the floor. “That may not necessarily be bad”, Tom whispered to Sarah as he rushed to help Martin to his feet. Christina observed these dramatic happenings with her mouth open and then slowly shutting it, she considered what had just occurred – an unpleasant boss, a power cut, zero feed to the installed cameras, murder of the boss, multiple disgruntled employees as suspects, ingredients to a perfect whodunnit – and reached out for her notebook. She could barely conceal her glee as she started working her pen furiously on the pages, delighted to have finally landed material that she could spin into gold.
Two months after Shaun’s murder, the cops were still struggling to identify the culprit. In the face of the multiple suspects with motives and the total lack of the evidence due to the power cut, the authorities finally closed the case after labeling it as unresolved. However in Christina’s fictionalized version, a Hercule Poirot styled detective managed to unearth a string of clues that led to the arrest of the character based on Alex. Pleased with her creative efforts, Christina sent off her manuscript to a literary agent and dreamt of a book publication and an option for a movie. But in her darker moments, she imagined terrifying encounters with Shaun who demanded answers from her and justice for himself and she worried that a merry outcome from her story would be too much wishful thinking.
Yes, come on in…I have a little time to talk, before I’m needed. And I know you must have many questions. Perhaps the best way to answer them is to tell you my story. You might think it a strange tale, but here, now, today, I have to say it seems to me entirely natural. No? Well, perhaps we’ll agree to differ. We’ll see. So…where do I begin?
They were a familiar sight around our part of town, the Indian and his two wives. They weren’t both his wives, but that was how everyone described them. In fact, they were identical – or near-identical – twin sisters, and one of them was his wife. But which one it was remained a mystery, and nobody thought to ask. They were only ever seen as a trio. Their ages were difficult to estimate, but generally agreed to be somewhere between forty and sixty. When they left the house they all shared, the man walked ahead, followed five paces behind by one of the sisters, who was, in turn, followed by the other. They never spoke to anyone, and rarely to each other. He was always handsomely dressed – a blue or grey suit, white shirt, striped tie, and brightly polished black leather shoes. The women were, by contrast, dowdy – old cardigans, shapeless skirts, woollen ankle socks and cheap trainers. The Indian was a Sikh, and the conventional nature of his wardrobe was slightly offset by a selection of brightly coloured turbans and a hairnet tied tightly across his beard.
Each day they visited the supermarket, where their method of shopping never varied. He would walk ahead of the two women, pointing silently at various items. Watching him closely, they removed the relevant items from the shelves and placed them in their wire baskets. At the checkout counter, the sisters would hand their purchases to the till operator while the man looked on. When the bill was presented, the Indian would step forward to pay – always in cash – and the three of them would make the return walk home. This daily trip to the shops seemed to be their only social activity. Nobody knew anything more about them, and as our neighbourhood seemed to contain more than its fair share of eccentric and bohemian characters, they aroused no hostility or suspicion and were left alone to pursue the peculiar lifestyle they had chosen.
When I was fifteen, I became interested in cycling. Like most boys in the town, I had a bicycle to get me to and from school and for occasional short trips, but after watching the Tour de France, the Giro d’Italia and the Vuelta a España on television, I begged my parents to buy me a proper road bike and, to my surprise, they did. I joined the local cycling club and began to go on longer and longer trips – sixty, seventy, eighty miles in a day – usually with other members of the club, sometimes alone. One Sunday in August, I devised a 75-mile circular route that would take me out and back through some of the smaller villages and farming communities to the north of the town. I set off an hour or so after breakfast and cycled for two hours before stopping to eat my packed lunch overlooking a reservoir. It was an unusually hot, dry summer, and I remember having to sweep swarms of ladybirds from the frame and handlebars of my bike before I could carry on. I heard music from the direction of several marquees in the distance, and cycled along a narrow lane to discover a summer fete was just getting underway in the grounds of a splendid Georgian hall. I padlocked my cycle next to several others and walked over to the main tent, where a hand-painted sign announced that Benno, Trippi & Benno were about to begin their afternoon performance. Intrigued, I wandered in.
There, on a makeshift stage, sat the Indian. On his knees he held a life-size ventriloquist’s dummy, an exact replica of its owner. And on the knees of the dummy was a smaller dummy, another precise copy of its two larger companions.
He addressed the audience.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Allow me to introduce myself and my two friends. I am Benno. This chap on my knee is Trippi. And the little fellow on his knee is young Benno. We’re delighted to be here. Aren’t we?”
At this, Trippi and young Benno began to chatter simultaneously. They bounced up and down, swivelled around, gesticulated, while Benno pleaded with them in vain to calm down. I had no idea how the Indian did this, but the effect of three overlapping voices was overwhelming. The audience burst into prolonged applause and cheering. Eventually Trippi and young Benno fell silent, and Benno apologised for their exuberance.
“We’ve had a long journey,” he explained, in an aristocratic English accent that betrayed no sign of his own ethnicity, “and these two are impatient to tell you all about their travels. Please, ask them a question.”
“How did you get here?” a voice called.
The three figures on stage answered together.
“We flew,” said Trippi.
“Don’t believe him! We sailed,” shouted young Benno.
“They’re both wrong,” said Benno. “We came by train.”
Again, the three voices spoke together and continued to debate between themselves over the correct answer. The only explanation I could come up with was that the questioner was part of the act, and that the Indian was playing pre-recorded answers to planted questions through equipment built into the two dummies. I decided to test my theory by asking a wholly unpredictable question.
“I think I’ve seen you before. Have you ever been to Llandudno?” I asked, picking a town at random.
“I’ve been to Llandudno,” said Trippi. “I climbed the Great Orme last year and– ”
“No, you didn’t,” interrupted young Benno. “You’re getting confused. Llandudno is in North Wales. We were in South Wales!”
While Trippi and young Benno tried to shout each other down, Benno threw back his head and laughed.
“Well, I’ve never been to Llandudno,” he said. “You two must have gone there without me!”
The three voices continued to compete for attention, and through the melee of noise, it was possible to discern three separate accents. The perfect English of Benno, the mock-Italian of Trippi, and the stage Indian of young Benno. At one point, Trippi raised his hand and struck young Benno on the side of the head. The smaller dummy burst into tears and continued to sob, while Benno remonstrated with an unapologetic Trippi.
“You’ll have to forgive Trippi,” explained Benno. “He’s somewhat emotional. He has a new lady friend, you see. I think it must be love.”
For the next half hour, I sat in amazement, watching the three figures beguile and bewilder the audience. Sometimes they moved back and forth and looked around in unison, as if meticulously choreographed; sometimes they turned and twisted independently. Their voices were clear and distinct, the things they said funny or poignant. They answered whatever questions they were asked without hesitation, and reproduced faultlessly the changes in pitch and tone that characterise routine conversation. And yet there was something unresolved about their astonishing performance; it was as though the three existed not on their own material terms but were temporarily suspended, awaiting some kind of confirmation, like characters from someone else’s story.
They left the stage to a standing ovation, but despite the extended clamour, did not return for an encore. When I went to retrieve my bike some time later, I passed a large car. There were no signs of the Indian or young Benno, but sitting in the back seat were Trippi and a female dummy, perfectly still and gazing into each other’s eyes. I watched them for several minutes, half-expecting some signs of movement. They remained motionless, even when I knocked sharply on the window and called his name, and I laughed at my own foolishness.
My parents were infuriatingly uninterested in my story when I arrived back at home in the early evening. If anything, they treated it as an opportunity to tease me.
“Are you sure it was our Indian?” my father asked. “It’s difficult to tell, under those beards and turbans. It doesn’t sound very likely.”
And when I tried to describe the wholly inexplicable way in which Benno, Trippi and young Benno had spoken together to answer impromptu questions from myself and others, they were equally unimpressed.
“It’s clever what they can do nowadays with all these electronic gadgets,” said my mother.
“Maybe he hypnotises his audience,” joked my father. “You know, gets them to do and hear what he wants them to. I’ve heard all about these Indian mystics!”
A few days later, I passed the Indian and his two wives, making their way slowly toward the supermarket. I glanced at him, but he failed to look in my direction.
“Hey, Benno!” I called after him. “How’s Trippi?”
For a moment, one of the women seemed to hesitate, but Benno carried on walking, apparently oblivious to my presence.
The rest of the summer passed without incident. I returned for my final year at school in early September with little or no idea of what career I might follow. When the nights started to draw in, I decided there would be few opportunities for cycling in the months ahead, and gave my bike a thorough oiling and cleaning before putting it away for the winter. I was on the drive at the front of the house polishing the chrome handlebars when I became aware of someone standing on the pavement staring at me.
“Young man,” said the voice. “I think I know you.”
I looked round to see the Indian. For a moment, I felt a twinge of alarm but was reassured by the realisation that my parents were just a few yards away inside the house.
“Benno,” I said. “Mr. Benno.”
“Is that what you call me?”
He carried on looking at me while I struggled to think of something else to say.
Eventually, I asked, “Have you done any shows recently?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said, sadly.
“Why not?”
“You see, Trippi has left me.”
I leaned my bike against the door of the house.
“What do you mean, left you?”
“It’s as I say. His new lady friend…he prefers to be with her than with me.”
There was no pretence in his eyes, no sign that he was joking. Everything about him – his stance, his voice, his demeanour – contributed to the forlorn spectacle he presented. While I didn’t fully understand what it was he was trying to tell me, there was no doubt that its impact on him was profound. I felt genuinely sorry for him.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Perhaps he’ll come back.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“But that is why I am here to see you,” he continued. “Perhaps you could take his place. Will you come, now?”
I stared at him, nonplussed and unsure of what I should say next. My first instinct was to laugh, tell him he was crazy, and order him to go away. But I had no wish to be cruel. Perhaps it would be kinder to humour him, thank him for his invitation, and explain that I was too busy with school work. Then again, I could simply ignore him and go back into the house. In the end, I did none of these.
“What would you want me to do?” I asked.
“You saw our performance. I would require you to be Trippi.”
“Why me?”
“You seem interested in what we do. Trippi told me you tried to talk to him after the show. He apologised, by the way, for not answering you.”
“But how would–” I began.
“No. No more questions,” he interrupted. “You should decide now.”
I did decide, or, as it seemed to me at the time, a decision was made. I walked towards him stiffly, my face contorting, my voice changing as I spoke.
“Thank you, Benno. Yes, I will be Trippi.”
*
And that is why I am here today, waiting to go on stage. I’m well looked after: Benno can be strict, but he treats me and young Benno with great care and affection. Of course, I miss my parents, but after he had explained the situation to them, they gave Benno their blessing. Being Trippi is an enjoyable, if slightly monotonous life. A lot of the time, I’m packed away and resting. I’ve become used to the dark. I don’t need any food or drink, I don’t have to worry about what time to go to bed or what time to get up, there’s nothing I need to buy. And young Benno and I are very close. We share everything, and we spend so much time together in our tiny space that each of us can predict what the other is about to say. And now that I’ve been here for a while, it’s difficult to imagine myself doing anything else. That’s not to say that I’ll always be here. I remember my cycling. Being out alone on the roads, the sun beating down on my back, the wind whistling through my hair as I freewheel downhill…yes, I do miss that. I miss it very much. But please don’t say anything. Ah, here comes Benno now. I can hear his footsteps. It must be time for the show. Remember, say nothing to him. I wouldn’t want him to think I was unhappy.
What if fantasy literature and media can be beneficial for our mental health, alongside being a huge amount of fun? Imagine a world where you can turn to your favourite show or series and know that, rather than doing the apparent ‘bad thing’ of binge-watching or reading to escape the current climate, you’re proactively supporting your own emotional wellbeing. You’re probably doing this right now without knowing it. We all have that feeling sometimes where we channel hop or we pick up a book, read the blurb, put it down, pick up another book… We don’t know what we need in that particular moment, but we know it’s not what was on one channel or within those pages. We can’t put our finger on it, but it’s something different, our unconscious (or subconscious, depending on which side of Freud you come down on) is letting us know we need something. How many times do we return to favourite books or tv shows (particularly in the Age of Netflix/Prime/BritBox/[insert any other streaming service here]) because they feel comforting? That foreknowledge of what’s going to happen is like a warm blanket but it doesn’t decrease our enjoyment at the time. We all do it. There’s a lot of really interesting research out there which talks about the merits of hobbies, whether those are knitting, pottery, sewing, reading, anything really. But the focus of this research is about doing these things together. We don’t always want to do things with other people. And, let’s face it, in the Time of Covid, we are spending so much more time on our own. Little research has been done about the therapeutic benefits of hobbies which we do alone. The benefits of doing things together are clear: getting out of the house, meeting other likeminded people… These are all really good things. BUT. There’s something really important about what we seek out to comfort/console/support ourselves when we’re on our own and we don’t need to think about a single other person. In that time and space, you can find what you need.
Enter: fantasy. Wherever you stand on fantasy purity/sci-fi cross-overs, traditional high fantasy or young adult fantasy, it’s all awesome. But why is fantasy the important form of writing for this idea, I hear you ask? Simple answer: the fans and the plots. Lots of forms of literature/media/gaming/basically anything have devoted fans (the ‘fandoms’) but fantasy fans are a bit special. We spend a lot of time interacting with other fans regardless of time difference, country, level of education, anything you could possibly use to classify people. We dissect plots and tv/film adaptations on Reddit, we dress up as our favourite characters at Comicons and emblazon our favourite works on our bodies or on our clothes. Through being part of a wider community, brought together through the love of fantasy, its consumers are offered a way to negate any isolation or loneliness they experience, through feeling part of a group. The works themselves provide fantastic (in both senses) stimuli for positive mental health, without obviously being about mental health, which is part of its appeal and beneficial potential in subverting the unnecessary but still prevalent stigma surrounding mental health.
Fantasy has long been considered the ultimate escapism because the worlds created are so very different to ours, correct? Yes and no. These amazing new worlds and societies, people, rules, laws and customs are created and that’s just far enough away from our ‘reality’ to feel alien, but there are still so many similarities. Through fantasy, we can experience societal/quasi-human behaviour similar to our own lives but at a safe distance. The kinds of behaviour shown mirror our own experience: judgement, hatred, envy, bullying, love, bigotry, coming of age, and so much more. A common theme of fantasy is the underdog, the side-lined species or race, with biases and engrained societal expectations (think purebloods in Harry Potter, the Ood in Doctor Who, Hobbits as mere halflings as just a few examples). Fantasy itself is absolutely no stranger to judgement and derision. It’s been decried as a ‘poor’ form of literature, less ‘serious’ and ‘proper’ than other forms of fiction, a ‘new’ idea that’s yet to blossom. This could not be further from the truth. Fantasy owes its origins to Homer, Shakespeare and the Icelandic Myths among many other illustrious works; it can trace its creative lineage back to 800 BCE. It offers an amazing blend of mythology, fairy tales, folklore, legend, fiction, gothic, magic, non-realism and alternate realities. No fantastical work is the same. We can visit Tolkien’s Middle Earth and Jodi Taylor’s St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, swing by Genevieve Cogman’s Invisible Library and finish in C.J. Archer’s steampunk alternate London, via Hogwarts, Philip Pullman’s Oxford, the Discworld and Veronica Roth’s dystopian Chicago. (There’s some name-dropping of awesome authors there, do check them out). Sometimes the worlds are completely brand new, sometimes they’re slightly or colossally different versions of ones we recognise. Sometimes they exist alongside the primary world, or our own worlds are augmented with fantasy and magic. This is the richness of the genre.
But what about science fiction? The line between fantasy and science fiction has become more fragmented and blurred over recent years. Doctor Who is a great example of a phenomenon occupying both science fiction and fantasy, depending on the episode. The Deus Ex Machina theme (the hero swooping in at the end to correct all wrongs), where the Doctor suddenly appears and saves civilizations and planets with no real explanation, is a key trapping of fantasy. Terry Pratchett stated that Doctor Who is ‘pixel thin’ as plausible science fiction: ‘Much has been written about the plausibility or otherwise of the Star Trek universe, but it is possible to imagine at least some of the concepts becoming real. But the sonic screwdriver? I don’t think so’. Josh Oren describes Doctor Who as ‘a huge tossed salad of storytelling genres’. While there is a definitive distinction between fantasy and science fiction, there are also many shared elements. Fantasy and science fiction can be considered two parts of a larger whole, inextricably linked in some respects and beautifully distinct in others. The ‘fantastic’ can be seen as a tree, from which ‘realism,’ ‘nonrealism,’ ‘science fiction,’ and ‘horror’ all branch from its trunk. Regardless of the pigeon-holing for genre, sci fi and fantasy attract equally committed and engaged fans, create amazing fandoms and provide that ‘just far enough but not too far’ experience for us to explore key features of human existence.
This piece of work has been partly inspired by a report entitled Creative Health: The Arts for Health and Wellbeing, which was the result of an All-Party Parliamentary Group into Arts, Health and Wellbeing. This report focused on the benefits of interactive, group activity around the arts, but without exploring the benefits of private hobbies and leisure time spent with stories, regardless of whether the stories are contained within the pages of a book or via a television screen. One of the key oversights in the report is dismissing watching television as a productive hobby because it’s sedentary (the report goes so far as to say that children should be diverted from watching TV). An excellent article by Mònica Guillen-Royo) challenges this widespread view that TV is a negative force in people’s lives by demonstrating that, in moderation (as with most activities/consumption/practices), television viewing is a positive activity in Peru. Guillen-Royo reiterates this by saying conclusively that ‘television can be a source of wellbeing’ (Guillen-Royo, 2018). An American scholar, Elizabeth Cohen, wrote in defence of binge-watching, and outlined how watching multiple episodes of a show concurrently can create a ‘flow experience’ which increases personal wellbeing (but did provide the caveat that this doesn’t work for everyone). Finally, legitimate proof that watching back-to-back episodes of Game of Thrones is A Good Thing!
And it’s not just TV, Theresa Fleming of New Zealand and colleagues carried out the first study on ‘serious games and gamification for mental health’ in 2017. This study particularly focused on mental health benefits through exergames, virtual reality, cognitive behavioural therapy based games and entertainment games. The benefit of fantasy and escapist activities has long been recognised for our wellbeing, but not yet given the wide-spread attention it deserves. In The Secret Lives of Introverts: Inside Our Hidden World (Granneman, 2017), one respondent stated that ‘Introverts gain energy from solitude. […] I play games on the computer or watch Star Trek. Basically[,] any escapist behaviour. I recharge ten times faster if I’m engaged in something fantastical’. A very recent study by gaming accessories company, HyperX, has discovered that over half of 13-18 year olds opt to communicate with their friends via games, and over half of parents surveyed agreed that gaming had helped with their children’s mental health during lockdown. HyperX’s UK regional manager stated that ‘video games have an important and valuable role to play in the social lives of many people’ and ‘gaming is more than just a hobby for children’. The benefits are significantly wider than purely filling a gap in our days.
The 2016 project ‘The Rest Test’ (Wellcome Trust, Hubbub, and Durham University) was completed by more 18,000 people from 134 different countries. Respondents were asked to select from a list of 25 activities those that they considered most restful: reading was the most popular option, with watching television ranked tenth most popular. The work carried out by these researchers within television, gaming, and ‘The Rest Test’ demonstrates that there is a keen need for in-depth exploration of reading and watching for well-being. Recognizing the solitary leisure pursuits within ‘The Rest Test’ highlights the proportion of individuals turning to reading and television for restful activities. Within mental health discourse, activities within private time are a key aspect. The concept of self-care has (happily) become more prevalent and much more mainstream, particularly in the last five years. The idea essentially legitimizes ‘alone time’ and recognizes the value in taking time for oneself without any feelings of guilt (not that we should feel any guilt in looking after ourselves).
So how do my favourite works help my mental health?
Here are a couple of examples of how Harry Potter and Doctor Who give us great, visual examples that we can apply to managing our wellbeing. There are so many more instances but it’s impossible to cover them all here!
The bildungsroman (‘coming of age’) theme within the Harry Potter series immediately presents readers with an outsider, in direct and unsubtle conflict with society and with a questionable family life with the Dursleys. Harry Potter presents readers (and watchers of the films) with a range of characters who have had to overcome significant trauma, bullying, exclusion, loss, neglect, and misunderstandings about who they are. Not only Harry but most of his friendship group has experienced at least one of these difficulties, meaning that Harry is no longer isolated in his feelings. In its widest sense, the Harry Potter novels champion acceptance, tolerance, encouragement of differences, and the explosion of stigma. The Boggart in Harry Potter can be seen as an approach to managing conditions such as anxiety and depression. A shape-shifting creature, the Boggart reads the mind of the person facing it, turning into a representation of the thing/person/animal they fear the most. Professor Lupin reveals that ‘Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces [:] wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the cupboards under sinks’ (Rowling 1999: 101). The Boggart is presented as the archetypal primal fear, the ‘thing under the bed,’ lurking in the dark. As Lupin says, ‘It’s always best to have company when you’re dealing with a Boggart’. To defeat the Boggart, the person facing it has to use their mind and imagination to turn it into something they find amusing. Neville Longbottom, for example, feared Professor Snape the most; at Professor Lupin’s encouragement, Neville was able to imagine Snape in Neville’s grandmother’s clothes as he used the charm, ‘riddikulus!’ (Rowling 1999: 102). None of us can forget the image of the imposing Snape appearing from the wardrobe suddenly changing into Neville’s grandmother’s clothes through Neville’s powerful thinking and the charm. Lupin said ‘the charm that repels a Boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind,’ telling Neville to ‘raise [his] wand – thus – and cry ‘Riddikulus’ – and concentrate hard on your grandmother’s clothes’ (Rowling 1999: 102). The essential ingredient is our minds.
A staple of cognitive behavioural therapy is a practical worksheet on which patients can physically contradict negative thoughts by outlining the evidence against a negative thought. This results in the thought not being repressed, which can be unhealthy, but by actively disproving the thought. A thought diary provides a structure for people to track their negative thoughts and work through them. Listing the negative thought, accompanied by the emotion felt and the evidence for and the evidence against the negative thought, encourages the person to disprove the negative thought and come up with an alternative thought. This diary sets the individual the task of objectively challenging negative thoughts by physically writing down the evidence for and against the thought. In a number of cases, the ‘evidence for’ column is significantly shorter than the ‘evidence against’ column. Of course, this does not automatically rid people of negative thoughts, but it is a step toward changing mind-sets in a sustainable way. In the case of Harry and the Boggart, the students (and, indeed, Professor Lupin) have to challenge the fear head on and change it into something not only more positive but also amusing. This has the power to vanquish the Boggart. The Boggart, although appearing to be a fantastical creature set apart from reality, actually embodies (through its method of defeat) exceptionally important processes for positive mental health.
As Cohen observes, stories through the medium of television are deemed less worthy than stories through the medium of books. The series 8 Doctor Who episode ‘Into the Dalek’ (2014) presents viewers with a daunting prospect: the Doctor and companions being miniaturized and inserted into a Dalek to fix its memories. A Dalek has seemingly ‘turned good’ (unlikely…) after seeing a star being born and realizing that life continues and evolves, even after destruction; after treating the Dalek for radiation, the Dalek reverts to traditional Dalek behaviour, exterminating every life form different to itself. In search of the Dalek’s specific memory of the star being born, the catalyst to its re-evaluation of Dalek priorities, the Doctor and his companions find a chamber with what appear to be strip lights. This is the cortex vault, ‘a supplementary electronic brain. Memory banks, but more than that. […] The radiation allowed it to expand its consciousness, to consider things beyond its natural terms of reference. It became good’ (‘Into the Dalek’ 2014). The hidden memory of the star being born is visually represented through dark areas in the cortex vault, which Clara Oswald (the Doctor’s friend and companion in the TARDIS) and Journey Blue (a pilot in the Combined Galactic Resistance) sought out to reactive. Clara says ‘so, the Doctor said this was a memory bank and some of the memories were suppressed. What if. What if the dark spots are hidden memories? What if one of those is the Dalek seeing a star?’ This representation of the ‘good Dalek’ and its prompt to become ‘good’ are all based on one memory, of a star being born. The visually rich image of the light and dark memories clearly expresses the concept of repressed/hidden memories. Depicting memories in this way can make them seem more tangible, more real, and prompt watchers to consider their own repressed memories, with a view to ‘turni[ng] [them] back on’. If we can become more aware of our memories and cognitive abilities, and better able to connect with them and visualise them, this can only be a helpful tool in managing conditions relating to negative memories, such as PTSD.
So how has this helped during the pandemic? Fantasy has truly been a guiding light through the endless Covid situation. Harry Potter at Home launched in 2020 as a way to ‘cast a Banishing Charm on boredom’ during lockdown, though its benefits were much more significant than purely stopping us being bored. This initiative featured special chapter readings of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by famous actors and cast members, ‘filmed at home’ chapter readings by Potterhead families, provided ideas for crafting challenges and games and a dedicated online space with useful resources to manage wellbeing, and much, much more. Described as a ‘digital Dumbledore’s Army’, ‘to help children, parents, carers and teachers find comfort and escape whilst we continued to stay at home’, the Harry Potter At Home hub attracted seven million viewers over lockdown. The publisher Scholastic reported that sales of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone doubled at the height of lockdown. The take-up alone speaks volumes: Harry Potter for health!
In the Whovian world, the Doctor Who watchalongs/tweetalongs were a staggering success as the Whoniverse united to get each other through the various lockdowns. The brainchild of Emily Cook (Doctor Who Magazine) sees fans come together for a regular communal viewing experience, tweeting under a designated hashtag along with key stars of the series, producers and writers, from David Tennant, Matt Smith, Steven Moffat, Russell T. Davies and many more of the Doctor Who royalty. 34 watchalong/tweetalongs have been held since 21 March 2020 and the phenomenon keeps going, attracting coverage by The Guardian in June. Elsewhere in the fantasyscape, David Tennant, Michael Sheen and Neil Gaiman reunited for a lockdown audio special of Good Omens. Gaiman wrote on Twitter that ‘this is our present to all of you. It’s to make people happy, because too many of us are sad’. It is clear to see that fantasy really has stepped up during these apocalyptic days to support its fans even more than it already does.
Doctor Who is an amazing source of wisdom about the power of words and literature. In the 2006 episode ‘Tooth and Claw,’ when faced with a werewolf and trapped in a library, the Doctor declares:
DOCTOR: You want weapons? We’re in a library. Books! Best weapons in the world. This room’s the greatest arsenal we could have. (He throws some books to Rose). DOCTOR: Arm yourself.
The concept of a library being the ‘best arsenal in the world’ is demonstrated through this episode in the discovery of a book on mistletoe and a shooting star falling to earth in 1540. Books are a limitless source of inspiration, comfort, and encouragement. They can even defeat werewolves (whether real ones or the ones existing in our minds).
The moral of the tale, fantasy fans? Keep watching, keep reading, keep engaging. Whatever the medium, stories change lives.
Do you have some stories to tell about how fantasy/sci fi (in TV, books or gaming formats) helps you with your wellbeing and mental health? Hit me up on Twitter: @DrAnnaMack. A more ‘formal’ version of this piece, without the discussion of fantasy for wellbeing during Covid-19, appeared in The Encyclopedia of the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals
Photo by Ricardo Moura
There comes a point in your grown-up life when you realise that your parents are just people, human beings like anybody else. And yet they never quite lose the godlike power they once had, or the place they hold in your personal mythology. So much about their own lives is unknowable, their versions of the past full of gaps and contradictions. This is the territory Elizabeth Baines explores in her riveting new novel, Astral Travel, which centres on the figure of the late Patrick Jackson, as he’s reconstructed by his writer-daughter Jo.
Jo’s relationship with Patrick is dominated by the violent punishments he meted out to her well into adolescence. Hitting your own children was nothing out of the ordinary in the fifties and sixties, but it dawns on the adult Jo that the extent of the abuse was exceptional, and that it was linked to many unresolved aspects of her father’s life. To say too much about what she discovers in the course of writing a novel about him would be to spoil the intricate plot of this great page-turner. Astral Travel is written so vividly, in such a freewheeling style, that the narrative twists and turns are navigated with ease. Despite the underlying anger, and the sadness, Jo is a likeable narrator with an ironic tone of voice and a comic sensibility.
She tells us how, from his beginnings in rural Ireland, Patrick continuously re-invents himself, marrying a local girl while on wartime service in South Wales. In the course of the novel he drags his family to the other end of Wales and across the English North and Midlands, on the promise of a job, a new house or a business opportunity. Somehow, by the end of his life, he has managed his transformation into a pillar of the Masons, outwardly prosperous and generous to a fault. That, of course, is not the whole story. Jo’s search for the truth about her father, and the reasons driving the abuse, is possibly futile, though there is one final revelation that forces her to question every single one of her previous assumptions.
Astral Travel isn’t just Patrick’s story; Jo’s own life-story can be traced through its pages, along with the growth of a writer’s state of mind: “Always, alone in places like this, cut-off pockets of sun, in the alleyways in Prestatyn or the lanes at Llanfair, where everything small, bits of rubbish on the ground or ivy-leaved toadflax growing in the walls, was sharpened with magnified shadows and outlines of light, I would get a particular feeling: that sense of something huge and swelling, but hidden.” Passages like this remind me of Hilary Mantel’s memoir, Giving Up the Ghost. (Mantel has a different, but equally problematic relationship with her father.)
Yet Astral Travel isn’t so much about fiction-writing as about identity. Early in the novel, when Jo’s seven, Patrick announces that he’s reclaiming his Jewish heritage – something he’s never previously mentioned. He subscribes to the Jewish Chronicle, and designs a special Star-of-David ring “that could catch you a nasty blow when he lashed out”. “Of course he wasn’t Jewish!” says Patrick’s older sister, the former nun. “There are no Jews in Ireland!” (She’s obviously not heard of Leopold Bloom or Ulysses.) The adult Jo finds evidence in the Dublin archives to suggest Patrick’s claims were more than affectation. The multiple allegiances that she inherits – Welsh, Irish, Jewish, Methodist, Catholic and more – are just part of her struggle towards self-definition beyond patriarchal control. By the time I’d finished this wonderful novel, I was hoping for a sequel, or even a series, like Edward St Aubyn’s Patrick Melrose novels.
There’s one big question haunting Jo, and though it’s implied repeatedly, and sometimes asked directly, it’s never answered. “He does love us really”, the little girls think when Patrick comes home with a packet of Rolos. “Your dad loves you really,” their mother repeats, after yet another violent chastisement. Expecting a heartwarming memoir like Angela’s Ashes, both mother and sister are disappointed by the first draft of Jo’s novel. But, she reflects, in Angela’s Ashes, “in spite of all the deprivations and the father’s absence, the protagonist is never in any doubt that his father loves him.” My Daddy loves me really. But does he? How can you tell?
Astral Travel by Elizabeth Baines is published by Salt.
Mum came to Britain from Pandori village in Punjab, India, aged seventeen. Fatherless, she had sung her own poetry in school assemblies and played Kabaddi in shame-fetching hot pants. Her family hated her. Fatherless girls attract the deprived, hateful eyes of repressed, pathetic men. Rumours about her nine-year-old vagina’s tendency to be violated by the penises of rapists had already prompted the wheels of her ruination. Did she have to draw more attention to herself than was already glaring? Who was she, declaring her own talents of writing and dancing and singing? Talent was only eye-worthy when discovered by accident and acknowledged in whispers and poignantly denied by The Talented. As my cousin explained to me in a burger bar decades later, Mum had no subtlety. Her self-erected halo disgusted her family.
They married her off to my dad and she moved to England. It was the late seventies. She got a job in a factory where her aunt worked, performing the limb-sore mechanics of a future machine. When her aunt and uncle came to visit her in her new home in Southall, they warned her mother-in-law in tones of scornful pity, ‘you know at break time she sits with the blackies, the whiteies. Never our-ies.’
Wait, backtrack. Hold it. Hold it.
In India, where people come in all shades of brown and light skin is idolised and dark skin is profoundly maligned, the hierarchical toxicity of the caste system necessitates a virulent, factional thinking (or in the words of Kurt Cobain, our little group has aw-aw-awl-ways been and always will, un-ti-i-il the end…).In Britain’s swinging sixties and hippie seventies, where browns were ‘wogs’ and white men beat my teenage dad recreationally, racism was so brutal it spawned a U-turn.
Back to the aunt deriding Mum’s choice of black and white friends. ‘Nevermind,’ Mum’s mother-in-law snapped in Mum’s defence. ‘She’s our daughter now.’ My grandmother defied every cliché of the Traditional Punjabi Family by adoring her unconventional daughter-in-law. (My dad fondly recalls his mother breastfeeding him until he was four, more of which another time).
Mum was one of the first women in Southall to file for divorce, thanks to the stressed, miserable women at Southall Black Sisters. I stood outside the office on Southall Broadway, absorbing the word ‘black’, unpicking our place in it. No one was black – not even Sean, my best friend, whose skin was a delicious brown and whose family was Jamaican. The world needs these crude and simple ways of seeing people, I decided. It helps us find each other. That a woman, however hued by ‘blackness’, could pitch up at Southall Black Sisters and leave her shithole of a marriage made a warm sort of sense.
Bricks smashed our windows (Divorce? Had Mum no shame?). Men came (Stan the Communist) and went (Bernard the Care Home Manager, Ashok the Sandwich Delivery Man). When the latter drove me and a fellow Punjabi girl in my class home from school, I felt her fear freeze beside me, restrained, pained. To what sinister recesses had we deviated? The sandwich delivery man was not my dad, or granddad. Or uncle. Or great uncle. She knew it, I knew it. Her parents would know it. Their neighbours would know it. My mum was a slut and a bitch. A kanjari. (Whore).
We moved into a women’s refuge and found a real family, most of whom we rarely see these days but consider our ‘cousins’ in ways our blood relatives will never be. We went from the refuge to a bed & breakfast to a council house with apple trees, to another council house, barren and peeling, to a council flat where the stairs stank of piss, each transition propelling university education to a more esoteric, glittery height. Mum left at four in the morning to clean the toilets of department stores, shaking me awake, panicked because my brother had just been sick and I had to look after him. ‘You have to look after him! You have to!’ Cleaning was the only part-time job Mum could do without sabotaging the £69 a week she received in benefits, but I think she stopped after the puking incident. If she worked, she risked neglecting three children under the age of seven. If she didn’t, she was lazy and paying for her bad ‘choices’ (us) with poverty. On Friday evenings, mum swapped her cotton salwaar kameez for a shimmering, beaded silk, painted her eyes and lips and drove us to a dark, quiet building where rows and rows of Punjabi intelligentsia paused their poetry-listening, twisted their heads like possessed cooker knobs, and scowled at Mum, her infant children, our noise. Having arrived late, mum was always last on the bill. We sat through hours of ‘wah, wah’ (wow, wow) as poet after poet (man after man) took to the stage, before my young, pretty mother of three walked timidly to the lectern, cleared her throat, introduced herself briefly and launched into song – because she sang her poetry didn’t they know – igniting bigger ‘wahs’ of enthusiasm than any other poet of the night.
This part of the story feels too easy. Doth my memory deceive me? No. The crowds surrounding her afterwards, devoid of their initial judgement and irritation, pleading for encores. Mum’s poetry stopped people. They wanted more.
But admiration was limited to poetry evenings. In almost every other space beyond whichever walls we were calling our home, the eyes on Mum were disgusted or irritated; suspicious or inconvenienced; reluctant to engage. The same English shop assistants who smiled courteously at white people screwed their faces at Mum. The same old-lady passengers who shared polite jokes with Jessica’s mum on the bus rolled their eyes at Mum. The same school mums who made space for each other on the pavement tutted past mum. To this day, the same white people who treat my mum with that subtle yet tangible contempt, change – yes, change – the second I open my mouth. Why? Mum – her accent, her brownness, her clothes and her poverty – is inferior. A triangular maths symbol, left-pointing and baseless: < = less than. Less.
It’s everywhere. The policeman barking at an elderly Muslim man politely asking his question (‘how long until I’m allowed back onto my street? I need to go home for medication’): almost the same question I ask the exact same policeman just moments later, with my British, educated accent, beside my white South African husband, receiving a polite, curbed response. The neighbour who had a go at my husband for parking in ‘his’ space (he didn’t) ending the confrontation with these friendly words: ‘because you’re a British guy, I believe you. If it were anyone else on this (predominately Asian) street… pff.’ (My husband is South African. I, for what it’s worth, am that wishy-washy, inconsistent lie of an identity: British.) The man who kicks my buggy while I’m helping my son put his gloves on, grumbling that it’s in his way, only to seem mildly embarrassed when I ask, in the aforementioned accent, what the hell he thinks he’s doing. The Sikh receptionist who treats the Bengali-accented mum with contempt and greets the white middle-class mum behind her with a glorious smile. The hijaabi children’s centre worker who patronises a fellow Asian mother (‘hold your child properly, Mum!’) and leaves the white parents to it. The nursery teacher who labels a black toddler with ‘anger issues’ to the bewilderment of her mother and the parents of her friends, completely missing the more extreme behaviour of a white middle-class toddler, defending his ‘gun play’, telling the concerned parents of his terrorised peers, ‘we don’t want to inhibit him.’ The headteacher of a brilliant school who grants the holiday requests of white theatre-makers and responds to similar requests from Asian parents with a ‘no’ so uncharacteristically cold it borders on aggressive. The two Asian COVID marshalls I witnessed, on two separate occasions, making examples of the only black people on the bus whose noses weren’t covered, apparently blind to the equally nude faces of at least four white people. My son’s nursery and its policy of separating children by funding – Thirty Hours Children in one class, Fifteen Hours Children in another. So? This: the parents of Thirty Hours Children earn enough money to warrant thirty free hours of childcare. By a significant majority, the parents of Fifteen Hours Children are eligible for fifteen free hours because they have low incomes. The result? An apartheid-resembling nursery, in which one group of toddlers is mainly white middle class and the other group of toddlers is mainly Asian working class. (Try getting in the head of a white person who grew up in Apartheid South Africa, married a Person of Colour (whoop!) and moved to Britain. Now try the head of the person they married. It’s a trip.). And when parents (brown, white, black) questioned this madness, it was repeatedly and arrogantly defended by the nursery, most recently because of COVID. Do the consequences of such segregation need spelling out? Toddlers absorb how society sees them. They learn to find their peg on the wall; their space on the carpet; the insipid hole carved for them. Yes, they pick up on these things. No, the homogeneity they go on to seek at school is no coincidence.
When I was fifteen, Mum started working for Newham Council as a Community Mental Health Support Worker. Muneeza, one of our social workers in the refuge, prepped her for the interview. The shame of surviving on benefits and free school meals was finally to end! When her team of Scots, Nigerians, mixed-race women, mixed-race men, gay women and gay men were introduced by their manager to some important council bods, Mum was touched by her inclusion in the praise.
For twenty years she worked with the most vulnerable residents in Newham – the most deprived borough of London – running support groups in art therapy and cooking and sewing, helping people shop, pay bills, complete benefits forms, and navigate the stigma of mental health: describing the stupidity of entering a service user’s house wearing full PPE (pre-COVID) because the council couldn’t afford for her to catch something. ‘I felt so silly, honestly,’ Mum told me, humiliated for her service user, feeling her thoughts. Faced with the body of a human being, Mum can only see a human being.
When the austerity cuts hit (and the government innovated its tireless war against the working class), Mum’s job changed. Instead of travelling to her service users’ homes and sourcing locations for her workshops, she had to sit in an office, answer the phone and persuade the traumatised and vulnerable calling in that they no longer needed her help. When the council was promised some government money in 2018, Mum was to dupe her service users into signing up for support she knew they’d never receive. As their lives deteriorated and two decades of her efforts dissolved into oblivion, a disorienting depression infused her bones. No longer employed to assist and empower the disadvantaged, she was instead overseeing their cruel demise from a cold, robotised gulf.
Mum. It’s a difficult relationship, for painful reasons I won’t go into here. But Mum is unable to value things supposed to be ‘superior’. She is unable to scorn that deemed ‘inferior’. She is unable to recognise the signs in faces and gestures that prompt an automatic, often subconscious, hostility in others. The cultural architecture that seals our eyes with layers of prejudice is missing in her.
‘I’m so glad you left Newham,’ Mum’s old colleague Julia told her recently at lunch. ‘They treated you like garbage.’ When the waiter served Julia with a smile and didn’t look at Mum, and poured tea for Julia and dropped the plate before Mum, and listened carefully to Julia and squinted suspiciously at Mum, Julia said simply, ‘Kulwinder, shall we eat somewhere else?’ Having witnessed this sort of shit since I was born, I invite you to picture the waiter not as a raving racist, but a person – like you – whose violent denial against the mirror of their biases disables its reality in our mouths and minds. I’ve had self-described ‘lefty’ friends who’ve laughed at the smell of Mum’s cooking, holding their noses in my house, pulling me into their circle of complicity, oblivious to the stench of prejudice lacing their actions. They would be outraged to read this. They would be the victims; I, the mentalist.
COVID hit after Mum left her council job and she applied to work as an ambulance driver. She loved her training. She loved her new title. And she loved her uniform, posing wide-smiled and thumbs skyward as my brother snapped the pic. Ambulance driving mid-pandemic – at last. She was useful again.
After a two-week training period, Mum was paired with another ambulance driver – a young man three decades her junior. Together, they would take it in turns to drive the ambulance and collect patients. But Mum’s new partner was not happy with her arrival. The stench of cigarette smoke in the driver’s cab gave her a first clue as to his potential objections with her person. Smoking is prohibited in ambulances. There were several other rules he was breaking, too. His initial disdain turned sharply hostile. ‘Pass me the gloves.’ No please. ‘Are you deaf? The gloves!’ Why was he, her equal, ordering her to do all the driving when it was meant to be shared? And how could this essential service be carried out to such shocking levels of abuse, in broad daylight, to no reprimands? Mum was returning home from twelve-hour shifts and parking the ambulance a ten-minute walk away from her overcrowded east London street, breaking yet another rule at her partner’s numbing insistence: he, the experienced driver, was supposed to return the ambulance to a hospital. If she went against his word, she faced more hostility. By obeying his orders, she risked the consequences.
Mum began to erode. The hours hung still and her partner’s hostility grew. She was a sixty-year-old woman spending twelve hours a day in a van with a man who hated her. She recognised this hate, its insouciant truth. My brother helped her file a formal complaint and she worked without a partner for a short while, during which she did her job and loved it.
Then came another partner. A friend of the old partner. Three decades younger and equally filled with disdain. Eye-rolling, screw-faced, secreting hate; bearing the same look I’ve seen on countless faces eyeing Mum. What tension in the body forms the look? What allegiances, real or imagined, prompts the choice to look with disgust at another human? The new partner – a white woman, herself a migrant – promised, in Mum’s presence, to deliver a stairlift to a patient. But instead of doing as she’d promised, she instructed Mum to carry the patient – sick, elderly, heavy – up the stairs by herself. ‘I can’t,’ Mum said. ‘Why not?’ snapped her colleague, eyes rolling. ‘Three men couldn’t carry my mum up the stairs,’ the patient’s daughter interjected. ‘We were promised a stairlift.’ ‘Kulwinder can do it, it’s her job. She’s trained to do it’ Mum’s partner lied, framing her. When mum couldn’t lift the patient and the patient’s daughter complained, Mum’s partner told their manager: ‘See? They complain we’re racist but can’t even do their jobs properly and then the patients complain. What can we do?’
They complain we’re racist.
They complain we’re racist, but.
I don’t think Mum’s ever dared complain about racism.
Mum talked to her managers, citing her colleague’s behaviour, including every broken protocol. The smoking, the short-cutting. The bullying, the lying. The infected PPE Mum witnessed her partner stuffing in her – Mum’s – bag. Management’s response? ‘We can let you redo your training,’ they said, as if it were Mum smoking in ambulances and endangering NHS staff and patients. The colleagues? No investigation, no re-training. The subtext being that if, after a formal complaint against her first partner, Mum was unable to work with her second partner, the problem lay with her. This is a private ambulance company, in case you’re wondering. Because the liberty that is our NHS is being sold, department by department, to corporations whose aim is not to provide patient-focused medical care free-at-the-point-of-need, but to turn hospitals into piggy banks and profit from our ill-health. And the very people most disadvantaged by this despotic direction of capitalism are often the ones seduced by its promise, tricked by its lies and blamed for the destruction it wreaks on humankind.
So Mum left.
Why? Friends ask in miffed revulsion, rehearsed outrage. How? Your mum should go higher up, she should write to her local MP. My brother-in-law’s a paramedic, she should speak to him. Because the onus is on her, the Person of Colour, to resolve her nightmare of racist bullying in the workplace. Not on the manager to investigate her complaints. Or the racist bullies to dissect the fact that they hated her on sight. But her. A sixty-year-old woman, poet and mother, singer and carer, whose professionalism and passion for the care of her patients were dismissed for the status quo that brutalised her.
The anger I felt towards Mum as a child – for being unable to warrant the respect freely doled to whites, for missing their cues, for failing to assume the niceties that qualify a worthwhile person – is alive and swimming today, but not for her. The thirty-something shits who decided with a single look that she was of lesser value, worth less respect, dispensable, flickable: a fly, a dust fleck – them. The fuckers. I imagine their thoughts, I’ve seen them. I’ve seen racism’s sweet smile in bewildering places, breathless at the deception of its air-sucking noose. The ‘friend’ who relentlessly pursued my friendship, randomly declaring ‘I don’t think of you as my Indian friend!’ before storing my dad as ‘Paki’ on her phone and telling me this, laughing, nudging me to join in, because it was so goddamn funny. The ‘mum friend’ whose husband didn’t want a Bengali tenant. ‘Why?’ ‘Have you ever lived with a Bengali? They smell.’ To understand the way this person must have perceived me to be able to utter these disgusting words to me is to slide into the gaps between sanity and insanity; sense and nonsense; ‘truth’ and fucking truth. The piano teacher who calls a group of Eastern-European trick-or-treaters ‘animals’, as if their behaviour is any different to that of her own (English) brats. The parents who live on the school Whatsapp chat, yet somehow miss any post from a Muslim parent, despite regularly having their questions answered by that very Muslim parent. The breastfeeding counsellor who talks to white babies in her normal voice and black babies in a bizarre ‘urban’ one – ‘are you one of da kool kidz?’ – while deriding other breastfeeding groups for their lack of diversity, using the black and brown faces in her own sessions as proof of her open-minded, culturally-on-it pulse, forming long-term bonds with mums who look and sound like her while offering fleeting – albeit flamboyant – availability to those who don’t.
Mum would say her greatest achievement is working day and night shifts (and screaming suicide threats at her babes in the few hours between) to buy the houses she would eventually sell at purchase value to her children, lifting us out of poverty and leaving herself homeless and almost penniless. After the ambulance job, she began providing End of Life care for elderly and vulnerable Londoners. ‘My patient invented penicillin!’ she told me proudly, diverting my fear of what horrors lay ahead. Word on the street: some people don’t want black or brown carers. ‘My patient is mechanical engineer, he travelled whole world,’ wittered Mum. ‘My other patient is one hundred and seven, one hundred and seven. Dorothy.’ ‘Do you have to bath her?’ I asked, uncomfortable. Concerned. ‘Pavan,’ Mum smiled softly, ‘it is a privilege to work with her body. Clean her, rinse her. Gently, gently. Check the temperature. Does she like this sponge? Is this soap okay for her skin? Such a privilege, honestly. Her body, my body. She was born once and soon she will go.’
Mum. If her body, too, were granted this respect.
Look. Notice. Think. See. To whom do you extend automatic courtesies? Who doesn’t garner a smile? Keep looking. Keep thinking. Would you speak to a middle-class white woman this way? Would he? Say or do something that helps. You don’t see colour? Start. You don’t notice these things? Begin. Because to change the way we think, we must change the way we see. We must look at ourselves, our own racism. We must recognise the urge to defend, deny, get angry. Stop that urge, hold it. Pause, breathe. Listen. Admit our fuck-ups, turn them in our hands. Absorb them, understand them. Sit with that discomfort, knowing so many more endure so much worse. Sit with it. Change with it. Only then might we rid our air of the cyclic poison that brutalises millions like Mum.
Clustered.
Cloistered, perhaps, by other people’s things, second-hand.
The generosity of others is not unwelcome but
the task at hand of making them her own is, in itself, an art form.
After all, one can always paint more paintings.
– Natascha Graham
This week on Litro Lab podcast, we have an evocative and sensorial poem about a painting. Vanessa Bell might be always known as Virginia Woolf’s sister, but in this piece she gets a voice of her own to muse on metaphor, loss, and the rendering of life on a canvas.
This piece was read by Vee Tames.
You can listen to the podcast on the player below, or subscribe to “Litro Lab” on Spotify or iTunes.
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On Monday November 9th the world gasped for two reasons and neither of them were nationalist for a change. The first gasp came from the mouth and was soon followed by long suppressed and prolonged hiss from the ass. The first one came in admiration and the second, out of envy. Other headlines paled into insignificance. That Joe Biden was announced to have been elected the 46th President of the United States was no surprise even though it might have been entirely unexpected to all those who are making America great. Because they might have expected that the guys recounting Pennsylvania on the weekend were also the kind who want to make America great. That Trump immediately launched a flurry of legal cases, made all those who want to make America great, and all those who do not, also yawn. That Trump was the first incumbent to lose after George Bush in 1992 (the son—not the father who we never laughed at), made all those who do not want to make America great, yawn, while those who want to make it (America—in case there is any doubt) great, also yawn, because now they were convinced that for a change, Trump would prevail, legally. In Britain all those who want to make Britain great, felt the same. And in India, all those who want to make India great, and those in Brazil, who want to make Brazil great—all felt the same. That Trump will prevail, and legally, for a change. Also because the Supreme Court was in his hip pocket and therefore right under his ass. That Biden had 290 electoral college votes then and Trump had 214, did not matter, because as mythology tells us, evil always wins if it can brand itself as good, even if history tells us otherwise. The streets in America were of course full of people celebrating Biden’s victory, and therefore confirming that now Americans do not want to make America great. Biden gave a speech, but that also evoked a yawn as any speech for unity will in any country that has fewer but noisier people who want to make it great. That Kamala Harris spoke what she spoke was no surprise mainly because she normally speaks what she speaks and little else. That Trump’s attorney immediately held a press conference was no surprise either, and in fact the choice of venue, between a crematorium and porn shop, was rather apt. That Justin Trudeau, Macron, Angela Merkel, and even Boris Johnson, congratulated Biden and that Bolsonaro and Modi did not, came as no surprise to both camps – the make-America-great camp and the WTF-does-‘make-America-great’-even-mean camp. Then came the unsurprising news on the total number of confirmed Covid cases in the US touching 10 million with 237,000 deaths. That it is decidedly more than 47,000 Americans killed in the Vietnam war, was now old news and therefore no longer a surprise. No one gasped.
But then it came—that gasp.
Drug maker Pfizer announced that its early data from a large clinical trial showed that its vaccine cuts Covid cases by more than 90 percent. Now that the global coronavirus cases were topping 50 million, the whole world gasped. From its mouth. It was 6.45am that day when Pfizer drafted and issued its press release. Pfizer Chairman and CEO, Dr. Albert Bourla called it a great day for science and humanity. He called it ‘a much-needed breakthrough to bring an end to this global health crisis’. The gasping spread like a virus to the stock market as Pfizer shares zoomed 7 percent. And then as Albert Bourla sold 62 percent of his stock for USD 5.6 Mn at an all-time high, the gasp retracted back into the alimentary canal of humanity and came out from down below as a long suppressed, prolonged smelly hiss of science and envy. And this was not ‘Insider Trading’, because apparently, under the law, Insider Trading is not Insider Trading when an Insider does the Trading. Sounds confusing? The only way to explain complexities of corporate law and governance in plutocracies like America is through an analogy. So this one can be likened to a murder not being considered a murder if it is well planned and premeditated, and not spontaneous! You still don’t get it? Then live with it! Anyway, you got your vaccine, sucker, so stop cribbing. Don’t be leftist. Don’t grudge the other guy his money. Do some hard work like they do in plutocracies that promise the American dream. Do what the Pfizer fucker did. Invent some dubious shit that has to be stored at the temperature of planet Venus, but on Earth, inject it into some morons who have no fucking choice, and don’t forget to set your bloody alarm clock to sell those damn shares on time. Instead of sitting on your fucking leftist nates and farting in envy every time an entrepreneur makes money with such backbreaking hard work such as setting an alarm clock to sell shares! Idiots.
Good. Now let’s get on with the story.
But before you criticize Dr. Albert Bourla, the great custodian of Science and humanity, and label him as an insider-trader simply because he was, then let me also tell you that the great man is not alone in his great deed. Stephane Bancel, the CEO of the other vaccine hero, Moderna, sold stock worth (now hold your fucking breath you fucking impoverished leftist before it again comes out of your green grudging ass) at a whopping USD 49.8mn. Dear Indians, to get the rupee equivalent, please multiple this by 73.11 because that is the multiple with which your hoary holiness has screwed your currency; Brazilians, please multiply with 5.46 and vote carefully next time and remember: if the bugger wore a uniform once, then there is a strong chance that his only relationship with ‘intelligence’ is with the intelligence corps of the army. Incidentally, Stephane Bancel is also covered under the same immunity called the ‘10b5-1 plan’, the Insider Trading equivalent of a murder not being a murder if it is well planned and premeditated. Clearly, the world has moved on from the time American Banker Sandy Weill who was born in 1933 and therefore wasted so much money in philanthropy. Bloody generation of wasters. Not surprising that Sandy made his top honchos swear that they would not sell their stock in the company till they retired or left. Stupid guy. Bloody leftist. Obsessed with education and values. Just the kind of guy who would never make America great.
Moving on. Enough of leftist flatulence.
So now the world was gasping like mad and from the wrong end. All the nationalist rulers were taken by surprise because instead of their respective nations, America was looking great again, thanks to Pfizer with a Pee. The Russians with their nationalistically named Sputnik were kicking themselves. True to tradition, Russia had come first but America was pretending that it had. What had happened once in space, was now happening on mother earth. Also, Boris Johnson, the earliest to announce work on the Oxford vaccine, was now looking like he had started counting his chickens before the mother hen was born and well before she had even ovulated. And Modi, after having failed to impress the world that Remdesivir was a cure for Covid (because at the end of the day cow piss is hardly exclusively Indian because cows piss in every country and in that showy way although it is only in India that cow piss has the temerity to look down on a bottle of Isabella’s Islay or a Glenfiddich Janet Sheed Roberts Reserve 1955), was now scratching the desiccated Christmas tree on his chin and calling his ‘scientists’ at the nationalist company Bharat Biotech in Hyderabad and asking them in the nasal Hindi equivalent of “Motherfuckers-are-you-fucking-ashleep-where-the-fuck-ijj-the-Hindian-vakseen!” It took a while for Modi to move his shaggy fuzz aside and notice that right under his proboscis was another Indian vaccine that was showing the promise of a birth nearly as premature as Pfizer. And a hero was born! Indians suddenly got to know of a thing called Serum Institute of India, apparently the world’s largest vaccine manufacturing facility (because till Covid had struck, vaccine manufacturing was as lucrative as making bicycles for a car market so only a sleepy stupid company would be making it) which had a tie up to make the Oxford vaccine in India. Modi immediately decided to go to Pune to personally see the vaccine facility even though the closest and most high tech vaccine like thing Modi understands is the behind of a cow from which a river of urea and creatinine can fall in a sacred spray without warning. Regardless it was a good excuse to take a joy ride in his billion dollar plane which he had bought after seeing Trump’s Air Force One and after forgetting that the size of the Indian economy was well on its way to becoming half the cost of the plane. And so in Pune, the deal was struck. But the British name ‘Oxford’ continued to haunt Modi like a cow mooing under his bed at night. So once again he called up Bharat Biotech and asked in the Hindi equivalent of “Motherfuckers-are-you-fucking-ashleep-where-the-fuck-ijj-the-Hindian-vakseen!” And presto Bharat Biofake was ready! But wait . . . wait, we’ll come to this after covering some other ground, ground that came before this ground.
Now, with the vaccines having tested ‘well’, American media decided that news of this kind cannot be allowed to settle so easily. With Trump gone, and the virus nearly gone (we live in more gutter hope than utter hope), Media suddenly felt like a Hollywood star being told one fine day that people will stop watching movies Monday onwards. So now, the media set about describing the task of vaccination as a space program, although by any account, it is actually as easy as poking somebody’s ass, but was now being made to sound like a logistical challenge of an unimaginable order. It also took a while for many countries to suddenly figure that if they had never stored anything ever at minus 70 degrees Celsius, then they couldn’t possibly have the wherewithal of doing so for the insider-traded vaccine. That gave Modi a good reason to stroke the forest on his chin and once again call up Bharat Biotech and ask in the Hindi equivalent of “Motherfuckers-are-you-fucking-ashleep-where-the-fuck-ijj-the-Hindian-vakseen!” And presto Bharat Biofake was ready! Wait, wait, we’ll come to this after covering some more ground, the ground that came before this ground.
Now finally it was clear that the number of people in the world greatly outnumbered the number of vaccine units. And so some priority lists were drawn. But anyone who fell into the list felt as lucky as a Jew in front of Hitler’s gas chamber. Naturally, now there was a battle to claim credibility with the nationalist assertion of my-vaccine-is-better than-yours. In September, Trump (whose closest exposure to something that is vaccine-like is that something shaped similarly albeit much smaller, right below his own belt) had been quite excited that there would be a vaccine before elections to make America great and in fact had said there would be one before ‘fall’. Which ‘fall’? His fall? . . . But it was on December 11th , the FDA granted emergency use authorization to Pfizer’s insider-trading vaccine Comirnaty. Soon Comirnaty also got emergency authorization in the UK and the injections started on December 8th with an 81 year old man William Shakespeare (not kidding). Demand now started coming from other countries after the vaccine found favor with Trump’s buddy WHO giving it an emergency use listing. But in January, the virus decided to outwit insider traders by spawning variants. That both Pfizer and Moderna are mRNA vaccines was as worthy of discussion amongst common man as Jews debating on the technical composition of one gas and another in Hitler’s gas chamber. Indeed on Dec 18th the FDA gave emergency use authorization to Moderna as well and so the second gas was also available after a far heftier bout of insider trading. Interestingly, Moderna had tested several mRNA based vaccines for other diseases in the past but had yet to successfully create one. But now the US government bankrolled Moderna for the same technology with USD 1 billion in support. When they found that it was tested successfully on monkeys, they reasoned that at the very least it will certainly work on republicans and all those who make nations great. On 30,000 volunteers (likely republicans) it was fairly successful, so much so that the US government gifted Moderna USD 1 Bn more. And Moderna also struck gold with Canada, EU, Israel and UK as well. Or shall we simply say NATO?
But of course, the Russians never give up, do they? The Gamaleya Research Institute’s Sputnik V is now back with a back with a bang with its results published in the Lancet on February 3rd, just this Tuesday. As far back as last spring, the institute director Alexander Gintsburg had injected himself with it. In fact he had given the vaccine to his wife, daughter and grand-daughter as well. Recall Putin’s daughter had also taken a jab, something that Ivanka Trump never did, nor did any of Boris Johnson’s parade of sons and daughters and the less we say about Modi the more he deserves that lesser is said. Now in mid-August Putin announced its approval even while NATO sulked and pretended to look other way and claimed that testing on a few dozen volunteers does not a vaccine make especially when a billion Indian claims on cow piss being a cure for everything except mental malady (for which it is often a cause) was not being accepted by the world. But of course the Russians never give up, do they? Even before the Phase 3 trials Russia distributed more vaccines than vodka and by December it was available widely. Interestingly, by Spring, in Russia’s Gamaleya Research Institute of Epidemiology and Microbiology (named after Nikolay Gamaleya who apprenticed under Louis Pasteur, the grand dad of vaccination), the researchers had already tested the prototype on themselves and all 1200 employees were vaccinated. The institute is known to be fully familiar with the adenovirus vector based vaccine and so they needed no time to get to the task. Moreover RDIF, the wealth fund backing Sputnik V, studied twenty other Russian vaccines before finalizing this one. And the mid December Phase 3 trials of Sputnik were not a sham in sample size like its western counterparts. It was a solid sample of 23,000 and an efficacy of 91.4 percent. It was with this confidence that Putin called it ‘the best vaccine in the world’ and not because he had personally been injected with all the others and turned into Putin. Also, Russia was using a more credible vaccine, a vector vaccine, newer than the inactivated type, but with a longer track record than the mRNA based one that Pfizer and Moderna were experimenting with.
But Putin’s claim made Modi called up Bharat Biofake and ask the Hindi equivalent of, “Motherfuckers-are-you-fucking-ashleep-where-the . . .”. Trump of course was chewing nails (Pence’s) and thinking about the Biden virus that was taking over America. Johnson was still trying to uncomb his hair, blocking calls from some more women, and battling the self-inflicted virus of Brexit and the cursed demands of British parliamentary democracy, and trying not to go the Theresa May way. Meanwhile more and more countries approved Sputnik V but the EU frowned at the available data the Russians produced earlier. But all that changed when The Lancet likened Sputnik V like sex is to a sanyasi – a hermit who has been conned into abstinence. Irresistible. And now the sizzler is all set to take over the world. To produce the number of doses required, Russia is tying up with various countries and so now you know how the resistance to the Russians is melting. Now, from countries where Insider trading is legal in stock markets to countries where stock markets are barely legal, Sputnik V is all set to orbit with its sexy non mRNA non insider traded vaccine with its over 91 percent efficacy certified by The Lancet. And it is all set to roll even into Europe with Hungary’s Viktor Orban showing the middle finger to the EU’s European Medicines Agency by registering it on their own, and Angela Merkel, sniffing an opportunity, offers ‘joint production’ to Putin. On that note why do we hear Boney M singing ‘Ohh those Russians!’ And by the way, the Russians haven’t stopped. They are now making variants, including a lighter single-dose version.
Coming to University of Oxford and its British-Swedish partner AstraZeneca. Well life was a little complicated here but was blessed by NATO. When they published the first scientific paper of phase 3 clinical trial, it raised quite a few eyebrows. Although eyebrows can’t go much higher ever since the right wing chimps are leading majority governments with minority votes in all fucked democracies. So the Phase 2/3 trials had happened in the United Kingdom and India (where it goes by the name Covishield) and Phase 3 trials moved to Brazil, South Africa and the US as well. But on September 6th, they halted global trials to investigate one volunteer with complications. But a week later, all trials mysteriously resumed except in the US but soon, a volunteer in Brazil died. The saga of bloomers continued with reports of dosing errors in testing followed by reports of inadequate sample sizes for data. Now if you are a student of statistics, after reading what follows here, you may never take any vaccine ever again. So the sample was something like this (not kidding, no satire in this part). 160 people aged 18 to 55 (latter numeral inspired by the number of wives Solomon had), 160 between 56 and 69 (the vaccine should be named after the latter numeral if you ask me—something like Kamasutra 69), 240 people were 70 or older. On this microscopic sample testing, so far so good. But on Nov 23rd, they announced good efficacy on the basis of 131 cases in the UK and Brazil. Of the two doses administered to volunteers, those first doses which were half-strength (all were not) showed an efficacy of 90 percent but two standard dose shots showed a measly 62 percent. So did it merely mean that the lower dose showed better results? No, sir. Turned out that there was a dosing error in the lower dose in terms of how it was measured. Also turned out that the lower dose was only given to those under 55. Did I hear you say What The Fuck? Anyway. The vaccine trials now mimic British democracy trying out Boris Johnson. But such trivialities of failed or useless testing results cannot hamper the march of NATO, can it? So the UK and Argentina gave emergency approval (the nomenclature for treating humans as guinea pigs) on Dec 30 and India did so on Jan 3rd. In any case India has been battling over population and by Indian standards the virus has been slow. Anyway. Now there is something that NATO was careful to do on the quiet without alarming its respective constituencies of all those who want to make their respective nations great. Oxford AstraZeneca tied up with Sputnik V to improve the efficacy of their fuck-all vaccine, the trial for which will happen in early 2021. Shhhhhhhhhh! Again I hear Boney M taking off on ‘Ohh those Russians!’
So, guess what.
What happens in visible foreign policy in contrast to underhand deal-making by heads of state, was happening here too. Each fellow was using the vaccine as a weapon of naked nationalism publicly but hiding its shambolism with ‘joint production’, alliances, tie ups with his equally sick counterpart leading another country.
And that should bring us to China, the newfound obsession of all losers big and small. The nation that takes markets without striking crony deals. Here, the Chinese company (what else) CanSino Biologics was quietly developing (what else) in partnership with China’s (what else) Institute of Biology at the nation’s Academy of Military Medical Sciences (what a confession!) their virus . . . er typo . . . their vaccine: Convedicia (why do the first three letters of the word worry NATO?). And as far back as last May, they showed solid Phase 1 results (Ohh! Those Chinese!) and then even more solid Phase 2 results in July, making Gujaratis in India fume and then resolve to commit suicide by taking an Indian vaccine. And as far back as on June 25th (a date associated with the birth of seriously funny people), the Chinese military (who else) approved it for emergency use. To protest non-violently, the Indian army lost territory to the PLA in Ladakh. The successful introduction of Convedicia went unnoticed in the rest of the world because it was only reported in Global Times which has a very vast readership but of only members of the Chinese politburo besides foreign affairs ministries of losers big and small. Modi, never the one to not respond, has decided to now make the Great Wall of China (the order is being placed on a Chinese company) around Delhi for now, and against terrorists in the guise of protesting farmers, who are strangely using tractors instead of armored vehicles. After Trump’s Mexican wall failed miserably, Modi was greatly inspired. Anyway. Meanwhile the Chinese vaccine Phase 3 trials are on in Pakistan, Russia, Mexico and Chile—who else—and that tells us how the World War 3 allies and axis powers will stack up. The vaccine may be fuck-all for tackling the virus, but there was never a better keyhole to check who sleeps with whom.
Meanwhile here is some more data to prove that even a tiny virus can outwit the human race. When Johnson & Johnson (another guy on his way to make hay while the virus shines) released its trial data and their vaccine showed an efficacy of 72 percent in America (that’s good because even American democracy hasn’t shown 72 percent efficacy), 66 percent in Latin America and 57 percent in South Africa. It seems the poor result in South Africa was the result of the new virus variant there. But that didn’t stop the federal government from giving a USD 1bn aid to Johnson & Johnson although it is conditional to the approval of the vaccine. But going by the history of all vaccines, isn’t approval inevitable? It is like saying Trump will be impeached provided Biden gives approval. Or like saying Modi will be PM again provided Electronic Voting Machines are used. But to use my favorite word:
Anyway.
Now there are scores of more vaccines being readied and they will be so many that they may well beat the original virus in sheer numbers and in actually causing infections! But
I’ve kept the best for the last.
See, one fine morning, the phone rang in the city of Hyderabad in South India. And on the other side was a familiar voice that came from behind a burnt white pubic bush from the nose. And the voice said (in case you’ve never heard this one before): “Motherfuckers-are-you-fucking-ashleep-where-the-fuck-ijj-the-Hindian-vakseen!” And presto Bharat Biofake was ready this time. In collaboration with the Indian Council of Medical Research and the National Institute of Virology, the Hindian company Bharat Biotech had designed Covaxin, based on an inactivated form of virus. Modi had insisted that the virus (Oops! Sorry . . . vaccine) must be first tried on monkeys and hamsters if it had any hope of being effective on their blood brothers—the members of his ruling party. The Phase 1 and 2 trials showed that it did not cause any serious side effects. But then when did water ever cause side effects? On October 23, when Biofake announced that it was going into Phase 3 trials, Modi shouted the “Yipeeee!” equivalent in Hindi which is: “HAI! HAI! HAI! WAAH BEY! KYA BAAT HAI REEEE! TERI TOH! BEHENCHO . !” and took a joy ride in his USD 1bn plane to see his girlfriend in the Himalayan meadows of Himachal Pradesh. There they danced in showers of freezing cow piss. The Hindu right wing terror group was thrilled to the gills and danced in loin cloth on the orange trees of Nagpur. Some of them got injured while cavorting. Home Minister Amit Shah was thrilled. In sheer joy, he shot dead a judge of the Supreme Court. Rumors have it that cows sighed all over North India with great relief that hordes of young men will not stare at their private parts anymore in the name of naturopathy. On December 22nd, Covaxin followed the standard script of becoming legitimate through collaboration when it tied up with the Pennsylvania based company Ocugen to develop the vaccine for the US market. A glance at the Ocugen website shows nothing when you click on ‘About’ except a host of Indian faces in the ‘team’. Anyway. On January 3rd India made history when it granted Covaxin emergency authorization despite that there was no Phase 3 data at all to establish its safety and efficacy. In Modi’s India, data is a four letter word that has alighted the stairs of mythology, exactly like the country’s history. No data is required for anything. If it is ever found, it is exterminated by agencies like the Enforcement Directorate.
But since I have decided to be exterminated, here’s some dope (and data) on India’s vaccine approvals.
So neither Covishield nor Covaxin furnished any data on placebo-controlled efficacy trials of Indian participants to the Drugs Controller General of India (DGCI). Covishield data covered 24,000 participants but in the UK and Brazil. And we know what those dosing and sampling disasters were. In Covaxin’s case it was even simpler. There was no Phase 3 data all! In fact Covaxin makers didn’t even publish a guesstimate of what their efficacy might be. Bharat Biotech’s sample claims were riddled with contradictions and soon the leaders of the two companies called each other’s vaccine shit. When two mutually honest men bugger each other simultaneously, we must applaud at least the acrobatics. Serum Institute called its competitor’s vaccine ‘water’. And Bharat Biotech pointed at the massive testing flaws in Covishield and Paracetamol being administered before testing for Moderna. Nationalist politicos quickly took sides now that the dust of Ram Mandir built after razing the mosque was too old to wake up. But a day later, truce between the two vaccinating honchos was called. And then there was some Indian style entertainment. On January 6th, in a dry run of Covid vaccination in India, in Modi’s constituency Varanasi, in the state of Uttar Pradesh ruled by an unfertilized egg, there was an excited report of packets of vaccine being delivered on a bicycle. I’m not fucking kidding! And this was for a vaccine that must be stored at minus 70 degree Celsius. But people were quick to understand why. Delivering the same on a bullock cart (the only other option in that highly developed geography) was too risky. There was the fear of the vaccine contaminating the piss of the bullock.
But what India achieved so inexpensively on a bicycle, the United States spent $44 million to screw up. The CDC ordered software for the vaccine rollout behaved like Trump after elections. It just wouldn’t budge. Appointments were fixed, cancelled and rescheduled at random. It made one seriously wonder if America, for all its nuclear arsenal, could ever successfully direct it at the enemy (God forbid). Imagine shooting a missile into the South China Sea but hitting Trump Tower on Trump’s birthday, the day he tumbled out in a maternity unit instead of the commode. VAMS, the Vaccine Administration System had literally become a four letter word. Trump, in any case, had left the vaccination to the states and had busied himself with higher purposes like Capitol Hill. The government had paid Deloitte USD 16 million through a no-bid contract to manage the vaccination administration and tracking and then another 28 million with no deliverables in sight. This no-bid contract was raising eyebrows, but American eyebrows have stayed raised through the Trump tenure and couldn’t get raised anymore. Scientists are sure that evolution will ensure that the next generation of Americans will be born with eyebrows on top of the head. Now VAMS had become moody. Some days it would work and some days it wouldn’t. But I am sorry to say that when you read what follows then you will feel that all that you read so far was no better than using VAMS.
So here goes. Brace yourself. Get yourself a drink and read on because the whiskey in your glass may be your best vaccine yet. This information comes from Healthline, no less.
Even after getting a vaccine jab, you can still get infected and infect others. Also, it seems, that the immunity of the vaccine doesn’t set in till at least twelve days after. And now here’s the damning bit. The vaccine doesn’t prevent coronavirus infection! It only helps protect against ‘serious illnesses’. Then there are many ways you could test positive even after taking the jab. For one, you might have been infected before you took the jab. According to a ‘Sero survey’ with a bloody solid sample size of 28,840, every second person in Delhi is infected with the virus. While that may be a sign of herd immunity setting in, it is alarming at the same time. Then there is also a lag time between taking the jab and building immunity during which you could get infected. Then the protection from the first dose (in case of Pfizer) is around 52 percent and becomes 95 percent only two weeks after the second dose. Further, even if the vaccine does protect you, you may still infect others. Moreover, while the vaccine may prevent symptomatic diseases, there is nothing to establish that it does the same to prevent asymptomatic diseases. So in fact the advisory is that even after taking the vaccine, you must act like you are not vaccinated. Fuck you!
So, a 75-year-old cancer survivor, Bonnie Watson Coleman, tested positive a few days after taking the Pfizer jab. Then 45-year-old Mathew W tested positive six days after the same jab. In the United Kingdom, 85-year-old Colin Horseman died a few days after taking the Pfizer jab.
Now after reading all this, try and calculate the amount of money that has changed hands on this shambolic vaccine. And you know where the money eventually comes from! Not from Trump’s or Modi’s or Boris’s or Bolsonaro’s personal account, you stupid leftist. And you know who rolls in it when the damn thing is sold in truckloads and stored on Mother earth at the temperature of Mother Venus.
So, redeem yourself fella. Try not to pay your blooming taxes. Leftist or not, sucker, see what they are doing to your damn money. And it doesn’t fucking come from insider trading.
Goodnight. Sweet dreams.
There comes a point in your grown-up life when you realise that your parents are just people: human beings like anybody else. And yet they never quite lose the godlike power they once had, or the place they hold in your personal mythology. So much about their own lives is unknowable, their versions of the past full of gaps and contradictions. This is the territory Elizabeth Baines explores in her riveting new novel, Astral Travel, which centres on the figure of the late Patrick Jackson as he’s reconstructed by his writer-daughter Jo.
Jo’s relationship with Patrick is dominated by the violent punishments he metes out to her well into adolescence. Hitting your own children was nothing out of the ordinary in the fifties and sixties, but it dawns on the adult Jo that the extent of the abuse was exceptional and linked to many unresolved aspects of her father’s life. To say too much about what she discovers in the course of writing a novel about him would be to spoil the intricate plot of this great page-turner. Astral Travel is written so vividly, in such a freewheeling style, that the narrative twists and turns are navigated with ease. Despite the underlying anger, and the sadness, Jo is a likeable narrator with an ironic tone of voice and a comic sensibility.
She tells us how, from his beginnings in rural Ireland, Patrick continuously re-invents himself, marrying a local girl while on wartime service in South Wales. In the course of the novel he drags his family to the other end of Wales and across the English North and Midlands on the promise of a job, a new house or a business opportunity. Somehow, by the end of his life, he has managed his transformation into a pillar of the Masons, outwardly prosperous and generous to a fault. That, of course, is not the whole story. Jo’s search for the truth about her father, and the reasons driving the abuse, is possibly futile, though there is one final revelation that forces her to question every single one of her previous assumptions.
Astral Travel isn’t just Patrick’s story; Jo’s own life-story can be traced through its pages, along with the growth of a writer’s state of mind: ‘Always, alone in places like this, cut-off pockets of sun, in the alleyways in Prestatyn or the lanes at Llanfair, where everything small, bits of rubbish on the ground or ivy-leaved toadflax growing in the walls, was sharpened with magnified shadows and outlines of light, I would get a particular feeling: that sense of something huge and swelling, but hidden’. Passages like this remind me of Hilary Mantel’s memoir, Giving Up the Ghost. (Mantel has a different, but equally problematic relationship with her father.)
Yet, for me, Astral Travel isn’t so much about fiction-writing as about identity. Early in the novel, when Jo’s seven, Patrick announces that he’s reclaiming his Jewish heritage – something he’s never previously mentioned. He subscribes to the Jewish Chronicle, and designs a special Star-of-David ring ‘that could catch you a nasty blow when he lashed out.’ ‘Of course he wasn’t Jewish!’ says Patrick’s older sister, the former nun. ‘There are no Jews in Ireland!’ (She’s obviously not heard of Leopold Bloom or Ulysses.) The adult Jo finds evidence in the Dublin archives to suggest Patrick’s claims were more than affectation. The multiple allegiances that she inherits – Welsh, Irish, Jewish, Methodist, Catholic and more – are just part of her struggle towards self-definition beyond patriarchal control. By the time I’d finished this wonderful novel, I was hoping for a sequel or even a series, like Edward St Aubyn’s Patrick Melrose novels.
There’s one big question haunting Jo, and though it’s implied repeatedly and sometimes asked directly, it’s never answered. ‘He does love us really’, the little girls think when Patrick comes home with a packet of Rolos. ‘Your dad loves you really,’ their mother repeats after yet another violent chastisement. Expecting a heartwarming memoir like Angela’s Ashes, both mother and sister are disappointed by the first draft of Jo’s novel. But, she reflects, in Angela’s Ashes, ‘in spite of all the deprivations and the father’s absence, the protagonist is never in any doubt that his father loves him.’ My Daddy loves me really. But does he? How can you tell?
In her second poetry collection, Natalie Diaz explores the conflict between violence and love, pleasure and pain, colonial genocide and Indigenous resilience, and environmental destruction and spiritual relationships with the land. She is a US-based poet and identifies herself as queer, Latinx and Mojave. In her poems, the English language, the language of the colonisers, prevails, mingling with Spanish and the Mojave language in a flowing rhythm that relies on alliteration and line breaks to achieve excellence, creating an alternative way of communicating her viewpoint. She feels brutalised by her own nation, which persecuted and tried to erase Indigenous peoples from 1492 and still does today. It is a war that has never ended “and somehow begins again”. In her previous collection, When My Brother Was an Aztec (2012), she developed the story of her brother’s drug addiction and mental illness, which were the consequence of colonisation. In Postcolonial Love Poems, which was nominated for the 2020 Forward Prize, the destruction of the land and the pollution of water are connected with the murder and marginalisation of Indigenous peoples, a loss that is a threat for all humankind.
White colonisation and Indigenous culture do not seem to agree or merge but are instead in opposition to each other, with different and conflicting points of view, that is, different ways of conceiving life, relationships and the environment. In fact, the effects of colonisation brought Indigenous peoples to the verge of extinction and triggered a long resistance. Nevertheless, they still exist and resist in a radical act that has preserved their culture, although it has been changed in part by the influences of the colonisers. In the dedication, Diaz chooses “a way of love” and remains open to new possibilities that imply disruption and empathy but do not accept surrendering to the colonisers’ exploitations. The white gaze separates and classifies according to assumed categories of colours and ethnicities that the poet questions and challenges:
Police kill Native Americans more
than any other race.
Race is a funny word.
Race implies someone will win,
implies, I have as good a chance of winning as –
Who wins a race that isn’t a race?
“American Arithmetic”)
Natives have been called red forever. I have never met a red Native, not even on my reservation, not even at the National Museum of the American Indian, not even at the largest powwow in Parker, Arizona.
I live in the desert along a dammed blue river. The only red people I’ve seen are white tourists sunburned after staying out on the water too long.
“The First Water is the Body”
This is the colonisers’ way of controlling, of exercising power and consequently exploiting other populations and/or ethnic groups in order to appropriate their lands and resources. The economic aims are therefore supported by cultural conceptions that diminish and marginalise the colonised culture. Diaz voices Indigenous ethics, speaking about the pleasure of queer love and the centrality of the body that suffers and rejoices with the land. The body is the land, that is, plants, rocks and water. The wounds inflicted by the colonisers are open and fruitful at the same time in a constant creation that is linked to erotic love but also to a transcendence that the poet finds in the land, especially in the relationship between the body and water, the water of the Colorado river:
My river was once unseparated. Was Colorado. Red-
fast flood. Able to take
anything it could wet – in a wild rush –
all the way to Mexico.
Now it is shattered by fifteen dams
over one thousand four hundred and fifty miles.
“How the Milky Way Was Made”
we blossom from the original body: water,
flowering and flowing until it became itself, and we, us:
River. Body.
“exhibits from The American Water Museum, 99”
Environmental concerns are connected with resistance in a comprehensive vision that includes being human in a close connection with the land, which is nourished by water. The river “runs through the middle of my body”, she says; the river is her body, a “moving body” – it is a verb rather than a noun, a body in flux that metamorphosises and is menaced by pollution and exploitation, that is, by the ongoing colonisation:
To kill take their water
To kill steal their water
then tell them how much they owe
To kill bleed them of what is wet in them
To kill find their river and slit its throat
To kill pollute their water with their daughters’
busted drowned bodies washed up
on the shores, piece by piece
“exhibits from The American Water Museum, 123”
The protest is ancient and enduring, as testified to by the Elder Mojave woman’s prayer; she was killed by two rubber bullets while she was protesting against the installation of pipelines. Therefore, the scars of the land wound the body; they are open and fresh, a source of pain but also the place where love happens:
I confuse instinct for desire – isn’t bite also touch?
“Wolf OR-7”
I feel the junk of it all in my body – rising wild.
I can’t stop the happening. The rusting is in me,
like how a deep wound heals – glimmering, open.
“That Which Cannot Be Stilled”
Desire is evoked against the erasure of the self in an affirmation of identity that maps the body, that is, the land, which is nourished by the river flowing through the body. Her body refuses to surrender to domination, to the loneliness of the American cities. On the other hand, the act of love implies violence and is both physical and transcendent.
Diaz’s poems display mesmerising images that celebrate the personal and global resilience of marginalised populations who resist and exist by cutting out a space for themselves in an occupied land; it is an endless fight that they must continue in order to be accepted, to have the right to coexist with the dominant culture. Similarly to the Minotaur’s adventure in the labyrinth, Diaz leads the reader on a journey of self-awareness where choices are crucial for the future of our personal and global survival. Her compelling poems keep the momentum going throughout the collection; the poet refers to this movement, stating that “we go where there is love”.
Postcolonial Love Poems by Nathalie Diaz is published by Faber & Faber.
Carla Scarno
A couple of days before the Litro team asked me to review Natsume Sōseki’s I Am a Cat, a friend emailed me a link to an article that had gone viral written by a man describing the vicarious fame he’d attained after his pet cat became a Twitter star. Although mildly amusing, I didn’t give the article second thought – until I started my review, that is. Suddenly, the interplay between cats and their owners became startlingly relevant.
Written in 1905, Sōseki’s work is narrated by an anonymous moggy who spends his days observing the comings-and-goings in the household of his master: a pseudo-intellectual, middle-class teacher in Japan named Sneaze – the misspelling is deliberate.
Divided into three volumes, I Am a Cat isn’t easy to summarise. It opens with the cat’s unwelcome arrival in Sneaze’s home. Much of the subsequent action pivots on the narrator’s observations of the master and his friends: the poet Beauchamp, the scholar Coldmoon and professor Singleman. “If one tapped the deep bottom of the hearts of these seemingly light-hearted people, it would give a somewhat sad sound,” the cat observes.
The only substantial action derives from incidents such as a burglary in Sneaze’s home, a group of schoolboys tormenting the master and the burgeoning courtship between Coldmoon and the daughter of Sneaze’s neighbour. Through none of this do any of the human characters take time to name our narrator. “The fact that nobody, even to this day, has given me a name indicates quite clearly how very little they have thought about me,” he comments.
For lovers of satire, the attraction of I Am a Cat doesn’t lie in the intricacies of the plot, but the wry, and sometimes nihilistic, eye the protagonist casts over the humans he encounters. In terms of his more scathing comments, our narrator rivals anything in Gulliver’s Travels or Animal Farm. “All humans are puffed up by self satisfaction,” he comments. “All” may be an exaggeration, but it’s difficult to argue with the sentiment.
Elsewhere, the cat concludes “human beings were good for nothing, except for the strenuous employment of their mouths for the purpose of whiling away their time in laughter at things which are not funny, and in the enjoyment of amusements which are not amusing.” Although Sōseki plays his satire masterfully, this technique does occasionally lead to the characters feeling a little flat and I did, at times, struggle to tell the individual members of the master’s entourage apart.
One of the most striking aspects of I Am a Cat is the repulsion the characters feel for one another’s (and even their own) physicality. According to Sneaze and his circle, the neighbour’s wife is “just an oaf” with “the face of a woman who keeps her husband under her bottom”, while the master writes in his diary that his “bowels gave forth heavy plopping noises” and deems his wife “deformed” for having developed a bald spot on her head.
Darkly comic, but also symptomatic of the characters’ inability to find anything attractive or sympathetic in one another or even themselves.
Despite this, the writer never allows his characters to be entirely undeserving of sympathy. However ridiculous the master may appear, he is poignantly aware of his limitations, admitting each night as he falls asleep that he “just doesn’t understand anything any more.”
It’s also difficult not to feel tenderness for the feline (anti-) hero as he attempts to prove his worth by capturing a rat and, without revealing too much of the narrator’s fate, the novel’s final sentences are some of the most emotionally harrowing I’ve ever read.
Sōseki also aims his satire at Japan’s Meiji period (1868 – 1912), which the novel portrays. As the first half of the Japanese empire, the era gained a reputation for its hollow erudition and had the dubious honour of coining the term ‘tsundoku’: the habit of buying copious amounts of reading materials and then leaving them to mount up unread. The master is a prime example, with his wife saying, “He has no secret vices, but he is totally abandoned in the way he buys book after book, never to read a single one.”
As the master and his friends gather to read their own haikus and debate arcane philosophers, I couldn’t help but reminisce about my university days, sipping cheap wine and droning on endlessly about Nietzsche in a fellow undergraduate’s room at three am. The debates taking place in Sneaze’s home would have been even more pertinent for Sōseki. As well as being a poet, haiku writer and novelist, he worked as a teacher at several times in his career, which confers definite notes of self-satire on Sneaze’s choice of profession.
Even the feline narrator isn’t immune from the writer’s critical strokes. The cat is as blind to his own flaws as any of the members of the master’s household: lambasting humanity for its self-aggrandisement in one sentence and boasting about his own abilities in grandiose terms paragraphs later. He is also unable to reach a conclusion on the status he enjoys as a cat, oscillating between regarding himself as superior to humans and “just a cat”.
One of Sōseki’s skills is his ability to make biting comments on his characters, and indirectly, the class they represent in just a few words. Political and social upheavals such as the war with Russia are discussed as little more than passing references, while painstaking attention is paid to the contents of Sneaze’s post. The characters are far more concerned with the minutiae of their daily lives than with any external events.
Another of the novel’s central themes is the uneasy balance between ancient Chinese traditions and the modernising Western influence. The narrator, for example, dismisses a neighbouring “Western style” house as “vulgar”, while another character is mocked for wearing his hair in a “Western style”.
It would be a mistake to interpret these characters’ reluctance to embrace Western values as belonging to the writer. Sōseki was crushingly aware of the importance of Westernising traditions in Japan’s future. After leaving university, he applied for a job with an English language newspaper and spent several years studying in England.
A confession: more than once, I found myself turning to Google for beginners’ guides to ancient philosophy. While I’m vaguely familiar with the basics of Confucius, I can’t be the only reader who hadn’t heard of many of the more obscure Chinese philosophers and poets discussed by the protagonists. This isn’t necessarily a criticism of Sōseki’s work, but an admission of my own ignorance.
Then, I did wonder if I’d fallen into a trap set by the author. Did he intend for us to endlessly analyze the satire until we tie ourselves in the same knots as the pseudo-intellectuals in the master’s circle? Clever as this approach may be, it can leave those readers not schooled in the finer points of haikus feeling anxious we’re missing some central joke.
More than once, I wished I could grill Sōseki on his intentions, though I imagine he meant many of his themes to be somewhat inscrutable. He clearly didn’t intend for us to attach too much weight to the views of characters who are themselves often ridiculous.
While most of the comedy comes from unpicking the biting satire, there are times when I Am a Cat is genuinely hilarious. In fact, the novel probably contains my new favourite line from any book as boastful character Waverhouse comments “marriage is little more than two people bumping into each other in the dark. […] It doesn’t much matter who bumps whom.”
I do, however, wonder if my affection for this line says more about my personal life than my literary tastes. Likewise, a housemate asked me what I was laughing at when I read the cat’s comment that humans are foolish to walk on only two of the four legs they have at their disposal.
While much of I Am a Cat is preoccupied with the clash between ancient and Western philosophies, I was struck by how much of the novel resonates with twenty-first century debates around tech and culture. The cat, for example, becomes convinced he has attained celebrity status after being (or at least believing himself to be) captured as the main image on a string of postcards sent to the master. I instantly flashed back to the article on the celebrity cat owner.
During the master’s tirade on the dangers of the rise in individuality, many of his comments foreshadow the reactions against modern ‘snowflake’, Millennial or Gen-Z culture. Sneaze, however, goes one further and predicts the growing focus on selfhood will lead everyone to commit suicide in some imagined future.
A major frustration with I Am a Cat is its tendency to fleetingly introduce themes with the potential to be fascinating but leave these unexploded. The cat tells us he has some supernatural abilities. “Quite apart from the precision of my hearing and the complexity of my mind, I can also read thoughts.” Sōseki conjures images of an opium-soaked orient oozing supernatural intrigue, but our narrator refuses to elaborate. “Don’t ask me how I learned that skill. My methods are none of your business.” While Sōseki’s gaps in information are clearly deliberate, they simply reinforce our sense we’ll never fully know our enigmatic narrator.
One of the most interesting features of I Am a Cat is the unique vantage point offered by the narrator’s feline status. “I can, better than all such bookmen, make myself invisible. To do what no one else can do is, of itself, delightful,” he says when sneaking into the neighbour’s household. At another point, the tension is unremitting when a burglar enters the master’s house in the middle of the night: although the cat is a witness, he is unable to rouse his human housemates.
Throughout the course of my research on I Am a Cat, I discovered the book was turned into a film in 1975. It would be interesting to track this down and see how the cat’s unique perspective is rendered on camera.
When tackling the novel, it probably helps to be armed with the knowledge that Sōseki originally wrote the first chapter as a standalone story for a literary magazine and the editors persuaded him to develop his tale further. I Am a Cat perhaps works more successfully as a collection of individual pieces rather than a cohesive whole. The humans’ lengthy digressions on the history of eating peacocks are fascinating, as is the cat’s lamentation on human nudity. I would have loved dipping into the various chapters when in a misanthropic mood, but reading the work in its entirety can feel like something of an epic task.
Did I enjoy I Am a Cat? While the work can be a slightly exhausting read, I’d definitely advise anyone to stick with it as the payoff of the ending alone is worth the effort. To finish with an embarrassing confession: I’d never heard of this novel before being asked to review it and wasn’t sure what I’d make of it. I certainly didn’t expect to encounter something so intellectually challenging, utterly exasperating and darkly hilarious.
Katy Ward.
That Friday was a real broiler, but just like for everyone else in town, Friday nights always meant Daffan’s for Kenneth Bushrod and his wife, Lula, no matter how hot it got. Lord, you should’ve seen the dance floor that night! Even with all the fans in the rafters spinning so fast they seemed about to either fly off or lift the roof, everyone looked to’ve just stepped out of Lake J. B. Thomas without even bothering to give themselves a good dog shake. Not even the hardiest of couples could string together more than three dances in a row without needing to head outside for some fresh air, though it wasn’t any cooler. Even Roy Buxtemper and His Odessa Ramblers had to take a break every half hour, which was next to unheard of for them.
Nonetheless, everyone was having a ball, even the ladies who got lightheaded and had to sit and then assume the very unladylike position of hanging their heads between their knees just to keep from passing out. But even at her advanced age, Lula Bushrod wasn’t one of those delicate flowers. In fact, somehow, she seemed to get stronger the longer the night went on — so much so that Kenneth worried that he might wilt first. He couldn’t have that, so when he excused himself and stepped into the john, he did so in order to soak his face in a sinkful of cold water.
He expected to find other fellows doing the same thing, but nobody was in there except for a young man he didn’t recognize. He was leaning against the wall next to the trash can with a cigarette in his mouth. His cowboy hat was too big for his head.
“Hidy,” Kenneth said.
The boy, who Kenneth thought looked like a rabbit hiding under a cabbage leaf, nodded but didn’t say anything.
Kenneth drank a few handfuls of water and then splashed his face. Just to make conversation, he asked the boy where he was from.
“Oklahoma.”
“Kinda far to come for a night on the town, don’t you think?” Kenneth smiled just to let the boy know that he was only joshing. Strangers were an uncommon site at Daffan’s.
“My girl’s out there. She’s dancing with somebody else.”
So that was the reason for the glum face. Painful young love. “Well, don’t tie yourself up in knots over it. She probably just wants you to make a show of taking her away from him, that’s all.”
“I aim to.”
“There you go.” Drying himself now, Kenneth decided to change the subject so as not to stir the boy up any further. “It’s a hot one, ain’t it?”
“It’s gonna get hotter before the night’s through,” the boy said, leaking smoke.
“I suppose you’re right about that,” Kenneth said, and then he wished the boy good luck with his girl.
He stepped out to find Lula waiting for him, and they returned to the dance floor. Kenneth immediately forgot about the young stranger in the john, and he would’ve never thought of him again if that night hadn’t ended the way it did, and not even ten minutes later.
It should’ve come as no surprise to anyone that Daffan’s burned as quickly as it did. The place was nothing but ancient wood and sawdust, after all. When Roy Buxtemper shouted, “Fire!” and everyone turned to see smoke and flames climbing the wall, everything turned from happy to awful in a whipstitch. The ladies screamed, and the men hurried them toward the exit. This went about as easily as trying to get spooked cattle to move from the pen to the chute. The pushing got rough almost immediately, and as the smoke thickened, people started tripping and falling and coughing for air and getting trampled on by their neighbours and best friends, because fire has a way of making people forget everything they’ve ever known.
After doing a few things that Kenneth later wasn’t too proud of in order to speed Lula safely through the door, he started helping the folks on the floor because he’d been raised just like everyone else in town had been: to never turn your back on a person in need. The smoke and the heat were getting much worse by this point, but he didn’t let it stop him. He pushed and pulled, yanked and hurled. Eventually, though, he had to stop. The smoke and the flames just got to be too much.
Six days later, the town came out to bury seven coffins. It was the worst tragedy in its history.
The morgue in Snyder hung onto the eighth body because nobody could identify what was left of it and everyone in town had been accounted for. Kenneth told anyone who’d listen about the Oklahoma boy in the big hat and how the body might be his, but nobody else remembered seeing him.
“How the hell could I be the only one who saw him?” Kenneth asked Lula while she was brushing her teeth one night.
Lula spat into the sink. “I don’t know, honey.”
Eventually, the unknown corpse got laid to rest in Greasewood Cemetery along with the rest of the Daffan dead. Its headstone said only here lies a victim of the dance hall fire, identity unknown.
Kenneth swore that the body buried out there belonged to a boy wearing a Resistol too big for his head, but who had his girl been? Someone from Yonder, or had she been from Oklahoma, too? Kenneth asked the folks who didn’t remember seeing the unfamiliar boy if they at least remembered seeing an unfamiliar girl, but nobody did. Whoever she was, she had disappeared.
On some nights, the boy came to him in his dreams. “He doesn’t do or say anything,” he’d tell Lula in the morning. “He just stands there with his head bent down, so’s all I can see is cigarette smoke rolling up over the brim of his hat.”
“Did he start the fire to get back at his girl?” he’d ask Lula. The exact cause of the fire had never been determined, mostly because the causes of the town’s fires rarely were. “Was that what he’d meant about the heat, how it was going to get hotter before the night was through? Or had he simply been talking about the press of all the bodies on the dance floor? Or maybe he was referring to the dust-up he was anticipating on having with that other boy. And who was that other boy, anyway? He knows who that girl was. Or was he yet another goddamn stranger?”
“I don’t know, honey.” Lula sighed as she slapped more bacon onto the skillet. “I don’t know about any of it. And please don’t curse like that.”
Kenneth apologized. While eating his bacon, he said, “Or maybe it was just an accident. Maybe he dropped his cigarette in the trashcan on his way out of the john and lit the toilet paper on fire without meaning to.”
“Maybe so.”
“Or maybe I’m all wet. Maybe he made it out of Daffan’s with his girl and then married her. I’d like to think so.”
“Me, too, honey. Now, how much more bacon you want this morning?”
He knew Lula was tired of hearing him go on and on about the boy in the hat too big for his head, but he didn’t like that there was a man lying in a Greasewood grave who nobody missed. It wasn’t how the world was supposed to work. And he liked it even less once the nameless headstone somehow became some sort of a shrine. It had started with the usual flowers and teddy bears, but then came candles and coins and folded-up notes and whatnot. Nobody knew for sure who was responsible, but Kenneth told Lula that the smart money was on all the wastrels who congregated on the Estes land outside of town to build bonfires and push each other into the flames.
“They probably think it’s ‘cool’ that it’s a big mystery who he is,” Kenneth said, lying in bed one night next to Lula. “Well, I don’t think it’s ‘cool’ at all, not one bit. That boy had a mother. That boy had a mother!”
“You’re too kind-hearted for this world.” Lula rolled onto her side and laid her arm across Kenneth’s chest. “I’ve always said that. But if you don’t let me get some sleep tonight, I’ll be joining that poor boy out there, so please hush.”
Kenneth hushed.
He listened to the night settle itself around him. While Lula’s breathing deepened and slowed, he stared up at the ceiling. He knew that it was six feet above his face, far beyond the reach of his outstretched hands, but in the darkness it felt mere inches away.
Chinua Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah is a giant of the late eighties – nominated for the 1987 Booker Prize, it is a combination of several unflinching portraits of humanity and a demonstration of a power as a powder keg at a dangerously national scale. From coups to midnight getaways, it’s a landscape filled with tension, high-stakes drama and even a series of uncomfortable allusions to getting maimed by a stapler.
Set in the imaginary West African nation of Kangan, Anthills neatlyrides the boundary between alternative or subjunctive history and mainstream literary fiction. It explores the nature of setting long before the author ever describes any of its cities or wildernesses. And Kangan is interesting when we consider its makeup- and that interest is largely related to how it’s made up.
Many writers operate within idealised, even sometimes fictionalised versions of their localities: often, they’ll seek to immortalise their green spaces, wild hollows and childhood haunts in a way that grants them a longevity that modernity rarely seems to allow. Other times it may be the opposite, and they’ll create their fictions within a grimy shadowland rife with death and decay. It’s a natural idea, to set one’s work within a landscape that one understands intimately; equal parts homage and homecoming. We might look to Joyce’s Dublin, for example, the London of Sherlock Holmes, the looming legendarium of Oxford in everything from Brideshead Revisited to Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials. More rurally we’d think Houseman’s Shropshire, or perhaps Wordsworth’s lakes. These are landscapes we might find on maps, however fictionalised the narratives they appear in might be. Kangan, however, is different.
Kangan is a paracosm. It appears on no maps save for those that exist within its pages. Technically, Kangan is a heterocosm, a paracosm created for publication as opposed to part of childhood fantasy and make-believe, but it is a kind of paracosm nonetheless. It is something arcane and imagined, distant from reality, and has its own set of rules and inferences that mark it out as distinct from many normal narratives of setting.
The paracosm is an altogether different beast from the usual written landscape: it replaces or at least, obfuscates, real-world localities with a sense of the fictional. There have been famous ones- Emily and Anne Bronte’s islands of Gaaldine and Gondal where their melancholy fey flit across the moors, Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast novels, where ancient regimes are tumbled by disenfranchised kitchen-boys, and perhaps, most prominently, Thomas Hardy’s Wessex, where the pastoral anguish of living appears perfectly preserved between the green hills and little valleys of somewhere not wholly unlike the West Country. The paracosm is a created landscape, somewhere that requires its own gazetteer in the form of a fictionalised narrative, fleshed-out and real with books, customs, borders. Kangan is a rich, dense landscape of shifting peoples and localities, and it’s this stratified backdrop that amplifies Achebe’s narrative to such a powerful resonance.
Scratch a paracosm and you’ll likely find a real-world landscape beneath it. Hardy’s Wessex was born of the West Country; its Casterbridge, Dorchester, its Christminster, Oxford Town. Mortmere too was a university city, Cambridge, but this time populated by the shades created by a young Edward Upward and Christopher Isherwood. Even the rolling hills of The Shire in Tolkien’s Middle Earth high fantasy can, when excavated, be found to be cut from the same clay as the Worcestershire hills where he lived as a child. Kangan is undoubtedly modelled on a hybridity of West African countries and regimes- and certainly more some than others- and borrows from their cultures, customs and political landscapes. But like any paracosm, its true roots are less important than the actuality of the fictional land itself- Anthills of the Savannah needs no obvious handle on reality to hammer its point home, nor does it tread the boards and become a satire.
It begins in the city of Bassa, where the Sandhurst-educated Sam- or His Excellency to almost everybody else- takes power in a popular military coup to become de-facto leader and President of the Republic of Kangan. Achebe explores the roiling political situation through the lives and work of Sam’s closest friends Chris and Ikem, as well as their partners and co-workers in the government intelligentsia, and charts its downfall from populist movement to dictatorship. His Excellency’s premiership is uncomfortable, rife with corruption and teetering on the brink of despotism, and when he attempts to fight a plebiscite to declare himself president for the rest of his natural life there comes opposition from a drought-stricken region of the country: the Northern province of Abazon.
Abazon acts as a site and symbol of resistance throughout the novel. When fleeing the events of the book’s culmination, Chris travels from his home in Bassa through the parched Northern landscape and describes in detail the sights he sees from the bus as it weaves through the wilderness. Bassa is described as a metropolis, thriving and divided, captured on the cusp of political turmoil:
“All around the parked cars young sellers of second-hand clothes displayed their articles on wooden clothes-horses. From time to time there would be a sharp stampede at some secret signal for the approach of a policeman or the Market Master, for none of these boisterous hawkers apparently had any right whatsoever to display their goods at that section of the market. It was a great shock to me then when that army car drove up furiously and went into reverse… and backed at speed into a young man and his clothes.”
The city is the seat of political power, the main focus of the narrative until the very end, and it often changes swiftly to reflect the oscillating power shifts of the collapsing regime. In it, conflict is portrayed as driven by human action, and the movements of its inhabitants change the landscape of the city as it exists within the novel.
Conflict in Abazon, however, is seminal. It is not characterised by the same rapidly-shifting, roiling tensions of Bassa but by a different, less overt kind of violence: as Chris describes at the beginning of the sixteenth chapter,
“Then it was a province of unspecified and generalised disaffection to the regime. One could indeed call it natural guerrilla country, not of course in the literal sense of suggesting planned and armed struggle which would be extravagantly far-fetched as yet, but in the limited but important meaning of a place where, to borrow the watchword of a civil service poster, you could count on having your secrets kept secret.”
Abazon stands as a site of resistance to the regime for several of the novel’s protagonists, and creates a powerful counterpoint to the bureaucracy of the city and the heady haze of politics and policy that characterises it. The region is remote, different, and ostensibly more dangerous than Bassa has ever been, and it functions as a natural opposition to the modernity of the city and its corridors of power. Bassa is rarely described as having anything in terms of natural imagery or plant life save for, perhaps, the manicured lawns of the government estates; yet Abazon is rife with a distinct rurality, punctuated by flora and fauna that mark it out as separate, something other and unnatural within the confines of the narrative. It is this marked difference, this separateness that underpins Abazon’s status as anti, something that His Excellency’s bureaucracy hasn’t managed to permeate, even though the land itself is drought-stricken and perilously inhospitable at times.
The journey to Abazon takes place on ‘The Great North Road’; a single winding thoroughfare that leads to the north through a lush country that seems at odds with the stress and fear of Chris’ flight from Bassa. He watches as the vista turns pastoral, a “…wide expanse of grass-covered landscape with its plains and valleys and hills dotted around with small picturebook trees of every imaginable tree-shape, and every colour of green”, seeing the “giant forests of iroko and mahogany and other hardwoods”, the “flowering trees like flames-of-the-forest”, and reflects that his flight from danger is beginning to take on the image of a picnic. Bassa’s intrigue is unknown here, and Chris’ wild country, although picturesque, isn’t the land he is used to.
As he thunders northward, the quality of the Great North Road degrades rapidly and he notices the “sharp edges of washed-out bitumen” as the bus pitches wildly from side to side. Achebe’s sense of symbolism is potent here, and as he implies that this is no longer the neat, relatively safe and managed city that his viewpoint character has spent the past ten years in. We now understand something fundamental about Chris’ katabasis journey: this is a wilderness in combat with the arcing road, taking back the piece of land as it rallies against encroaching modernity and the landscape connection with the south. They are opposite, diametrical oppositions, meeting in a volatile liminality, and this tension rides even higher as the bus makes its way into Abazon proper.
Gone are the verdant fields. Instead, there is a primordial landscape rolling on behind the windows that is much less homely than the greenery of his early journey. The lands of South Abazon are airless and waterless, yet Achebe still describes them in terms of their natural landscape as opposed to the human-centric descriptive passages we might witness in the city of Bassa.
“The only green things around now were the formidably spiked cactus serving as a shelter around desolate clusters of huts and, once in a while in the dusty fields, a fat-bottomed baoab tree so strange in appearance that one could easily believe the story that elephants looking for water when they still roamed these parts would pierce the crusty bark of the baoab with their tusk and suck the juices stored in the years of rain by the tree inside its monumental bole.”
There is a certain violence to it; the spiked cacti, the piercing tusks, and all bound about in a climate of natural decay- the elephants who had used to roam the lands there, the rains of yesteryear fermenting in the baoab’s bole. We see a fertile land decimated by drought, aggressively positioned as opposite to both the city and indeed, the green lands that came before it. Chris describes South Abazon as a “hungry desert” with a begging bowl, a “scorched landscape”, a land of “burning desolation”, and it exemplifies the binary landscapes that becomes apparent in the last few chapters of Anthills of the Savannah.
The northern lowlands are lush and fertile, whereas Abazon proper is parched and pockmarked. The two regions exist in opposition to each other, one the lush farms of Talbothays, one the starve-acre of Flintcombe Ash, to borrow from another literary paracosm – and yet divided as they are, they have more in common than the much more modern and manipulated cityscape of Bassa. They represent two faces of the same wilderness, and underpin the narrative with the idea of a binary- everywhere is either city, or other. Bassa’s rules and civilizations do not apply, and although they have different faces, the verdant hills and scorched scrubland are similarly juxtaposed to the true south where the plenty and power is. When the south meets the north- where the road meets the desert; where Chris gets involved in a disturbance and voices his government connections- conflict ensures; the road crumbles, and Chris is met with a final, fatal violence. The two directions cannot meet, can barely exist in the same world as each other, and Chris- Chris, native of the city, native of the south- simply cannot triumph in such a land. He dies, miles away from his home in the desert scrub that seemed at once an escape and a battle to him.
Such is, perhaps, the creative lure of the paracosm. Achebe holds up a mirror of his own making, and in it, creates a landscape of pure oppositions that a real-world landscape cannot provide nor sustain as the narrative travels through its geographies. The country of Kangan is divided into helpful, certain quadrants to the extent that even as Chris drives through from the green hillsides to the shattered landscape of South Abazon, he reflects that the arbitrary landscape boundaries drawn up by the British some half-century before “sometimes coincided so completely with reality”. And it’s skilfully created; a rich world of markets and palaces, tension and beauty, verdancy and famine, and it makes the underlying metaphors of the novel and its powerful take on neo-colonialism easy to discern although the world it describes is likely very different to one experienced by the more western parts of Achebe’s readership. The paracosm can be (although is not always) a Mondrian; boxed colours and straight lines that throw the narrative foreground into a sharp and vital relief. One land is green and hilly, one a metropolis, one a desert and one- North Abazon- still relatively unknown. This is why Kangan and its power struggles are such a visceral, potent setting that stays with the reader long after finishing Anthills of the Savannah: the different landscapes are signposts; their flora and fauna, perhaps lanterns to guide us through a volatile world of power and danger that we might find unfamiliar or uncomfortable.
The paracosm is a clever device. It affords absolute authorial mastery over the landscape of anything from a haiku to a seven-part family saga. It also means that a writer can obfuscate or reveal meaning as they choose, away from preconceived landscape connections that might drive a story beat awry as a reader relies on their own series of allusions. Anthills of the Savannah employs the technique in a tightly-structured, modern way, miles apart from Hardy’s sprawling Wessex or the grotesques that populate Peake’s castle Gormenghast, and creates a fantasy of realities that straddles the boundary of reality and fiction. It’s a compelling, driven narrative, and one of Achebe’s best- and it takes on a fresh and sombre significance when we consider the ways in which democracy appears under threat from coups and fake information far away from the imagined lands of Kangan, and real-word administrations that scramble for purchase much closer to home as they face down an uncertain future.
Photo @Dualipa
I dream of discomfort. For a year now I have lived a hazy half-life of wool and fleece and sweatpants. My feet, once calloused, are infant-soft. My waist, once cinched, is unharnessed. And my spirits, once hopeful, have faltered.
But as the COVID-19 vaccine rollout gets underway and a post-plague world glitters in the near distance, clothes are about to get uncomfortable again. And while our rested feet and pandemic-rounded stomachs may lament the return of high heels and tight jeans, I’m celebrating the coming constriction as proof that normality is once more in sight.
Because while 2020 was the year of the nap dress, the duvet coat and the slipper as shoe – shapeless, snuggly and highly practical items which cushioned us against the sharp corners of our new reality – 2021 promises something entirely different. Between midriff flossing, the return of the G-string, the rise of restrictive corsets and the towering platform heels spotted on the Valentino catwalk, the coming months will be defined by sartorial discomfort.
While shaking off our slankets might feel alarming after a year of collective confinement, uncomfortable clothes herald a return to normal social interaction. That’s because clothing is our most immediate way of communicating with the outside world, and whether we consciously recognise it or not, we all dress for an audience. Over the past year, we’ve had no or few spectators to our lonely existences.
In an open society, clothing performs two key functions: the practical and the performative. We wear clothes for warmth, comfort and decency, yes, but we also use garments as social codes to be deciphered by those around us. Clothes communicate our moods, identities and status.
Sometimes building a public persona requires personal sacrifice (squeezing into Spanx, needling ourselves at the tattoo parlour, feeling goosepimples on bare legs in breezy weather). But like so much in our lives since the outbreak of COVID-19, clothing has grown narrower in scope recently, its purpose reduced to the merely functional as we embrace comfort over communication.
But things are changing. We may still be wearing fleece-lined loungewear for now, but a desire to rediscover the performative power of clothing is emerging. Corset tops trend alongside tracksuits at online retailer Asos. The most-liked items at Urban Outfitters include fluffy sandals and roomy sweatshirts, but also cut-out rompers and structured dresses. Instagram influencers like Aimee Song switch between at-home snaps in sweats and PJs and street shoots in tailored suits and leather trousers.
Some may balk at returning to uncomfortable clothing after a year of casual comfort. But as we tentatively begin to socialise with friends, colleagues and strangers, we will once more need to need to speak to the world through our clothing.
“Don’t laugh but I have still been wearing my suits,” British designer Paul Smith told The Guardian of his lockdown uniform. I’m not laughing. Wearing a social uniform without anyone to witness it may sound ludicrous, but doing so has very likely helped keep Smith connected to who he once was, and who he could become in a post-pyjama world.
“Fashion is free speech, and one of the privileges, if not always one of the pleasures, of a free world,” as American writer Alison Lurie observed in her 1981 book, The Language of Clothes.
So here’s to the tapered bustiers, the exposed abdomens, the post-virus revenge heels – the individual pain that proclaims shared pleasure.
Overnight, calls for inspections, smoke alarm installations and school presentations stopped as nature began playing a cruel game of tumbling towers with city skyscrapers and apartment blocks, using the increasing death toll as its score card.
Akeem Balogun
This week on Litro Lab podcast, we have a disturbing piece of flash fiction with dystopian hints. A terrible storm unleashes and it doesn’t seem to weaken with the pass of days and weeks. It becomes a disaster of biblical proportions that reminds of our current pandemic. There are many ways people can react to tragedy and uncertainty. But is it possible that some of them might even welcome it?
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“Love Finds a Way,” D.W Griffith wrote in 1909, but it wasn’t any easier in those primitive days before computers. A person had to find a date or mate in person, through friends, school, work or church. Chances are you had seen this person around before any romantic connection was attempted, offering preliminary screening. In my 20s, it all seemed uncertain and labor-intensive. Imagine my excitement when I heard about the first computer matching system back in the mid 1960s.
The ad said an applicant would pay a monthly fee ($15, as I recall), fill out a form (using a #2 pencil, please), detailing demographics, interests, favorite places to go and any non-negotiables.
I was 23, recently hired as an adjunct professor in the political science department at Cal State Northridge after earning a Master’s degree. I was living at home until I could save up enough to move to my own apartment closer to the University. I had been an active dater in college and in the interim between the college degrees, but somehow the Master’s became a Maginot line. I was apparently too well educated, too well traveled and probably too picky. It was a fallow period for dating.
So when I saw the ad in the paper for this new computer dating service, I was intrigued and decided to take the risk. Computers then were novelties, large enough to consume entire rooms. They were supposed to be smarter and faster than human beings. What did I have to lose?
I toiled over the two-page survey for an hour or so, checking the boxes for someone who had an advanced degree, was politically liberal and lacking in traditional religious convictions. I licked the envelope and drove it over to the Post Office, concerned that my conservative parents might be worried about the risks if they knew. Within a week, I received a printout in the mail of the names and phone numbers of three men within my geographical area. No photos, no demographic information. While I contemplated what to do next, the phone rang. It was one of my “matches.”
Murray told me he worked for a City Councilman, was unmarried and 39. He wanted to take me out for dinner the following Friday night. Because this was imminent and came with an unexpected age gap, I thought it best to inform my parents. I made a mental note to escalate my financial planning.
Friday night at 7, the doorbell rang and my mother answered the door, as she always did when I was in high school. Right on her heels, I reached over and shook his hand. Murray was not conventionally handsome but nice enough looking for me to be interested. We walked to his car and he opened the door for me, an archaic custom universally practiced back then. This was my first date with a man in a prestigious occupation and I hardly knew what to say. He wasn’t exactly garrulous, either, so it was pretty quiet all the way to the Fox and Hounds restaurant in Santa Monica. I asked him about his job, which turned out to be the most interesting thing about him. He didn’t seem particularly interested in mine, which was OK. We were still feeling each other out. In fact, he was making bold attempts to do just that. Almost as soon as we ordered, his hands wandered under the white linen covered table, worming his way inside my clothing. I was so surprised, shocked really, that I didn’t know what to say. I moved away. With each course, he would move in again. This man was clearly more interested in sex than food, the direct opposite of my priorities. I wondered what was coming after dessert.
Since we were already in West Los Angeles, he told me he wanted me to see his office, and that of his boss, the famous City Councilman. That seemed like a secure setting and, since I taught political science, I was genuinely interested. He used several keys to gain entrance into the ornate inner sanctum within the large Civic Center. Once in the office, there were stacks of papers on a cluttered desk, framed photos of important politicians and celebrities everywhere and four phones scattered throughout tables in the large room. Was this his office or the Councilman’s? I was about to ask when he hastily maneuvered me to a couch opposite the desk and started kissing me. Again with the busy hands. I would have expected this kind of gauchery from my college dates but not from a man of his age and life experience. Even stranger, there was hardly a word exchanged between us.
Within a few eternal minutes, there was an insistent pounding on the locked office door. Murray leaped up, tucked in his shirt and opened the door. I righted myself as well, not knowing who this rescuer might be. It was a uniformed police officer, gun drawn. Apparently, Murray had failed to turn off the silent alarm. Relieved for the moment, I hoped I would not be arrested for breaking and entering. Somehow, he found his voice and reassured the officer he belonged there. Once the officer was gone, I asked to be taken home. Enough, already.
There were other computer dates, in fact, many of them. I often received eight or nine names and numbers a month and most of them called for a date. After going out so often I found (especially after I had moved to my own apartment) that I was becoming jaded. When the new man entered my living room and sat down, I began the interview.
“Why do you think we were matched?”
“Maybe it was education.” There were some Ph.D.s in the batch but the degree was inevitably in something in which I had close to zero interest. I had little in common with a man who spent all those years studying chemistry or classical Greek.
“What’s your favorite restaurant?” I would pursue, searching for some easy commonality, the typical level of conversation.
“Any burger joint.” I knew we were doomed.
There was one guy with an MA in economics who pulled up in a gold Rolls Royce. In the politically radical 1960s of which I was an active part, that was sufficient screening for me. We went for coffee and I never saw him again.
I did see one man for a while in spite of the fact he was an engineer like my father. They even worked at the same aircraft plant in Santa Monica. Emery was pleasant, took me to nice places and laughed at the same things I did. We spent many evenings going to plays and musicals, long a passion of mine and apparently, his. But there was absolutely zero chemistry, not helped along by some oral condition that made his mouth smell like something had died inside.
You might be surprised that I met most these men at my apartment. It was a different time, safer with stronger codes and rules about such things. It was considered riskier and socially unacceptable for an unaccompanied woman to meet a strange man in a bar. I usually spent enough time on the phone beforehand to get a sense of physical safety before inviting them in. That level of comfort would be far less likely today.
Over the course of the frequent dating, I probably met 15 or 20 men, a crash course in relating to the opposite sex via a computer match. Sadly, there were no real “hits” and an awful lot of “misses.” It was like a hobby for a while before boredom and a better opportunity extinguished my interest. The experiment went on for a year or so, until I met the person I thought to be the man of my dreams in the conventional way – at school.
Now, let’s move ahead. It’s the early 2000s. I had been married, divorced and subsequently discovered a woman with whom I had fallen in love. We were together more than 30 years before that relationship ended amid a flurry of lies and chemical abuse. After a year or so on my own, I wondered if I’d ever be in love again. I didn’t have many opportunities to meet eligible women and the men in my age group (by now in my 60s) were throwbacks to the era when women were “less than,” the target of sexist humor. So even though I was willing to date someone of either sex, I opted to search for a woman, thinking my odds of finding an equal were better.
Back in the 1960s, the computers belonged to the computer match company. I was dependent on their program to tell me who to date. But now there was a variety of options, almost overwhelming in diversity. Computer dating had become big business, many of them major corporations. Almost everyone had access to the internet and email. Sexual orientation was more fluid and deviations from the hetero “normality” of the ‘60s widely accepted.
I signed on with the ubiquitous Match.com and filled out the profile more carefully than I had forty years earlier. Now the criteria were more sophisticated and extensive. It seemed to portend well that I could screen people before meeting them, see a photo or two and could even “date” people in distant locations. I have to admit that last option was appealing. Having recently emerged from a long and difficult relationship, I wasn’t sure I wanted someone in close proximity.
Over the course of a couple of months, I emailed and Skyped with probably five or six women, only a few of whom lived near me. The ones I met at nearly restaurants were pleasant and affable but did not seem to reside on my planet. One was a school counselor with whom I played golf. When I hit the ball well, she shrieked that she was “so proud of” me, as if I were one of her students. She was uncommonly fond of the teen patois of the day, punctuating every emotion with “awesome.” While I found her attractive, I knew this would soon drive me over an edge.
So when Peg from New York emailed the computer version of a query letter, I was interested. Like me, she had a Ph.D. in psychology, enjoyed the arts and seemed urbane and sophisticated. She was Jewish, in fact very Jewish, she told me. But this wasn’t a deal breaker so long as it didn’t get in the way. In her online profile, she was nice-looking, seemed to take care of herself and had a warm smile.
We emailed for a few weeks then she wanted to Skype. At the appointed time, I sat down on my living room couch, and prepared to “meet.” She “showed me around” her apartment, a well-appointed and seemingly expensive two-bedroom on the west side of Manhattan and introduced me to her huge St. Bernard, Sherlock. I reciprocated, giving her a quick tour of my house and my beagle, Satchmo.
I could see she had knitting in her lap, so as an ice breaker, I asked her about it. For the next eight minutes or so (it seemed longer), she regaled me with every detail of her history with knitting, the techniques she used and her plans for future projects. If there had been a pause, I would have interjected something, even more likely had I been a knitter. I thought perhaps she was nervous about this encounter as was I. We had shared some personal history via email but it’s not the same as talking face-to-face.
At the first opening, I tried again, commenting on a play I was going to that night with a friend. She jumped in. She had been to a play the night before, too, and proceeded to outline the plot, quote the reviews and strongly suggested I plan to see it when I’m in New York. By this time, I was nearly stunned into silence and thought it best to end this first “conversation.” As I prepared to shut it down, she asked when we could do this again, suggesting the following week.
I have historically been quick to cut people off so I vowed to give Peg a chance to see who she was, while hoping for an opportunity for reciprocity. The following Sunday, I sat down in my customary spot and logged on. In her favor, she was comely and obviously had good taste in décor. I started to say something when from the periphery of the screen came a sloppy Sherlock, bounding on top of her, practically knocking the computer to the ground.
“Is he always so exuberant?” I asked, laughing.
“Oh, sure. He’s a sweetie.”
“But how do you manage him in an apartment in the middle of New York City?” I was trying to imagine dog walks in the snow, him dragging her along behind. And knowing she had a demanding job uptown, wondering how the apartment looked when she returned home each day.
“He’s very well behaved, aren’t you, Sherlock?”
Yeah, I could see that. Now he was slobbering on the keyboard and I expected either a quick execution or an abrupt ending to the conversation.
“I’ve been thinking of taking a trip to see you. What do you think about that?”
Oops. We had “known” each other for a matter of weeks. Still, I had experienced these sudden commitment approaches before. One of my matches in Minnesota told me it would only take her a few days to pack up the U-Haul and come to California. I didn’t have time to respond to Peg before she began to press.
“I have relatives on the coast. I could stay with you for a few days then drive down there to visit them. How does January sound?”
I’m normally quick on my feet but this turn left me speechless. Still, I told myself, it might be fun and you’d certainly get to know each other better.
“Sure. Just let me know when it’s convenient.”
January was less than a month away. I met her at the airport, gave her a hug and we drove back to my house. Still feeling skittish about the whole thing, I set her up in the guest bedroom, leaving the options open. After she had unpacked, we sat down in the living room. I was ready to start a meaningful conversation when her cell rang.
“Hi, honey. Yes, I’m with Pam now.” She proceeded to tell the person on the other end of the phone about her plane trip, the layovers, what she had to eat at the airport and a description of my house. Shortly, I realized this must be her grown, married son, Ted, with whom she was obviously very close. The conversation went on for maybe ten minutes. When she hung up, I politely asked, “How’s Ted doing?”
You’d think by now, I would have discovered that simple questions seldom had simple answers. I was still laboring under a flat learning curve. I heard in detail what Ted (but not his wife) had been doing all day. After a suitable period of time, I interrupted to suggest we go to dinner. Peg was a vegetarian, so I had decided not to try to prepare meals for her. I found a restaurant with veggie options, which I hoped would please her. All the way to the restaurant and even while we waited to be seated, she talked. And talked.
We each ordered a glass of wine. I waited for her to take a sip so I could say something. By now, I knew this was not the woman of my dreams. Even more, I wondered how I would survive her visit. There had now been several Skype conversations and maybe six hours together without any real dialogue. I decided to take a risk.
“You know, Peg, I’m really happy you’re here. I’m hoping it’ll give us uninterrupted time to get to know each other, but I’m having trouble inserting myself in here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know how to say this, but…you talk…a lot. You don’t speak in sentences. You speak in essays.” I had hoped she’d see the humor but it went over her head.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve never been told that.”
Is it possible all her New York friends just zoned out during her monologues? Or did they find her sagas fascinating? Was I being too impatient?
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I want to get to know you. And to tell you who I am.
“So tell me, already.”
I wasn’t prepared to give a presentation.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I had hoped we’d talk and….”
She jumped right in. “What I really want is to jump your bones.”
Not having heard that expression since junior high, I tried not to look as startled as I felt.
She continued, as I knew she would.
“My sexuality is very male and I’m ready any time.”
I knew I needed to say something and fast.
“I’m not quite ready for that. We don’t even know each other.”
“I know but it doesn’t matter to me.”
I suspected as much. Our interaction, such as it was, was strangely impersonal and, needless to say, one-sided.
We finished our dinner and came back to the house. More of the monologues, along with several more phone calls with her son. By the time I said goodnight and made my way to my own side of the house, my head was stuffed with words, on neurological overload. I could hardly think. I could almost hear my ears ringing.
The next few days were filled with activities, anything to distract her and make the time go faster. When we parted, it was with considerably less warmth than the initial greeting. I did not tell her that the attraction I initially felt had been smothered by the plethora of words, that she didn’t give me enough of a person with whom to bond. I could tell she was irritated and probably disappointed, too. Earlier she had talked about finding a nickname for me, assuming we’d be life partners soon. She had started looking up travel schedules so we could visit each other at regular intervals. Since there was no space for a response. I didn’t tell her I didn’t like any of those ideas. But perhaps my lack of interruptions made the point more than if I had.
After Peg, I gave up computer dating. While the technology had advanced considerably over the four-decade interlude, the likelihood of finding a meaningful relationship using two-dimensional criteria had not improved much at all. The two adventures in computer dating that happened in widely-separated eras of my life were fun but weird and unsatisfying. In the wisdom that comes from experience, I realize there’s no way to quantify human emotion, much less that elusive biochemical attraction that can lead to love.
The only window that she can force open is the top sash, pushing its warped wood down into the deep. Climbing over, she is higher than she thought she would be, suddenly aware of the Victorian glass that has been travelling slowly for a hundred years, so the top of the pane is like ice laced across a lake. Such frailty. Her skirt is hitched high and she tries to touch her toes on each sill, inner thighs kissing a cold mirror. Suddenly, she is swaying on a rotten boat, holding the side rope, rigging that hasn’t been uncovered for years, flaking paint fine as fish bone, the sea angry beneath. Catching her knee on the latch, the bruise of late afternoon starts to darken. Inside, a cold lightbulb hangs like a dead bird and she swims alone across the dark water of carpet, guilt tangling around her ankles like seaweed. She gets undressed and runs a bath brim-full, waiting for him to come back and turn the lock, knowing he will be unable to resist her call.
He barely notices the heat of the water as his dull flesh settles into the tub. It consumes him, first his toes; then feet and ankles, calves and thighs, navel and chest. Only his head remains visible, his back resting against the white porcelain while his eyes focus on the faucet between his knees. He sees nothing, feels nothing, and his mind tosses wildly. No thoughts, just currents of electricity ricocheting through his skull. The water is too hot, and he barely notices.
He craves the water. The world is too violent, the storm in his head too loud, but beneath the waves, in the bath water, there is calm, peace, gentle currents to carry him on. He hears the siren’s call, and aches to slip beneath the surface and fade from the white hostility of the bathroom lights and the swirling clouds that gather in his brain. He takes one shallow breath and his shoulders descend beneath, and then his head is under, submerged.
It’s calm, like he knew it would be. It is soft against his skin and he fades in its softness, the currents eroding him into sand to carry him off to distant shores. There is barely a sound, just gentle notes passed on the great aqueous flow, and no light penetrates from above. No light, just sweet, embracing darkness.
But electricity still thunders between his ears.
Like song it calls to him, further,deeper, this is just a taste. He feels it, his weakness, the need for peace, the need for silence. He imagines the rolling of waves and the pull of currents, and allows it to happen, allows it all to happen like he always dreamed it would.
Take it from me, he thinks, just take it all. The water obeys and continues to assault the body. He withers, piece by piece. He feels it aging him, his fingers wrinkling faster than time would allow, degenerating as he is freed from the chamber and becomes nothing but mind, drifting aimlessly on the current. So soft, this peace, so comfortable.
And then there is the beat, a hammer falling against hot iron on the anvil, and he notices the heat of the water. Then there is the second strike of the hammer, and then a third. The clash of metal against metal, bursting in the water like an atom bomb and filling the void until it is gone. The world clangs and he learns that this is the beating of his heart – the sirens drown in its clamour but through the noise he hears for the first time what it wants to articulate, what it demands.
And in the clamour his chest constricts and begins to ache, and the muscles of his neck tense and the relentless panic sets in. He fights the urge, remembering the calmer beauty of the siren’s song, but the clamour is so loud and the crushing of his chest so intense that he needs the air and the thunder and the rain of the storm above, wanting to stay but needing to feel the rush of air and so he pushes back, erupting through the surface to take the first breath again, his body hauling in air with rattling chest trembling throat and spluttering mouth, his breath spinning before him before it settles, before he reaches out and catches it.
His shoulders sink against the white wall of the tub while his unsteady hands grip the sides with stunted fingernails. His wet flesh gleams where it emerges from the surface and he swallows his own spit in the revealing light of the bathroom, noticing how calm and silent the air is. He moves a hand to his neck and runs it up to the back of his head and down again to the shoulders and chest where they meet the water and his bulk disappears beneath. He sits unsmiling, staring absently at the crook of the wall and ceiling and a muscle twitches in his jaw.
His mind anchors itself to a new thought, focused at the crook in the wall: he wonders about his body, where the bone connects to the muscle. He wonders about the muscle and the nerve, and the nerve and the spine and the brain. He thinks about it all for a second, then settles the thought, finds his satisfaction. Electricity.
It turns out life is pretty boring when you’re dead.
No one ever told me I died, but I figured it out pretty quickly. I was never going to graduate summa cum laude or anything, but I’m also not stupid. I figured out something was royally off when I woke up in a house I didn’t recognize and realized something was even more off when I walked up the basement steps, into the kitchen, then tried to leave. I was able to open the back door, but I couldn’t exit. Something held me back, and I know that in real life, magic force fields aren’t real. That was my first clue.
The second thing that was off was that I had none of my personal effects. I didn’t have my phone (although I’m pretty sure I’d left that at the bar earlier that day). I didn’t have my charger (I think I also think might have left that at the bar?) I didn’t have my keys, or my wallet, and while at first I thought maybe I’d been robbed, I also didn’t have the pocketful of change I always seems to accumulate on a day out drinking, or my Chapstick…or Altoids. A robber wouldn’t take those. I also couldn’t get my watch off.
The third thing that was off, and really the only upside to ghost life I could think of, is that I all of a sudden had 20/20 vision. This probably isn’t going to seem like a huge deal to those of you blessed enough to float through life without the assistance of glasses or contacts, but as someone who hasn’t been able to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night without slipping on a pair of glasses for a good 90% of my life, this felt like a minor miracle, even more than whatever force field was keeping me in this house. I think I actually figured it out before I figured out the force field, because I’d only made it out of the basement and into the kitchen, and I remember reaching up for my glasses, realizing they weren’t there, and then being like, “Holy shit, I can see. What kind of magic is this?” Then I tried to go outside.
There are a few other perks to being a ghost I guess, besides the perfect vision. I don’t have to worry about money. I don’t have to worry about my weight, what I look like, or what I want to be when I grow up. It’s pretty carefree, and for someone as anxious as I am, that’s a bit of a blessing. This laissez-faire attitude has its downsides though. I try to worry about my family: my dad, my mom, my younger brother, my sister, about how they’re doing, how they’re coping, hoping they themselves are okay, but all I feel is apathy. Like, I want to care. I want to stress. I just can’t. I can’t even explain it other than that. The kernels of thoughts are there. I think of my dad, and I’m sure I miss him, but I don’t really miss him, not like how I used to really miss people, or love people, or get sad, or mad, or pissed off. Being a ghost is a little bit like always being on Xanax, which probably sounds like a selling point to some of you, definitely to the bulk of the mothers who live in my parents’ neighbourhood, but not me. I like feeling. I like emotion. Back when it was something I had to deal with, I’d rather work through something, even if it were a little bit hard, than just be numb all the time, and that’s how I feel now. Comfortably numb. Don’t let Pink Floyd fool you. It’s not glamorous.
I don’t remember how I died. I surmised that I fell down the basement staircase in a drunken stupor. My death remains unsolved. I read about it online.
Let’s back up though.
I really knew something was up when the girls who live in this house came home. I’d been sitting around for a week or so, knowing something was really off, because I sat around for a week, trapped in a house I’d never been in, and never got hungry, never got thirsty, couldn’t remove my watch, saw perfectly, and never had to use the bathroom. I didn’t panic either, which was weird. I just kind of went with it. Being a ghost has made me very mellow. I just sit and I read a lot. They have a surprisingly good bookshelf for a college house. They scared the living crap out of me when they finally came back. Jacki, the girl who lives on the third floor, came home first. I was sitting in the living room reading some book I’ve already forgotten by Jodi Picoult, and all of a sudden she barges through the front door, her arms full of groceries, and right down the hallway, right past where I was sitting, to the kitchen to throw them all over the floor.
I screamed, I think. And I tried to make myself small. I didn’t want her to see me, and even though I had surmised by now that I was dead, my mind first went to “Oh shit, she’s going to call the cops,” and I don’t need that kind of hassle, ya know? But she just walked past back out to the car, and she carried in a bunch of laundry, and then a case of wine, and then her suitcase, and then more paper towels than anyone has a right to own, and then finally, she came in with a couple of shopping bags full of snacks, walked right into the living room, put those on the floor, and sat down next to me. She looked directly through me, grabbed the remote, flipped on the TV, and proceeded to watch America’s Next Top Model for like three hours, while I was frozen with fear right next to her. I dropped the book I’d been reading when she scared me initially, but after three hours of watching a bunch of girls named Lauren compete to be “the fiercest,” I figured that for whatever reason she couldn’t see me, and picked it back up to read. That’s when I 100% realized I’m invisible, because Jacki slowly turned, looked directly at me, blinked a couple times, turned back to the television, then looked over again, and then just let out this blood curdling scream, the likes of which I’d truly never heard in person, and definitely never been privy to from just three feet away.
I threw the book across the room. It hit the wall right above the TV and fell behind it like it should, and instead of looking at me, Jacki then just watched the wall, just where it hit, and then looked back through me, and then got up and went outside. She left the door open, so I crept to it (but couldn’t exit, natch) and listened to her conversation. She was asking someone on the other end how long pot brownies stay in your system. I laughed. I’ve done my very best to not pick anything up in front of any of them since. I forget every now and then, but it’s crazy how unobservant people are. I ran into Lauren – not one of the ones on TV competing to be the fiercest but the one who lives on the second floor – in the hallway one time in the middle of the night when she was using the bathroom. I’d actually just been in there, because that’s where they kept the newer magazines. I was reading one while I walked back downstairs and didn’t even hear her coming down the hall. She whacked her head off the open magazine and didn’t even flinch. I know she was aware of it, because she said ouch, but otherwise, she didn’t acknowledge that she just hit her head off of a floating magazine, or what I’m assuming appears to be a floating magazine. I didn’t see what it looked like from her angle, obviously.
You know what else I don’t see? My reflection. It’s frustrating because I really want to know if I’ve aged, or if whatever injuries I’ve sustained are still there or have miraculously healed themselves like my vision. I thought that was a vampire’s shtick, but I guess it applies to us ghosts too.
I feel like we’re kind of fed a lot of BS about ghosts, which makes sense since no one’s really able to live as a ghost and report back to the masses, but like, I think the whole concept was oversold to me, even though I don’t remember actively ever wishing to be, or even thinking about what it’d be like to be a ghost back when I was one of you living folks. It’s just that I feel like on paper it seems kind of cool. You get to float. You get to walk through walls. You get to pop out and scare people when you want to. You could gain vengeance on those who made you a ghost, or those who wronged you in life. You’re immortal in a sense. I mean, not really, because you are dead, but you’re existing in some kind of plane without aging or worrying about death. All of that seems great. The problem is that most of what we’re told about being a ghost isn’t true, and what is true isn’t all that great.
I’ve never floated. Not once. Maybe I can, but like, I don’t even know how to try. I tried jumping off the staircase and I just fell down it. It didn’t hurt, which is kind of nice, but really, why not just take the stairs? Is there a way I can launch myself? Is there something I can do to make myself buoyant? I guess I’ll never know, unless I meet another ghost, which doesn’t seem likely because I’m stuck in this house, and as far as I’m aware, I’m the only one here.
I could walk through walls occasionally. Sometimes. Sometimes I can, and sometimes I can’t, and there’s no real rhyme or reason to which walls allow it and which ones don’t, or how sometimes I can pass through the bathroom door and other times I can’t. That’s frustrating, but also, when you walk through the walls, you get the smells that comes with passing through old wood or rotten insulation, and that’s no fun. That’s another complaint actually, that because I don’t have a sense of taste or touch anymore, my hearing and smell have magnified. Smells come in strong, and when they cook or party or have sex, I cannot escape the smells. When it gets really bad, I’m forced to just sit in the bathroom and sniff the shampoo…unless they just went to the bathroom. Then I take the shampoo to the attic, but the attic creeps me out. Things I never realized have smells have smells, like the outside of the refrigerator, the wall, a god-damn clock. You know what’s the worst? Sitting on the couch after a party. I smell every single spill.
I used to love scaring people. I got that from my mom. My stepmom really, but she raised me so that’s who I call my mom. My real mother died in a train accident when I was young enough that I hardly remember her. That’s another thing. I thought maybe we’d be reunited in the afterlife. I thought maybe I’d get answers to how she died, or a little insight into her life. She died with her boss. My dad thought she’d gone to a conference in Chicago. Their train derailed somewhere in Alabama. Was she having an affair? That’s something I’d always wondered as a kid, as a teen, and as a very young adult, and something I still wonder now, as a dead young adult, but I’m not getting any insight. There’s all the other stuff I wanted to know that goes unanswered too. Is the Bermuda Triangle real? What happened to the colonists at Roanoke? Who killed JFK? Why did no one watch Friday Night Lights? The only question that was answered was, “Are ghosts real?” Yes, Virginia, I’m right fucking here.
Anyhow, my step mom and I used to delight in scaring one another. My dad hated it. But now, maybe because of general Xanax-haze-like apathy, I just don’t care. It’s fun to scare people when you could laugh about it with them afterwards, but like, just watching Jacki lose her mind and then blame it on a weed brownie she had three weeks earlier that “must still be in her system”? It’s a letdown, man. It’s just not that fun. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just with a boring group. Maybe a new group of girls would invigorate the need to scare buried deep inside me, but I don’t think so. I think it’s just going to end up being like how skydiving was for me. People said it was a rush. I was like, I just fell…
I thought maybe I’d learn all the secrets of the world. I mean, all I could do is just observe people. I just watch and listen. All. Day. Long. Maybe for someone really into voyeurism being a ghost would be a big-ole-jackpot, but honestly? People are boring. Life’s banal. It’s been a year and a half now of just watching and listening, and all I’ve learned is that are just as good and just as shitty as you’d imagine. There have been no watershed moments. No big ah-ha’s. People shit talk each other a lot. They masturbate more than many of you would think, but remember that I died when I was a 21-year old guy, so for me? I wasn’t surprised. That’d been my reality for the past eight years, although some do it so quietly it’s truly unnerving. What else? I can’t even think. Everybody poops. Everybody looks embarrassed while they’re doing it too. People talk to themselves a lot or else don’t talk to themselves at all. Almost everyone googles stuff that could be considered perverse.
That’s the most banal part of this whole story. You know how I learned how I died, or more accurately, got the official confirmation that I had in fact died, because by the time I read it, I’d put the pieces together?
I googled it. I logged onto Jacki’s computer one day when she was in class, and searched Evan Sullivan, and that’s when I learned that my body had been found at the bottom of an embankment about a mile from this house. I broke my neck. Popular theories are that I died at a college party and then whoever found me didn’t want to get in trouble. Or they went all frat-style and just watched me die and didn’t call for help. I don’t have any recollection of my death or how my body got there, but I must’ve died here, because I have no other connection to this house and these girls, and it’s just…you’d hope for a more exciting death or maybe at least a more pronounced one, but from what I’m able to deduce, I got drunk and fell down a staircase? And now I’m just trapped here, mainly being bored out of my mind and mainly not even caring how bored out of my mind I am because I don’t care about anything anymore. It’s boring, and the boredom has made me whiny as hell, and then that’s the one part that makes me smile and laugh a little bit, how being dead has essentially turned me into an emo-teen, which just, I mean, that tracks doesn’t it?
Mona had always prided herself on knowing her own mind. So when Freddie said Mum, sometimes we need to evolve our thinking, she had felt herself grow rigid with rage, had felt it pulsing at her forehead. What was there to say in return?
Had her children not noticed she was clear-sighted — a woman with principles, and that this was something to learn from?
Freddie stood, holding Sarah’s hand lightly and spoke, bizarrely, about inherited trauma. Ingrained fear sometimes makes us biased, even if we know what it’s like to be threatened.
What could her child know about trauma? It was her own parents that had fled Poland and the pogroms, she who had fought for a life of privilege here in London.
She wasn’t a bigot. She had joined protests, even, before they were born, calling for equality. It was just that there were some things that were natural, that shouldn’t be messed with.
A child needs a father, after all.
A child needs love, Mum, Freddie said now, and Sarah and I will offer that, unconditionally. Her daughter’s face was red and pinched, her composure unravelling.
Mona clasped her hands together, ran her thumbs over one another in a repeated motion. She was right there in front of her, this person whom she had cherished like the best part of herself for half a lifetime, and the space between them was cavernous.
People will look at you, love, Mona said, softening with the word. And what about the child — they’ll be bullied.
It was a given that babies absorbed cells from their mothers in utero, but mothers also absorbed cells from their babies, Mona remembered. Who passed what to whom?
I thought you had accepted Sarah. Accepted us, mum, Freddie said, quietly.
The truth was Mona had thought of them as friends, referred to them as ‘the girls’, as if they were just that — girls playing house. She was glad they had each other for company and didn’t think about it much beyond that.
There had been that one night when they were staying, years ago now, they hadn’t heard her walk into the kitchen. It had taken Mona a moment to understand, though she was relieved that she did before she opened her mouth. Sarah was sitting on the bench and Freddie stood close in front of her, one arm wrapped around Sarah’s back, the other disappearing up her skirt.
The memory still came to her occasionally, sharp and unbidden. It wasn’t, Mona realised now, that they were both women, it was the unbridled pleasure that haunted her. Sarah’s head had been tipped slightly back, her half-open eyes holding Freddie’s with an intensity Mona knew she had never seen or felt, before or since.
There were no words at all now. And so she stood silently, willing Freddie to say something else; willing some of her daughter’s courage to cross the vast space between them and sink into her skin.
Vahni Capildeo’s Skin Can Hold bursts with ideas, electric with the joy of words. Capildeo is a writer enamoured with language, and her book offers up sextina, rondeau, motet, dialogue, oulipo game, just about everything you can imagine; her tone shifts in emotion too, from angry, to playful, to puzzled, to scholarly. “Panting, ending, burning, invading, weeping, / burning, caressing, longing! Reworking / thickens the trunk of the text,” she writes. Language becomes the source of everything: rapport, stultification, light-heartedness, violence. Grammar links to the body, and through such extreme love of language we discover new forms of love itself.
Already-existing forms of language can make us feel distanced or separated from intimate connection with others, so part of Capildeo’s task as a poet is “unpicking lexicons”. Her attention to language means she’s fascinated by advertisements and announcements, by the sounds of words, by onomatopoeia (“tapped, tripped, trapped”), by repetitive structures (“I come, I seize, I erase”), by languages other than English as well as the many varieties of English from regions of the United Kingdom, the Indian diaspora, the Caribbean and other ex-colonized territories.
Some of this interest derives from her own Trinidadian-Scottish background — we all start somewhere, before we open ourselves to the vastnesses that exist beyond the accident of immediate context. Some come from the places she’s lived, some from her linguistic training (she has a PhD in Anglo-Saxon Literature from Oxford and has worked as a lexicographer), some from friends, some from a realm of the imagination never before heard or seen on this planet.
Across her many collections, including Simple Complex Shapes, Measures of Expatriation, Seas and Trees and Venus as a Bear, Capildeo’s playfulness with language becomes a kind of resistance to forms of identity that insist on a supposed purity or authenticity. Her literature makes different sources clash, not only inhabiting but also creating new voices and traditions, producing associative-chains between sources that wouldn’t often come into contact in a single person, or in recorded History itself. Building another zone for linguistic play that’s hard to pin down in space and time is a never-ending project, since there’s forever “still more chaos effectively to organize”. But she does it, with wit and humour, as a master of parody, drawing out rhetoric a little farther than it tends to go, to demonstrate its flexibility or absurdity, for instance with bureaucratic directives: “Customers travelling with children must ensure that every child / travelling on the brown bag service is individually brown-bagged.”
There’s a similar movement at work in her performance instructions, which begin as more or less something to follow, and end in abstraction and interior space. Modern theatre often focuses more on evoking emotions than on movements of plot, but here words are distanced to the limit from possible interpretation: “He reads with the abstraction of a bichon frisé abandoned in the Hofgarten. You stoop, stretch, circle, segment, re-attach the relation of your body to the space around him.” The work contains its own critique, and mention of “an alternative version of this performance” occurs in the instructions themselves. Performance itself is less the point, maybe, than possibilities.
This section ends with the beginnings of language, as a girl, alone, sings vowels to herself: “No performance, such as untying ribbons to give to passersby, is involved.” The suggestion here is that engagement with others is itself a kind of performance, an idea that also appears in other poems. There are a few in the first person, notably “Shame”, about humilation of all kinds, sexual, professional, collateral, and so on: “The occurrence of the pretence as play; the occurrence of protest as pretend play; the performance of self-harm as protest: with its roots in the shade of the netted tree, this was shame (…) Shame on behalf of others is tiring. I hold it in the bowl of my pelvis, as empty as a night of timed-out stars. Shame on behalf of others flips into fury.”
But it would be a mistake to think of her as primarily an autobiographical poet. One of the things that fascinates me about Capildeo is precisely that she’s shifty, that her trompe l’oeil surfaces don’t say what you think they will, or at least not in that way. She’s a slippery fish who wriggles away from the reassuring poles of sociological discourse. Multiple times the idea of policing of literature comes up, for instance, as in her reflection on the “online angloamerican feminist group ‘protoform’” which cancelled several of its own, or her comment that “the frauds / claim exotic identities and needs”, an ambiguity that becomes interesting given how Capildeo is often herself positioned as a mouthpiece of this kind in the British poetic firmament.
Given her twin preoccupations with language and performance, it’s natural that when Capildeo finds her way to Shakespeare and other texts from the traditional canon of English literature, she juggles them into something new. Several poems list “sources” at the end of pieces, often combining a more classic work with something contemporary like Wikipedia. This incongruity might feel alienating or academic, and it’s true that many times I felt the texts gave me the slip, in a way they wouldn’t if I understood the original reference, or made the effort to study more. Isn’t that the modernist idea, I berate myself, that the poet makes demands of the reader, that she’s expected to capture the heady allusions?
Yet another part of me rebels against this, and claims my right to enjoy the poems without fully understanding them. I think Capildeo would like this, too. In a video for the University of York, she insists that the readers should pay attention to the pleasure of language for its own sake, and the ways it makes one want to write something of one’s own. And in her work on Martin Carter (which I’ll discuss further on), she writes: “Place ingrained in feeling seems to encourage researched reading. Sparse details can be unfurled into Guyanese realities. We, on the contrary, appreciated without wanting to dwell.”
The stage directions in “her” Shakespeares are, again, fascinating in how they serve to disorient as much as orient. As she says later in the book, “Directions arrive as if / translated from the more helpful souls / in Dante’s hell.” Shakespeare, like Capildeo herself, is agile as a carp and “alive, you type, and inconveniently alive in quick vertical, like on social media once, where a set of honest and original poets said no white actor should presume to play Othello since his is the only part black actors can without ripping the expensive delicate illusion of good theatre. I took by the throat these angels of the house, and clicked unlike”. Again, there’s no space here for saying what one can’t do, for invention will permit no red tape, closed signs, or boards laid in a forbidding “X” over locked doors.
Capildeo defends the idea of honestly and intimately metamorphosing into other bodies, minds, spaces and eras, to make hybrid creatures, greenhouse flowers and alien beings that you recognize in the mirror. The title of this poem, “Radical Shakespeare”, is perhaps a bit too on the nose for my taste, but one appreciates what she’s doing here. Because for her, and so many others — for most people I think — there isn’t any so-called “authentic” single identity to return to at all. We read widely, and wildly, and the thing that marks out a good from a bad reader isn’t how much she knows but how sensitive she is to the project of what the other is doing — which she might then find interesting and take up, or sweep aside.
Capildeo’s shifts in tense between past, present and future destabilize the notion of what was, is and will be, and her activity itself suggests that all classics might be rewritten this way, with other voices such as those of women (for Capildeo, who self-defines as “they” and writes that she “self-presents” as a woman, an ample concept), on the sidetracks and rusty roads untaken left behind by the history of victors, where the trace remains:
There are too many women in this play,
all of an age to bleed; none bore children.
Lunar and silent, they have spread a field
of blood beneath the action. Dirt has skirts,
smooth roads rust, tiled surfaces tainted
with vinegar; nothing wipes nothing out,
nothing can be reached directly; nothing
that does not shed a lining, shudder, rubbish
the chance to make one clean sweet queen bee line.
Behind this bringing together of different registers, ideas and voices, there is an idea exploring such areas of shadow and rust, of going back to unexplored veins of history to discover the violence there but also the untapped joy, instead of resigning ourselves to the grey bureaucratic everyday to which we find ourselves confined.
To imagine other stories in history, and not just those linked to one’s own identity, is a form of resistance and holds liberating potential. After all, the “identity” we currently hold and the words we use are linked to such historical, colonial violence, which affected language. Everything is contingent, all is a counterhistory. What other parallel universes might exist? Capildeo helps us to explore them. As one of her personas writes: “When the British and the Spanish and the French and the Dutch and the Yankees and the Portuguese took away your language, I grew strong eating your tongues.” Such violence behind history comes through in Capildeo’s style, too, with its phrases that smash into each other, refuse a “clean” read, and leave a measure of incomprehension, but are also sown with possibility, “seeded with unfoldings”.
All of this might sound heavy, but it isn’t — thanks in large part to the light tone, the playful formats, and the ambiguity of the speaker herself. One of Capildeo’s preferred characters is the Fool, the one who makes language jokes like “gecko in a wall-zone” the one who through performative clowning can say what others do not, the one who speaks the truth. Thus Capildeo, with ludic skill, erases many givens, erasures necessary to create something new: “put a line through: meaning (…) put a line through: my”. But what’s left after we get rid of the drive toward sense, the established versions of history, the autobiographical first-person? Temporarily we might get closer to tree and plant life: “You’re indecipherable like a tree, and treelike you proliferate your gestures.” I don’t think it’s a mistake that so much writing these days is coming back to ideas of nature, as a source of poetry, as consolation, as another track through the foliage of events: “Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree.” Capildeo goes farther with her non-anthropomorphism, becoming not just objects but determinants from biology, sociology, physics:
I was the hurt that hobble the angel foot. I was the rot that spread in the forest’s root. (…) I am the nerves that push the mad president’s hand to push the button. I am the last words that you forget to utter. (…) I am the child bride hymen beneath the fingernails of the lawyer, I am the coat hanger in the cupboard of the priest wife room, I am the terrorist vampire from the Lapeyrouse tomb (…) I am the biological vector that turns the suicidal farmer’s harvest to ash. I am the force that shatters the astronomer of freedom’s telescope to splinter in his eye, I am the widespread lack of education that blind your comrade and make him cry.
These lines come from my favourite piece in the book, “Midnight Robber Monologue”, taken from a supposed play in which “Robbers duel in Tamarind Square, challenging each other with their sweeping actions and speeches that beat back the aeroplane Concorde breaking the sound barrier”. The force of this voice is a whirlwind, otherworldly. “The Robber is older than you can ever understand. He seizes the present. He is Fear itself. He is the eternal shadow underpinning all the five continents’ shifty land.” Time itself is undone:
At the age of minus six hundred and sixty six, I met the seraphim and cut off their pricks. At the age of minus seven, I cast down heaven into the Labasse. At the age of zero I forged my own cutlass. At the age of five I took your life, and your life, and your life. Your lives were sweet, and zombification was complete. At the age of nine, darkness was all mine. From the age of ten I operate as a ageless robber douen.
Faced with such “other” forces, we confront an impossibility of contact. This failure of communication, the silences made by others without our consent, and those we ourselves make for which we are responsible, is another theme. There are always things unknown even between the poet and the reader: “there is always, / even between the lines that speak / of breaks & brakes, / always someone else / who was present in writing – / when you thought you / knew – who you thought you were reading – / no means – in the garden singing”. The silent body outside of the text is a constant in all the mysteries: love, violence, writing. Capildeo notes the connection: “Love’s an enigma like murder.” Her most love-filled poem, “Reading for Compass: Response to Zaffar Kunial, Us”, is filled with a sense of the sacred and the aura of an appointment somewhere beyond, a rendezvous in some mirage of night with a fellow poet:
This isn’t what I’m used to. I grew up
as an inventor of voices for dead
books, impossible, inherited, odd
volumes, middle slices missing, made up;
colonial texts for memorisation
autoexecuted in rolling tones;
‘Indo-European’ languages drunk
like milk alchemised from blood, acquired
history. I know in my bones a desert,
or somesuch suddenly green lush place, where
our ancestors could have met with opposed
weaponry. What has survived of this is
us. And your advice: take heed of the vowels.
Repeatedly, in her work, as here, Capildeo defines and challenges what poetry is or does. “Every poem an ouroboros,” she says at one point. At another: “Reading this returns me to my body.” Elsewhere: “Who said which language / the book had to be in, anyway? / Fuck that shit. Now that’s a poem.” We are some ways beyond (or lateral to) Larkin’s “This Be the Verse”. The section of the book with Capildeo’s versions of Muriel Spark, an exploration of Scottishness, further complicate what poetry is through the incorporation of folk songs, wolf tales, and other popular materials.
The heart of the book, in my view, is a section that initially seems a jarringly non-fictional, near scholarly exploration of the life of Guyanese writer Martin Carter (1927-1997). In the context of the book as a whole, it makes sense. Capildeo’s interest in Carter has to do with her interest in performance, and with relivings (not responses or reworkings, she emphasizes). Out of the work of Carter, with “his naturally enigmatic and quasi-modernist intellectual approach to innovation”, she has created new “syntax poems” to be performed by several voices and bodies. For several pages she describes the elaborate performance on the basis of her poems made from Carter’s, “a living, not anatomised, version of practical criticism and close reading” with the goal that the audience will have “participated in a sense of call and response, cry and chorus, intimate camaraderie”. Carter’s original poem “I Am No Soldier” is rousing and soul-stirring: “O come astronomer of freedom / Come comrade stargazer / Look at the sky told you I had seen / The glittering seeds that germinate in darkness”, and Capildeo’s version turns this into a bewildering yet sensuous experience. Martin Carter is a “comrade stargazer”, and all of us are brothers and sisters on this earth together, linking arms and looking toward the heavens.
While the original poem is more or less comprehensible, the vertigo-inducing new form necessitates a return to the page, to elucidate the concept behind the work. These pages in writing, Capildeo says, are both “a record of the ephemeral”, and an instruction kit: “These materials are primarily an encouragement to readers to prepare their own kinetic, immersive, or collaborative responses (should they so wish) to any text of their choice.” The seating instructions for a colonial classroom, chart and student exercises at the end are partly serious, partly a devilish wink at the poetry apparatus that provides exercises meant for students to “understand” poems.
I do wonder about the relationship of this kind of poetry to academia, since it seems to require a restitching after the unpicking. (Capildeo wrote this when she held the Judith E. Wilson Poetry Fellowship from 2014 to 2016, at the University of Cambridge.) An interesting sort of academia might perhaps forge an atmosphere beyond the accelerated news-cycle-driven world to explore some of the avenues of difficult poetry, which Capildeo lays out.
A new criticism would involve not just the page, but the body, and would explore the connection between units of sense and their connection to physical movement: “What is the smallest unit of sense that arises from the joining-up made by the eye-movement (or that catches the inner ear as the eye moves)?” Capildeo, in her notes, pays close attention to breathing, rhythms, invocations, and repetitions, and treasures a constant movement, with a lack of interest in settling. The performance itself ends with a dance: “we had to anchor ourselves in the text and live out its twists and turns, in order to make sure we did not get physically stuck at any random or significant point in the set-that-was-not-a-set.”
The last few poems felt a little miscellaneous, or at least I’d have put them before the climax of the Martin Carter poem. But I appreciated their inclusion, especially “Poems for the Douma 4”, about four people abducted from the Violations Documentation Centre, in Syria: “Nuance has more off switches than lovers. Men stormed. Men do not storm. These are not natural phenomena. Sometimes I hate my trained mind.” Such interrogations of language, which gut it, draw out its viscera, sew it up into new beasts, then dance the unidentifiable forms into life, make any reified notion of identity seem unbearably tedious. There is so much more we can do.
Al and I had nothing in common. He grew up in Omaha. His dad was a postman and decorated Second World War veteran. His mom stayed home to raise three kids. Al was the oldest and made his family proud when he signed up for Nam.
My father was a gynaecologist and my mother a psychotherapist in New Haven. They didn’t have time for more kids than me. Pissed the hell out of them when I signed up for Nam.
Al and I stand next to each other once a year. Hell, we don’t have enough in common to get together more than that. Life slows down to a creep as I stare down to these train tracks. It’s been hard. What the fuck are we supposed to do? Pretend it didn’t happen? Live a life of smiley faces? Ignore the grenades in our hearts? This is our moment of truth that takes us back to when we felt alive. Nam.
We will stick to our pact just like when we covered each other’s asses. Our band of brothers put our lives in each other’s hands. There were no second chances on reconnaissance patrols. We were in it together. And maybe we’ll go out together. Trust your buddy is what we were told. And we did. And we will. If you jump, so will I.
“I shot a motherfuckin’ teenager ’cause I thought he had a gun. He was just goin’ out to harvest some rice. I was pretty fucked up – on uppers. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing,” said Al.
I stand next to him, knowing that these may be my final moments. I look up for a moment and gaze around the station. All I see are a bunch of clones that have never lived, pretending to be somebody who is going somewhere. And a lot of the world believes in them. Shallow lives. Half-assed jobs and no clue about reality. It’s like someone painted a watercolour of who they should be and they walked right the hell into it. They know shit about life. Their little suburban Connecticut lives may soon go Technicolor in red.
“It was me that shot Sgt. Kinsley in the back.” I’d been holding onto that one and knew Al would be surprised.
“I always suspected that, you son of a bitch,” he said without looking up.
I was surprised by his half laugh but also by a hint of admiration in his voice. I instantly knew that he wished he had the guts to do it himself. Kinsley was a piece of work. His mistake was taking it out on us. Hell, there were plenty of Vietcong who got to know his wrath, but why’d he have to be such an asshole to his own guys? I try not to think about the stories I’d heard about how his dad used to kick the shit outta him. And his first wife cheated all the time. That dude had some anger issues. And I guess so do I.
This is the fourth April 14th that we’re meeting at the train station in Greenwich, Connecticut. It’s the anniversary of our enlistments in 1972. We’re practically opposites in every way but the one that counts. We both learned what it means to be alive in the same time and place. Now we’ll decide if we go out together in a blast of the old glory.
Nam followed us home. Suzy doesn’t get it…doesn’t get me. She used to get high with her friends. Pointed fingers at the war they said never shoulda been. Talkin’, laughin’, having a grand ol’ time…while I was shootin’ at them and then in my arm.
All these robots think they have lives. But they don’t have a clue. I know how to wake them up. I’ll bet none of these pussies would’ve signed up. Look at them – suits, briefcases, and rain jackets. The rain jackets piss me off. Looks like all two hundred of them went to the same store. Don’t getwet guys. You might melt or get blasted by a Cong!
Suzy wants me to pretend I’m someone else. Act like I wasn’t there. Teach Timmy how to not be me. Well, guess what? He’s a lot more me than you think.
Al and I have been in the same therapy group for two years now. Danny Morgan and Stanley Evans gave it up about a year ago. If I dig deep inside, I know that I admire them. I’m not sure if I have the guts to do it, but maybe Al will force my hand. Or maybe I’ll force his.
“I shot some other fuckin’ kid just for the hell of it. I was pretty messed up,” says Al.
We stand tall as a commuter train rolls in, loads up, and takes off again. The next train doesn’t stop in Greenwich; it just races by. We’re still here.
Timmy, be strong. Don’t let anyone tell you how to think or act. Be yourself! Just don’t be me.
Becky is a great therapist, and we all respect her for going to Nam. But working in the hospital wasn’t the same as being on the front lines. Our group of twelve is down to eight. Two moved away, and two had the guts to do what they had to.
Four of us had gotten high on weed one night and made a pact –Truth or Dare, Nam version. We had been the stars of evening reconnaissance, in teams of two. We would keep those same teams. I’d always been amazed at Al’s sixth sense. Even though we were messed up, he always seemed able to smell the Cong.
We were all classified as “high risk” when we got back from Nam and got in trouble with the law pretty fast. What Becky doesn’t seem to get is that life ain’t worth it. We’re all living in Nam, even though our bodies are here. The brave ones couldn’t handle that and had the guts to act. They went out in a blast of the glory we used to feel, but calling it glory is probably an exaggeration. Life and death floating on each breath. Nothing between us and evermore except a thin veil. A curtain about to rise.
“It was me that stole Danny’s bag of grass that time,” I say.
Al laughs again, staring down to the tracks. His laugh seems different, like he’s already made a decision. A rat scurries under the far platform. The late afternoon sun seems so bright that it’s like a dream. It makes the indoor seating area across the tracks look like part of the toy train station I used to play with as a kid, something about the green colour. I think back to my childhood. My parents were grooming me to be a doctor. Dad’s life wasn’t what it seemed. Was I the only one who noticed all the times he cheated on mom?
Al takes a deep breath. I glance over. He’s lost somewhere – reminds me of the times we were on night duty, his otherworldly focus. It scares me. What the hell is he thinking? I’m prepared to act. The only thing that’s certain is that I will never break our pact. How could I?
If he jumps, I will follow. It’s kinda weird. My last breath could be determined by my bud. Or maybe I’ll force his hand in a flash of glory.
I look down the tracks and see a train about a mile away. I know this might be my last moment on earth. I think back to Sally Nordquist in junior high and how much I lusted for her. How did I let my parents talk me out of seeing her, just cause her parents were divorced and had left the church? How could I have been so stupid? Everything might have been different.
I think back to my curtailed high school baseball career. Instead, I had to take Latin classes after school to up my chances of getting into a prestigious college. Even then I didn’t have the guts to be myself. Timmy, don’t be like me. Suzy, I’m sorry.
“I beat up Danny all the time when I first got back,” said Al. “He didn’t do anything. I was just pissed at the world and took it out on the kid.”
I sensed that that might be the one to make him jump, knowing his history with Danny. I’m prepared to follow. The train is about a half mile away now.
I remember how proud I was to enlist. This is the first real thing I ever did, I’d thought to myself. College had been a disaster. I wasn’t cut out for it and hated all the entitled students who thought they were better than the assholes who went to Nam. They were puppets, with parents and selfish desires pulling their strings. I don’t think even one of them really wanted to be a doctor. It’s funny looking back. I sent my parents a letter instead of telling them in person that I enlisted. I still remember the angry phone call from Dad…
The train is about a quarter mile away now. Al is wavering over the tracks. A group of seagulls lands across from us and walks along the empty platform. I don’t think about how odd it is to have seagulls here. Colours are dreamlike and alive. The train, the platform, the lady with a yellow umbrella creeping up the steps toward the platform all seem surreal, disconnected.
The train whistle blows. The sun slips behind a cloud. The smell of the train comes to me on a gust of wind, reminds me of a gun right after I shoot. Reminds me of the time we were shipping out from Fort Bragg, riding a train. That was the first step toward landing in Nam.
The sound gets louder. I think about the time I stole Jimmy Hadley’s baseball bat, and how badly I felt after I threw it away. Why am I thinking of that?
The train gets closer. The sun breaks out from the clouds. Timmy, I’m sorry! Suzy, remember the good times!
Al lets out a yell. I travel to another dimension. Colours fade in a blur of motion and light. I hear the seagulls squawking…
These days, she writes with urgency, pen moving steadily over paper, filling each page with shaky handwriting. Her tiredness shaken off like an old, heavy coat. She smokes more than usual, inhaling deeply as she watches the sun set through the window behind her desk. The only half-opened curtains throw shadows on her face, dust twirling in last rays of light. The days are getting shorter and nights colder, and since the start of the uprising fuel prices have doubled. They cannot afford to leave on the heating throughout the night. She sleeps with two blankets wrapped around her, but she is still cold. She stubs out her cigarette, then glances at her phone.
Quietly, she closes the door and hurries along darkening streets, as if movement itself constituted a kind of salvation. When she reaches the main square, she fastens her pace and looks back briefly, hoping no one is following her. She turns into an alley with electric wires crisscrossing overhead, like branches of trees. Mousa has left the door unlocked in anticipation of her arrival. She slips inside.
They exchange a tender embrace. “How is mother?”, she asks. “Same old. Refuses to leave the room where they arrested Ali.” She nods, not wanting to probe further. They gather a few things – folders, documents, Ali’s camera. Mousa’s room is sterile, almost clinical; resembling a conscious attempt not to leave a personal trace. Before they go, Mousa pinches her arm, a smile flickering across his face. “To everything there is a season, my dear …”
The streets are empty by now, curfew having started an hour ago, and they drive along in silence. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. The sky is dark but clear, dim moonlight filtering through the clouds. Through the front window of Mousa’s Toyota she can make out the silhouettes of houses rolling past. As they approach the outskirts of the capital, residential streets give way to warehouses and the occasional farm. Mousa lights a cigarette, tapping the steering wheel. She’s lost in thought when she spots what appears to be a checkpoint at the end of the road. In an instant, she frowns and turns to Mousa, knuckles turning white from clutching her bag. Mousa motions her to be quiet, slowing the car until it comes to a standstill. He reaches for his phone and types a few words. It lights up with an incoming call. “Are you sure?” Mousa whispers. “And a time to every purpose …” he mutters to himself. “It’s deserted. We’re in the clear.” He squeezes her hand.
They park the car at an abandoned factory site. Before the uprising, tires were produced here; a rusty sign still indicates the name of the owners, who have long left the country. A burned-out vehicle marks the entrance of the main building. Mousa touches her shoulder in affirmation as they enter. Inside, they are greeted by a group of six, two women and four men, “fellow conspirators,” as Mousa likes to call them, sic semper tyrannis. Saleh, the tallest, his unruly hair held in a ponytail, invites the newcomers to sit. He has positioned a small satellite television on top of two empty boxes. “Just look at this.” He motions towards the TV; it flickers briefly before an image of the leader appears. Dressed in a suit, he is addressing parliament, his voice reverberating from the marble ceilings:
Seventy-four years ago, our noble countrymen shed their blood in the struggle for independence. Out of independence, we created order and progress. Now this order has come under threat. We are engaged in a great fight to contain the forces of chaos and darkness unleashed upon this soil by traitors of the homeland. To those of you in the ranks of this nation without honor, who side with the terrorists, let me say this: I am willing to rinse the streets of this country with blood, to drain the last ounces of resistance, until this nation is once again pure and worthy of my guidance.
Saleh switches off the TV and turns towards the assembled. “This is insane. Absolute madness.” Mousa nods; others concur. Their voices blur together and then slowly fade away. Her gaze wanders for a short while, a shiver running down her spine. Later, she will remember only fragments, her recollection fractured like glass shattering on concrete. The doors burst open. Men in uniform enter, shots are fired. Mousa flinches; Saleh screams, hands thrown up in the air; bodies tumble over one other. She makes a dash for the exit, and from the corner of her eye catches sight of Mousa. He appears calm, and when their eyes meet, she recognizes the expression on his face, an expression she knows well. I’m sorry.
Although a translation of her short novel Ms Ice Sandwich was brought out by Pushkin Press in 2017, Breasts and Eggs is the full-length fiction by Mieko Kawakami to appear in English.
The initial part, originally published as a novella in 2008, is a first-person narrative about a few days in the life of 30 year old Natsuko. She’s moved to Tokyo from Osaka and dreams of artistic success while living on the breadline. Her big sister Makiko, who brought her up, is visiting. Makiko works in a hostess club and has come to the capital to finalise her cherished plan to get breast implants. Makiko is accompanied by her 12 year old daughter Midoriko, who has retreated into silence, confiding only in her journal.
Midoriko’s diary, which punctuates the narrative, is the highlight of Part One. She is a female Adrian Mole, a working class kid, struggling to make sense of a dysfunctional adult world. But while Sue Townsend’s take on the world is gently humorous, Kawakami dishes up stronger fare. Adrian’s changing body causes him mild embarrassment, but Midoriko feels horror about impending puberty. She is equally disgusted by her mother’s determination to have surgery. (A girl may face truths that women do their utmost to repress.)
Breast and Eggs is a book of two, unbalanced, halves. In the much longer second part Natsuko is keeping afloat as a freelance writer – albeit one with a bad case of novelist’s block. The baton of angst, previously borne by sister and niece, has been passed to her. Natsuko is consumed by the wish to have a child. Because sexual desire was absent in her one long-ago relationship, she has concluded sperm donation is the answer.
The theme of insemination has the potential for comedy gold. And this is delivered in the scene where Natsuko meets Onda, a potential donor whose prolixity equals that of Austen’s Mr Collins. But while Midoriko’s fears of womanhood, Makiko’s dreams of a perfect bosom, are served with liberal doses of authorial irony, satire is off the menu when it comes to Kawakami’s chief protagonist.
The narrator’s alternating decision and indecision – her exchanges with equally unhappy friends – would entertain as lifestyle journalism pieces or entries to a blog. But when joined up as chapters in a novel, they have their longueurs.
At times Breasts and Eggs is reminiscent of a Buy-One-Get-One-Free supermarket offer. Part One is the brilliant debut novel and Part Two the ‘difficult’ successor. This unevenness may arise because Kawakami doesn’t feel bound to fulfil our expectations of what a novelist ‘should’ do. She may be seen as a latter day DH Lawrence. Brilliantly poetic and powerful at some points – at others repetitive and didactic. And, like Lawrence in his time, Kawakami has attracted both censure and adulation.
Happily the first DH is at the helm as the novel draws towards its close. The chapters in which Natsuko returns to visit her childhood home., when she has her baby, are extraordinary.
Here Kawakami makes a significant addition to the feminist line of alternative birth narratives begun by Mary Shelley. Natsuko also takes her place in a parade of heroines – Jane Eyre, Jeanette in Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit – who exult in their own happy ending.
The labour of reading Breasts and Eggs becomes wholly worthwhile.
Breasts and Eggs is published by Europa Editions.
A crooked man used to visit our house from time to time. Mother would see him through the coloured glass and call up the stairs to Father.
“Your friend is here,” she’d say and Father would fly down the stairs to let him in.
Father’s friend was big and strange and so much like the man from the nursery rhyme that we were certain it was him: a crooked man that walked a crooked mile. He wore a crooked hat and held a crooked stick that he’d swing before him, jabbing at the ground like a boatman with an oar.
John, our eldest, says that he wasn’t really all that tall. He reckons the crooked man liked to seem taller than he was and this was the reason that he wore such a tall hat, and why that coat that made of his body a great rectangle, and why that pair of trousers whose ends dangled not much lower than the knee. And why else bother the door of a family with small children than to loom tall above them? Well, that’s John. In our memory, the crooked man was the tallest of all creatures. He would stand on the mat for a moment when Father opened the door, dip his head and cross over, into the hall.
*
We weren’t really frightened of the crooked man – Father let him into our home, after all – but we knew it was best to be out of the way when he came. Mother would busy the younger ones in the kitchen, or gather them in the back room. We older ones tended to hide upstairs, sometimes creeping to the edge of the landing to see if he was still with us. Father would take the crooked man into the front room or else into the back garden, where they’d prod sticks at the overgrowth or cobble together the beginnings of a bonfire.
When the crooked man did speak to us, we found him hard to understand. He used peculiar olden-time words and made jokes that weren’t really for children, but he was really very kind. He grinned and winked and ruffled our hair if ever we came near. He made pennies appear from our ears and offered us wrapped chocolates from deep in his pockets. The chocolates were always powdery and hard and misshapen and not to be eaten, and the pennies were only ever coppers, but the younger ones collected them gleefully, like treasures.
Little Ruth loved them especially. She would sometimes sneak into the front room when the crooked man was round and throw herself about his calves. Father and Mother called her magpie and spy and the crooked man would call her scallywag and run his big hand through her hair and Ruth every time would dash, grinning, from the room with something small and shiny in her hand.
*
There was once a time when the crooked man came to stay with us. Mother said that he needed some time to get back on his feet and that Father had offered him the front room. When he arrived, he carried a huge army bag, like a great big sausage, on his shoulder. Mother and Father welcomed him at the door, and those of us that were about made coy greetings before scattering in our usual way. Later we were more relaxed. I came down with John and Sarah when Mother was preparing dinner and the crooked man was sat in the corner of the room, arms crossed, on a low stool. His mouth was spread wide, and it curved up at the ends like a cat’s or a crocodile’s. A pipe jabbed out from its middle. The stool was an old thing he’d got from the garden. It stood on three legs, about a foot from the ground, and it wobbled. It was no good to anyone really, but the crooked man claimed the stool as his own for the duration of his stay. He used to carry it about the house with him, park it in a corner and lower himself onto it, groaning with the effort.
*
Most of the time the crooked man stayed in his room. You’d forget he was there at all and then the front door would slam and you’d know he was on one of his errands. On dry days he wandered into the garden to smoke his pipe and potter about. He used to pick up the broken toys from the lawn and try to fix them, but he wasn’t terribly good at it. He’d mess about with screws and a hammer for a couple of days before tossing the pieces back into the grass.
We grew to like the crooked man, I think. There was something comforting about the way he said so little, smiling away at us through his beard. He kept a pack of cards in his pocket that he liked to shuffle in his grubby hands. He’d show us tricks, and we’d try to work out how they were done by watching his fingers move.
Then one day Father came home and asked where he was, and Mother said she didn’t know, and they both went to the front room. John and I and the older ones watched from the stairway. The crooked man was there with Little Ruth upon his knee. Father stood before him, shouting and thrusting a finger. He looked so small in his fury against the man’s huge body. The crooked man said not a word but gathered his things and left the house and he wasn’t staying with us after that. Mother said that it was about time and let the windows open to air the room, and the stool went back in the garden.
*
Soon after, the younger ones began telling tales about the crooked man. They’d seen his hat over the garden fence, or they’d spotted his long coat and his arms go by the window. Mother said not to be silly, and we older ones laughed and rolled our eyes. One day John told the little ones that he’d seen the crooked man too, and Mother got angry. She told us to drop it and we did, and the younger ones soon stopped telling their tales.
*
Much later, when Father died, we let the crooked man back in. John had found him sleeping behind the garden fence, underneath a bush. Time has not been kind. The crooked miles had taken their toll upon the man, and he was now so tatty that we feared he’d fall to pieces if we lifted him too roughly from the leaves. He was not nearly as huge as I’d remembered, but how much this was the fault of my childish impressions and how much we each had aged, I can’t tell.
When we invited him back in, the crooked man accepted as though the offer was long overdue, and he settled in quickly. He claimed, this time, not a lowly stool but the high-backed Chesterton in the lounge. His pipe was no longer restricted to the back garden, and the smell of its smoke permeated the air and the furniture of every room. Little Ruth was grown by now and she sat upon his knee as she pleased while father’s body rotted in the ground beneath the buddleia bush.
You’re in a maze, there’s a breakthrough —
Craig Kurtz
then stuff ‘recommended for you’;
you’re bouncing, soon you’ll be aloft —
try toilet paper that is soft.
This week on Litro Lab podcast, we bring an experimental piece that mixes poetry and music. In the era of streaming platforms, many of us rarely watch TV advertising. Yet, ads themselves keep popping up where we least expect them: on our social media feeds, emails, our phones… This musical poem explores the ways advertising has evolved, testing some unexpected boundaries along the way.
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Remove all remaining leaves. That way you can see the structure of the bush clearly.
Don’t think about him. You had three pints and a Bacardi – give yourself a break.
Cut dead wood. Brown is dead, green is living.
He says ‘to be honest’ all the time and you loathe people who say ‘to be honest’.
Open up the centre of the plant. Take out crossing branches. They can rub.
Picture your kid saying ‘to be honest’ all the time.
Remove any thin, weak growth. Anything thinner than a pencil.
His dick is huge.
Cut above an outward-facing bud-eye. New stems grow in the direction of the bud, so the goal is to encourage them to be outward, not inward.
He’s never been out of Tipton St John.
Protect freshly cut canes from rot by sealing wounds.
You’d be a neglectful mother.
Clean up the surrounding area underneath. Leaves and branches should be disposed of as pests could be lurking.
He’s a safe bet.
Feed your roses.
His dick is huge.
They sent me a salwar-kameez
peacock-blue,
and another
glistening like an orange split open,
embossed slippers, gold and black
points curling.
‘Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan’
Sat saturated in an English classroom in the north of England was where I first read the opening stanzas of Moniza Alvi’s Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan’: gunmetal clouds rolling in off the rugby pitches, the whole prefab sweating sleet through the wall, the jewel-coloured fabrics of Alvi’s brand new salwar-kameez seemed a world away from the wet woollen blazer that coloured my early understanding of it. The juxtaposition seemed alien to me, the sullen and scarred face of an English November versus the stained-glass shine of Alvi’s gifts from Lahore, and the disjunct left me feeling very distant from the narrative- part of a diametrical opposition, sat at one pole and looking in vain toward the other.
When the exam rolled around, I wrote on Carol Ann Duffy instead.
Although it would take me a shameful ten years to realise it, in evoking that disjunct, Alvi’s Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan is a piece of masterful storytelling. Cautiously, carefully, born of half-histories and an almost frustrated duality, Alvi chronicles the ways in which she moves through her adolescence in gifted Pakistani clothes:
My salwar-kameez
didn’t impress the schoolfriend
who sat on my bed, asked to see
my weekend clothes.
But often I admired the mirror-work,
tried to glimpse myself
in the miniature
glass circles, recall the story
how the three of us
sailed to England.
‘Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan’
It’s a poetry born of polarities; the quiet, grey of Alvi’s Hertfordshire home and the alien shock of colour that the ‘candy-striped glass bangles’, the ‘apple-green sari’ and the glittering gold of her mother’s filigree bring with them across the sea. It’s cloying, almost, unwelcome- ‘I longed for denim and corduroy / my costume clung to me and I was aflame / I couldn’t rise up out of it’s fire, half-English’. The stark contrast of these two oppositions- the gardens and wastelands, the denim and corduroy that bleed in from the narrator’s half-Englishnessand the seemingly inescapable, vivid colours of Pakistan- are at the heart and centre of Moniza Alvi’s The Country at My Shoulder, the collection from which the poem came.
Moniza Alvi left Lahore at the age of three months old in 1954, arriving in England with her Pakistani father and English mother and no memories of the country that she was born in. The dreamlike nature of Alvi’s Pakistan in these poems is, therefore, unsurprising: surreal, vibrant wordscapes of a land remembered through histories that aren’t her own, like the clothing, the camel-skin lamp and the photographs of Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan create a strange, almost childlike vision of a place that exists only in the space between one identity and the next.
This Pakistan is a shifting conglomerate force of colour and sound within the landscape of her poetry. Like the swallowing, flaming ‘costume’ of Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan, the country seems to represent a cacophony for the senses, a world away from the ‘grimly ornamental’ English gardens she describes in Hydrangeas; the landscape of the Indian subcontinent a feast that transcends the senses. She wonders at how ‘melted ghee made lakes, golden rivers,’ and how she ‘Tasted the landscape, customs of my father’s country – it’s fever biting on a chilli’, the landscape a bold, bright, irreverent presence, almost more sensation than substance. In one poem it appears benevolent, the next, a crushing weight that threatens to overcome the narrator, their sense of identity and sense of where they belong. ‘There’s a country at my shoulder / growing larger – soon it will burst / rivers will spill out, run down my chest’, the poem for which the collection is named intones, the poet struggling to bear the weight of her hybrid identity. No matter how she tries to evade it- ‘I try to shake the dust from the country / The country has become my body, I can’t break bits off-’ the threat of her otherness appears to complicate it, alter it with her very presence as she transitions from one piece of verse to the next. The poem ends as she pictures the dam breaking, Pakistan’s rivers of the first stanza becoming something at once alien and home-grown as she foresees a shuddering end: ‘I water the country with English rain / cover it with English words. Soon it will burst, or fall like a meteor.’
The allusion of national landscape to body comes powerfully and often in the latter half of The Country at My Shoulder. In the poem The Sari, again, Alvi sees Pakistan and the Indian subcontinent through the lens of its clothing, observing from above how the journey she took as a child pans out on a world map:
All the people unravelled a sari.
It stretched from Lahore to Hyderabad,
wavered across the Arabian Sea
shot through with stars
fluttering with sparrows and quails.
They threaded it with roads,
Undulations of land.
Eventually
They wrapped and wrapped me in it
whispering Your body is your country.
The Sari.
The statement is half-comforting, half terrifying- although she is swathed in the sari of her journey, carrying the landscape she was born in with her in her own flesh and blood, it is possible to read the poem’s final line as a grim caveat: your body is your country, the unknown people whisper as they swaddle the infant narrator in the fabric of the land. Your body is your country, not the clothing, not the fabric; and alienated from what came before and what came after. Whilst the body is fundamental, fabric might be shed.
These kinds of anxieties characterise Alvi’s poetry from the early 1990s as her narrators navigate the sea and the river of an unusual British Asian experience; neither being a first- nor a second-generation immigrant but something in-between. Pakistan, in these poems, is Prospero’s island- fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile- at once inhospitable and welcoming, something familiar and alien, a living presence within her and somehow cut off, unable to truly communicate except in the pictograms and glyphs she finds in photographs, histories, and a peacock-blue salwar-kameez.
And at the centre of these poems lies something else, something even more vital to Alvi’s experience, as intrinsic to The Country at my Shoulder as the elm tree to Constable or Wessex to Hardy: there is a powerful, almost blinding pull back to Pakistan that emerges in these poems. It feels inevitable, omniscient within the living histories and snapshots that she spins, despite her half-Englishness. ‘In my dreams I trawl towards a brilliant sun,’ she writes in The Draught. ‘A trap of bones is set about my neck. And the draught? The great draught is blowing me to my birthplace.’ The scorching pull of a country barely remembered, seen only in the photographs of Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan becomes a driving force within Alvi’s collection, a landscape created from personal mythology and her own ancestry- a trap of bones- made sentient, and moving to beckon across the air and sea. The oscillation from alien to familiar, mine to not mine of Pakistan within these poems displays a potent, unsubtle compulsion to find out for herself, to explore this connection in a way that cannot be complicated by issues of identity, or visions of the self: she is drawn to the Pakistani landscape physically, to experience it first-hand regardless of any preconceived belonging or not-belonging.
It’s The Country at My Shoulder as opposed to The Country at My Side; something past-tense perhaps, an amalgamation of myth and history augmented through the archaeology of gifts she receives, the letters she sends and photographs she isn’t a part of.
Alvi’s England is different. It is easy to read the collection as an enduring love-song to her own Pakistani heritage, bound about in living aunts and buried bones and dusty sepia visions of a continent half-remembered, but there is a secondary landscape within the collection that further illustrates the ways in which it explores the hybridity of the self through her narrator. If Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan, The Sari and The Country at My Shoulder are about a crisis of belonging, poems like Spring on the Hillside and The Garden are about the items and places that evoke a that duality from the other side, the perennial Englishness of the Hertfordshire town where she grew up.
These landscapes are populated by all the flora and fauna of an almost Edwardian vision of a country garden: verdant, sleepy and so different from the pull, the power and fascination of Pakistan as it exists in the narrator’s mind, they’re a strange oppositional force within these identity stories that seem at odds with the other landscape. Here we find ‘bushes alive with cabbage whites’, ‘hydrangeas massing heavy as cannonballs’, ‘mushrooms sturdy as tables’ and wastelands carpeted in willow-herb where she hides and plays as a child. There’s also more than a little dash of Ken Loach in there too, augmenting these quiet turn-of-the-century gardens and their little homeland idyll- in the poem Neighborhood we see a vision of England that moves away from the Enid Blyton landscape of plum trees and hollyhocks, focusing in on the minutiae of life in an individual neighbourhood.
Next door they were always fighting
calling each other Mr and Mrs
the names barking away
at the back of our chimney.
There were families with bitten
trickles of children
who pushed prams full of babies
junk and little dogs, smothered
and dressed in baby clothes.
Neighbourhood.
These vistas might be dramatically different from the visions of Lahore, the ‘brilliant sun’ and the breaking dam of The Draught and The Country at My Shoulder, but they’re no less her own. These are the lieux de memoire of an English childhood, hollyhocks and dogs in prams, wastelands and tawny skies, something just as vital to Alvi’s narrator as the metaphorical sari that stretches all the way from Lahore to Hyderabad as she travels away from Pakistan as a child.
Alvi’s collection is a sea of conflicting landscape identities: the narrator in the salwar-kameez, the narrator swaddled in the sari, the narrator buckling under the weight of the country at her shoulder that threatens to burst- all of them wonder about the politics of belonging to something so unknown and yet so familiar and vital that it exists within her own body, potent and all-consuming, almost threatening to swallow her whole despite (or because of) her half-Englishness. She is constantly English and not; of Lahore and of Hatfield, an uneasy double identity that gives these works their unique character and blistering sense of hybridity.
And still, she never once threatens to dilute one with the other. There is no poem where Alvi makes peace with the experience of being both at once- or perhaps sometimes neither one nor the other. Her schoolfriend in Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan still can’t relate to her colourful salwar-kameez, each element of Pakistan is a shock of colour against England’s Edwardian gardens- and these landscapes never bleed into each other; even in The Sari they’re still at either end of the garment as she’s swaddled in it, bodily connected but always at a polarity as she moves through these landscapes simultaneously. It’s less England and Pakistan than it is an England and Pakistan of the mind, each a paracosm of the ephemera that Alvi connects with it- plum trees, voices behind the chimney breast, wastelands covered in willow-herb, and a bursting dam, the sear of a chilli and the oranges, blues and greens of her gifted clothes from her aunts in Lahore.
These two created worlds exist on the same plane, but are diametrically opposed for Alvi, two landscapes present about her body that appear never destined to meet across a distance that spans more than sea and air. The allure of the image of the Indian subcontinent is raw, seen plainly in these poems as these landscapes create an allegory for those conflicting identities, as she voices the frustration and confusion of an immigrant experience from an era where the global interconnectedness of the modern day had yet to emerge and the other side of the world was, truly, the other side of the world.
Not long after the publication of The Country at My Shoulder, Moniza Alvi visited Pakistan for the first time since she was a child. Her next collection of poems, A Bowl of Warm Air, builds on the precipices found in The Sari, Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan and The Draught, and explores what she finds in the country she was born in. It’s another candid, searing take on belonging and the complexity of a British immigrant experience, and her narrator begins to connect with a landscape exterior to her created Pakistani landscape, she begins to reach out toward what she thought previously cloying or alien, forging different connections, no less real but more earthly and tangible than her young narrator’s map of colour and silk.
An unknown country crept between
my toes, threw an ocean behind each eye…
I’d held out my arms to kingfishers and tigers
I’d sipped each moment like a language.
The Laughing Moon.
I’m the DJ and I’m crying. This is our last night in this bar; we’ve been fighting for months. They’re closing this magic space of dust and light. I feel the history of what I’ve done, all the energies, all the songs I’ve played. The soundtrack I set for the life of strangers, the mood I’ve matched to the room. The marriages I’ve made, the romances I encouraged. I play songs and I let the heavy strikes match the circle of their hips. Their eyes meet and strike flames. The music urges them together, a hypnotic pull, a rhythm that has them pushing through bodies and sweat, doused by the drinks thrusted in the air in joyful cheer. What happens on the floor is messy and none of my business. But I want to make the collisions happen. I want to see the things that set new life into action. I command their touch, I like to see it. A hand on the shoulder or elbow or head. It’s lonely.
The rumours of closure had been haunting us through our conversations in the break room. It was in text messages, in worrying empty floors, and shifts that finish early. Music, with no one to listen to it, had conquered the room. It echoed in my brain as I tried to sleep. I felt a part of myself being lost with it, of blank spaces bulging and growing to accompany the coming loss.
We’re closing, I said to Samuel before our shift started. I can’t believe it.
He was getting ready, which meant drinking a red bull and laughing with the staff on the front desk. I thought; I love him. He stood tall and aloof, leaning against the only clean wall by the entrance, watching us all.
I like your hair, I said. He’d twisted it into locs.
Thanks, he said. My sister did it.
Is she still visiting?
She went home yesterday.
Oh.
She offered to take me with her.
He was not afraid to smile; I felt the full force of it. It sent me backwards, a few steps, wanting to go downstairs and into my own space, to get ready for the night.
I love my job but sometimes it’s so hard to watch the fun when your heart is breaking. I often saw others like me, girls with glitter dresses who stopped, suddenly, and stared into space. Into something else, some void of the past.
Samuel will have to go back to America if he can’t find another job. I thought of him often, packing up his flat (not that there was much there). He’ll have his life and I’ll have mine. Everything would separate us; time, oceans, miles.
Bro, he said to the others, with a laugh. Where am I going to have my deportation party?
We were all going to his, after the shift, for an afters.
Let’s talk later, I said, just to him.
He nodded. Another smile, I could chew on it. The life in him was so full it rattled around the room. I had to get away from it, otherwise I would have been another stupid party girl in a glittery dress.
*
I’m the DJ and I’m crying. I can feel the looseness in the room. The bartenders make their drinks heavy handed and sloppy. There’s spilt drinks all over the floor. The air feels heavy and humid; I watch the groups of friends, our regulars, as they move across the room. My salt tears mix with desire and courage, and flow through the music. I see a girl watching me. I don’t want to hide my wet face from her. I want to make my body a place for the music, I want them to see it through me. Look at my loss. Look at how it fills the room.
*
I will never get enough of clubbing. I went with Samuel a few weeks ago, to a tiny bar in Soho. They had expensive drinks, velvet sofas, neon signs spelling well-meaning, though sometimes ominous, slogans. When life gives you lemons, put them in your drink. We sat in the corner and talked, and I focused very carefully on his knee when it touched mine. With the sweet alcohol and music combined, it sent sparks through my body. It’s a strange feeling to realise your body had been asleep for a long time. I wanted to spark it alive, with a rage; I wanted to spill my guts on the streets. I felt desire surge in me sweetly, thick, like honey. A buzzed, summer feeling.
We went to dance. The DJ was good. I would shout Samuel my critiques, bringing him close, my lips to his ear. I felt his hot breath when he replied, the sourness of alcohol.
This is a good song to bring up the energy, I yelled. It was lagging before.
He’s not as good as you.
He gets stuck in the same mood too long.
We were dancing as we spoke, my hands around his neck.
Music is about movement, I said.
Movement like this? His hands on my waist. Moving my hips.
Not much talking after that.
*
I’m the DJ and I’m crying. This is a sound and salt infused room. Samuel is a symbol of American resistance. He dreams of flight. There’s pictures on his Instagram of him at protests, his fist in the air, black glove on. I want to walk back to America with him, to stand and watch as his protector, to hold on. I worry about all the things that could happen to him.
I have half an hour left of my set. This room has seen so much of my life; the loneliness, the men who hurt me, my own hands that hurt me. My heart red raw and open. It feels right to cry, it feels right to give the room its weight as a holy place, a place where things come to a head, where things can be spilled, and life emerges, at full force.
*
I need to tell Samuel I am pregnant. The room knows about my baby, I can feel it, in the silence between songs, I can hear it’s beating pulse, imaginary, of course, but it’s there. My baby likes the drums. My baby sits low in my stomach and wants to live. I want to live. The baby is born of music, of all this love and desire in the room, in the smells, in the sound. The room is alive with the energy of a funeral. It’s like no other, it’s a death in action.
*
I’m the DJ and I’m crying as I see Samuel walk down the stairs. He knows me, his eyes go straight to knowing. He’s wearing his Hi Vis still, his earpiece, his badge strapped to his arm. Look at the life we have here, I want to say. Look at what we’ve done. You can’t go.
He climbs onto the stage. The rest of the front of house staff are here, the bar staff, my friends clap me on the shoulder as I play the next song. I want them to be proud of what I’ve done here, how I directed things. I want to tell them of everything that has happened since I’ve started working, how I came to be in full bloom, and confusion. How things have ended right as they were just beginning. My friends are dancing behind me and I’m feeding them what they want to hear. The patrons are singing and waving their arms. There’s kissing. There’s too much.
*
Samuel picks his way to me. He nods at me, a silent question. He can see the tears in my eyes. I should tell him now, it’s on the tip of my tongue. I want to say it. Stay for me. Stay for this.
*
I’m the DJ and I’m crying. A girl in the crowd, a glitter girl, has stopped dancing. She stares at me, and me at her, meeting her peering gaze. We are thinking the same thing.
What’s left for us now?
But he doesn’t get it. Doesn’t understand. Because it’s a woman’s name she says again. It’s a woman who she, his wife, flirted with when autumn came and the leaves began to fall.
Natascha Graham
This week on Litro Lab podcast, we bring you a lyrical piece about a husband who is struggling to understand his wife. With a touch of humour, this story challenges us to reflect on how people we think we know can change. After all, gender and identity are fluid, and will inevitably spill over the edges of what some consider socially acceptable.
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This piece was read by Vee Tames.
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Can a novel about a stand-up comedian not be funny? Can a novel that devotes pages and pages to a comedian’s onstage act make you cry? This is not a riddle about novelists or comedians. It’s a question you’ll be asking if you pick up a copy of Israeli writer David Grossman’s Man Booker-winning novel, A Horse Walks Into a Bar. The comedy here is dead serious. Grossman uses it with panache to explore a range of themes including the relationship between art and pain, the dynamics of dysfunctional families, and the tragedy of failed states in the modern world.
Humour – black or otherwise – is a powerful tool in a writer’s kit. Use it wisely in your fiction and you are guaranteed to get the reader’s undivided attention. It can make the reader laugh, it can make the reader weep. Love it or hate it, readers will feel compelled to keep turning the pages till they get to the end.
Mohammad Hanif’s crackling first novel, A Case of Exploding Mangoes is a perfect example. Hanif mines the potential of black humour and makes the best possible use of it here. Laced with generous and lethal doses of black humour, the plot gallops ahead to expose corrupt, dictatorial politicians and a hopelessly flawed system. This fictional story revolving around the death/assassination of former Pakistani president Zia ul-Haq packs a punch thanks to Hanif’s mastery of the dark art of humour. The dialogue is seeped in acerbic black comedic brine; the situations that crop up as the narrative unravels are so darkly comic that readers are left with no choice but to laugh till they cry.
The venerable Philip Roth decided to take a stab at black humour in his novel, Portnoy’s Complaint. Roth relies on the power of black humour in this book to explore the modern American male’s sexual neurosis. The hero’s monologue about sex, guilt, and other discontents in Portnoy’s Complaint is black humour at its best.
British writer Martin Amis came up with a winner of a black comedy with his novel, Money. The story of a morally bankrupt Hollywood director who tries to make a film with a cast that disagrees on everything – with him, and with each other – is a hilarious read. As one reviewer eloquently put it, “Money has all the hallmarks of what makes a great Amis novel: unlikeable characters, strong attention to everyday speech, and dialogue and humour so bleak you laugh out of fear of crying.”
Amanda Fillipaci’s novels employ black humour – with skill and style – to surprise and shock and raise uncomfortable questions. Her first novel, Nude Men, and her later ones, Vapor and Love Creeps are spiced with black humour. Fillipaci chooses to write about subversive themes and her fictional take on them are funny and incisive. Her trademark black humour is more than equipped to amuse and draw readers into the heart of her stories.
All of Roald Dahl’s children’s fiction can be safely labelled black comedies. Dahl also wrote fiction for adults, which shares the same darkly comic streak. Nasty children, mean adults, an impossibly difficult world – Dahl threw them all into the mix and went on to whip up an addictive cocktail for millions of readers.
Many a critic has called Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 the best American novel of the 20th century. The story of a WWII pilot who tries to get out of bombing missions by pleading insanity is a brilliant study in black humour. Catch-22 is a clause that stipulates that a mad pilot can be grounded, but if he sees the danger in bombing missions and requests to be grounded then he cannot be crazy after all. Heller uses black humour as a vehicle to showcase the horror of war and its insanity in this modern classic.
American writer Kurt Vonnegut is synonymous with black humour. A WWII veteran, Vonnegut used social satire to paint a picture of a post-war world for readers. His razor- sharp prose questions accepted beliefs about war, absolute truth, guilt and innocence, and the existence of a divine power.
Black humour is a many splendored thing. Writers have put it to good use over time and the tradition is alive and kicking in a world that is starting to make less and less sense to many of us. It seems a fitting time to declare that there is nothing out there as potent as black comedy to capture the absurdity of life in our time.
Riots for Stravinsky and cheers for Hanatarashi. How do you get from the tritone as “the devil in music” to an audience facing a wall of white noise with smiles on their faces?
“It’s amazing, really, how little sound comes out of something you’re smashing with all your might” – Yamatsuka Eye
The adventurous Noizu fans who came to see crackpot noise-makers Hanatarashi (meaning snot-nosed) at Tokyo’s Toritsu Kasei Super Loft on August 4th 1985 expected a raucous show. What they didn’t expect was a ferocious performance of industrial-grade destruction, with a back-hoe bulldozer as the lead instrument. Handed waivers upon arrival that relieved the band of any responsibility for injury, or worse, the audience watched as frontman and HDV operator Yamatsuka Eye burst through the doors of the hall atop the bulldozer. With percussionist Ikuo Taketani somewhat safely tucked away in the corner, Eye tore through the stage and inflicted brutal punishment on everything nearby, including the literal kitchen sink, while screaming the band’s trademark scatological and sexual non-sequitur lyrics. The beleaguered bulldozer held out until Eye put the hoe into the wall. The dozer tipped backwards and gave out, but after pulling off the dozer’s cage to hurl across the stage and grabbing a circular saw, the destruction continued with the audience now nervously dodging Eye’s fitful saw swings. Surrounded by bent metal, crumbled masonry and the squawking remains of Marshall stacks, with gasoline pouring from the ruined bulldozer, Eye produced, as his grand finale, a molotov cocktail that he’d prepared earlier. This was a touch too dangerous for even this daredevil audience and Eye, confessing later in an interview for Banana Fish Magazine that he got “too excited”, had to be violently subdued by several members of the crowd.
In the settled atmosphere, once certain that explosive group immolation wasn’t to be the crescendo, the crowd that had remained, many with smiles on their faces, slowly filed out enclosed in their own bubbles of tinnitus. The bill for the annihilation of the Super Loft tallied ¥600,000 (approximately £6000) and Hanatarashi subsequently laboured under a ban from most venues that ran until 1990, when the band, slightly calmer and more safety conscious, dropped the ‘i’ and returned to what passed as civil society in the Noizu circuit.
Hanatarashi, along with fellow Noizu bands such as Hijokaidan, indulged in the kind of audial assault that would bring most people to the point of self-induced deafness, but the Super Loft audience signed off on possible death-by-bulldozer just for the opportunity to experience it up close and personal. Extreme volume, distortion and cacophony, with a ferocity of performance that completely transgressed the normal bounds of the relationship between the performer and audience, were unrestrained musical expressions that attracted large audiences to the Noizu scene in Japan from the 1980’s onwards. It’s been argued that Noise as a genre was born in Japan at this time; whereby the noise was not a wash or flavour, but the whole. The act of seeking out sounds which most people take care to avoid seems a strange masochistic ritual, but evidenced by the brutalised crowd at the Hanatarashi gig, there is – for some – much to enjoy in noise.
“I did Noise Music because I genuinely liked noise… But a lot of people didn’t. At my concerts, people smashed beer glasses in my face.” – noise musician Boyd Rice a.k.a NON

In music, the definition of noise has changed drastically over time and is still debated today. The simplest common usage of the word noise is that of unwanted sound and, although clearly subjective, in some sense this definition also works in the context of music. Noise in music is of a volume/tonality/structure which breaks from previously held traditions of what is ‘pleasant’ to the ear of the average person, or consonant. What may be considered at the time to be noise can be the sound desired by a particular composer and, one would hope for the composer’s sake, later embraced by the intended audience. In essence, history has shown that noise in music is unwanted until a musician proves otherwise, with help from a willing audience. Noise can be a disturbance, but disturbance can be key to progression. By prodding at the edges of the normative discrimination, musicians have expanded the appreciation for sounds which previous generations would have found genuinely violative.
‘Who wrote this fiendish “Rite of Spring”? What right had he to write the thing?
Against our helpless ears to fling
Its crash, clash, cling, clang, bing, bang bing?
And then to call it “Rite of SPRING,” The season when on joyous wing The birds melodious carols sing And harmony’s in every thing!
He who could write the “Rite of Spring,” If I be right by right should swing!’
Anonymous letter to the Boston Herold of February 9, 1924
An amusing example of how dissonant prodding has been received as violative is to be found at the Paris première of Igor Stravinsky’s ballet The Rite of Spring at the Théâtre des Champs- Élysées on the 29th of May 1913, the year that the Ford Motor Company would develop the first moving, mass-production assembly line. Stravinsky was a young and innovative Russian composer, of little renown in 1913, hired by Sergei Diaghilev’s to write for the Ballets Russes company, with The Rite of Spring being the third such composition. Prior to the première, Diaghilev had promised “a new thrill that will doubtless inspire heated discussion” and Stravinsky had written the work as a solemn pagan rite and hoped to present a “great insult to habit”. When first playing the piano version for Diaghilev, Stravinsky was asked how long the dissonant, ostinato chords would sound, to which Stravinsky replied “to the end, dear Serge, to the very end.” The newly opened theatre, designed by Auguste Perret, was as avant-garde in construction as the contemporary music, opera and dance that was to be presented inside. The geometrically strict and decoratively plain exterior of reinforced concrete mixed modern and classical architecture and made it the perfect venue for what Debussy described as “primitive music with all the modern conveniences.”
The atmosphere before the performance was lively; the 29th of May was unseasonably hot, reaching a height of 30c, and the halls and corridors of the theatre were packed with those who had bought into Diaghilev’s hype. The house was sold-out, largely encompassing subscribers for the whole season of Ballet Russe and there was a fifty-fifty split in the guest-list between the Parisian elite of diplomats, dignitaries and dilletantes, and the Modernist art scene. Patrons such as Daisy Fellowes, (née Countess Severine Phillipine Decazes de Glückberg), an elderly Countess de Pourtales, and the ambassador of the Austro-Hungarian empire represented the upper crust, and batting for the avant-garde were the likes of Jean Cousteau, Maurice Ravel and Edgard Varèse. Cousteau was quoted later as saying that a scandal was primed by the mix, with “a fashionable audience [in] low-cut dresses, tricked out in pearls, egret and ostrich feathers…side by side with tails and tulle, the sack suits, headbands, showy rags of that race of esthetes who acclaim, right or wrong, anything that is new because of their hatred of the boxes.”
Alfred Capus in Le Figaro reported that during the first bars of bassoon with discondant accompaniment in the closed-curtain introduction, there was prompt hissing and jeering. Incensed at a perceived misuse of the instrument, Camille Saint-Saëns exclaimed, “If that’s a bassoon, then I’m a baboon”, before storming out. The Countess de Pourales is recorded to have shouted “I am 60 years old and this is the first time anyone has dared to make fun of me”, to no one in particular. A back and forth between supporters and discontents followed, with the American music critic Carl van Vechten recalling “a battery of screams, countered by a foil of applause.” At the start of the Augurs of Spring section, the curtains opened and the ensuing polyrhythms, unresolved harmonies, rapid dynamic shifts, and familiar themes played in unfamiliar registers did not sit well with the patrons disinclined to experimental music. Furthermore, in an attempt to convey the agony of human sacrifice in a primitive society, choreographer Vaslav Nijinsky had his dancers land their leaps with flat feet which added echoing thuds to the music. At its worst, the din from the audience was so loud that it drowned out the music and Nijinsky resorted to shouting out counts to the dancers while standing on a chair in the wings.
According to Stravinsky, his friend Florent Schmitt shouted an insult to a group of elegant socialites, “taisez-vous, garces du seizieme!” and the various reactions and counter-reactions shared between the conservative and avant-garde sections pushed the battle onward. Diaghilev ordered the house lights to be flicked on and off in either an attempt to quell the uproar or, perhaps, sheer excitement at the press-baiting pandemonium he’d created. Stravinsky was horrified by the furore, leaving the auditorium to watch at the wings (it has been alleged in tears, but to claim so seems to kick a man when he’s down) saying later that he had “never been that angry”. At the intermission, the theatre proceeded to eject forty of the most troublesome, but it was not particularly successful in restoring full order.
Stravinsky and Nijinsky were devastated by the negative response and embarrassed by the spectacle, but Diaghilev took delight in the publicity of scandal, expressing complete satisfaction at a celebratory dinner after the show. Mainstream reactions in the press to “Le Massacre du Printemps” were not great, with Giacomo Puccini damning The Rite of Spring as “sheer cacophony” and Adolphe Boschot in L’Echo de Paris claiming (pejoratively, it should be noted) that the composer had “worked at bringing his music close to noise”. The performance immediately made waves internationally with The New York Times reporting under the headline: “Parisians hiss new ballet: Russian dancer’s latest offering, ‘The Consecration of Spring’, a failure”. However, there was strong praise from some publications and subsequent performances were far more successful.
“No doubt it will be understood one day that I sprang a surprise on Paris.” – Igor Stravinsky
Dissonant music wasn’t the sole cause of the chaos, with the angular and provocative dancing, anti-Russian sentiment, reactionary morality, and hype all part of a melting pot. However, the premiere was a key flashpoint in the debate over modernism, in which noise in music was a rapidly expanding form of expression. Arnold Schoenberg’s drive to “emancipate the dissonance” and expand the possibilities of musical expression lent dissonance a cultural cachet in the early 20th century. Schoenberg’s music was noteworthy for the absence of traditional keys or tonal centers and, although he faced a similar reaction to The Rite of Spring on occasion, his music and theories had lasting influence throughout the 20th century.

While composers such as Schoenberg and Stravinsky were experimenting with rhythm and harmony, the Futurist Italian Luigi Russolo, in his 1913 manifesto The Art of Noises, was arguing that the public, accustomed to the sounds of industry and traffic, were hungry for “the infinite variety of noise-sounds” regardless of whether they knew it or not. For the Futurists, the explosion of mechanical noise in the 20th century evoked the activity, speed and progression that they celebrated in modern society. Russolo’s revolution was for music to no longer be a canonised system of notes, but rather understood as a structure of non-periodic complex sound. Russolo categorised these noise-sounds into six groups:
1. Roars, Thunderings, Explosions, Hissing roars, Bangs, Booms
2. Whistling, Hissing, Puffing
3. Whispers, Murmurs, Mumbling, Muttering, Gurgling
4. Noises obtained by beating on metals, woods, skins, stones, pottery, etc.
5. Voices of animals and people, Shouts, Screams, Shrieks, Wails, Hoots, Howls, Death rattles, Sobs
6. Screeching, Creaking, Rustling, Buzzing, Crackling,
Scraping
In order to produce these sounds, Russolo constructed 27 varieties of noise machine called intonarumori, each named after a different sound. The device was a crank-operated wooden parallelepiped box with a speaker at the front, the pitch being controlled by a lever on the top. The lever would modify the tension of a metal or gut string, wrapped round a wheel, that was attached to a drumhead inside the box.
Russolo introduced the public to these devices with a concert entitled Awakening of a City and Meeting of Automobiles and Airplanes in Milan in April of 1914, and, continuing the trend of violence in response to noisy spectacle, a riot ensued. Futurists in the audience responded to booing with fists, and eleven audience members ended up in hospital. In 1926, influenced by Russolo’s machine music, and anticipating Hanatarashi’s use of machines of industry, George Antheil produced Ballet Mécanique, which called for 3 airplane propellers to accompany the pianos, bells and siren in the orchestra. The reception to the piece was as mixed as that of the The Rite of Spring or Russolo’s Awakening, and the Paris première ended with – you guessed it – a riot in the streets. Despite the early negative reactions to these modernist experiments in noise, by 1940 The Rite of Spring was accompanying the extinction of cartoon dinosaurs in Disney’s Fantasia and the following decades would see avant-garde composers such as Harry Partch, John Cage and Karl Stockhausen produce music that would have presumably killed the Countess de Pourales on the spot. These experimental composers would eventually find their ideas pushed into pop music by the likes of Sonic Youth, who managed to straddle the seemingly incongruous worlds of MTV and the art music underground, with the benefit of an audience of noise-primed Gen X youth.
“We believed that music is nothing but organized noise. You can take anything—street sounds, us talking, whatever you want—and make it music by organizing it. That’s still our philosophy, to show people that this thing you call music is a lot broader than you think it is.” — Hank Shocklee of Public Enemy’s Bomb Squad, Keyboard Magazine, 1990
From the purposefully consonant compositions, within strict rules of tonality, of medieval religious music to the chaotic noise of Tokyo’s Merzbow or Detroit’s Wolf Eyes, dissonance has moved from something to be avoided to become an all-encompassing driving force. What was an imperceptibly gradual change before the 20th century has now become rapid. The relationship between an experimental composer and his noisy environment and the advances in music technology have led us to the point whereby people will pay for a MP3 of almost pure white noise and call it music. Cued by Willie Kizart using a damaged amplifier on the recording of the Kings of Rhythm track Rocket 88 and furthered by Dick Dale’s work with Fender, the electric guitar turned distortion and feedback into an art-form, driving music more towards timbre than harmony. Experiments with synthesisers, from Elisha Gray’s basic single note oscillator in 1876 to Hugh Le Caine’s Electronic Sackbut, engendered real-time, precision control of volume, pitch and timbre. Rather than Russolo’s acoustic noise generators, noise could now be artificially created in exact and varied ways. With the development of recorded music from tape to digital memory, sampling became a new form of replicating and altering environmental noise. Just as Russolo and Antheil would take from the sounds of the modern mechanical world, musique concrete would mimic the electronic age with the use of tape loops and purely electronic-produced sound. The digital revolution would lead to the hip-hop sampling of Public Enemy, which took the sounds of New York streets and media soundbites and reconfigured the noise into dense music, punctuated by sirens and drills, that articulated urban conflict.
There are many ways of conceptualising dissonance. The term consonance comes from the Latin consonare, meaning ‘sounding together’, and has become synonymous with particularly harmonious intervals in Western music. However, there is a psychological aspect to consonance and dissonance which is subjective and has changed throughout history. Psychologists would describe dissonance as a negative valence emotional response, meaning that it conjures feelings such as anger and fear; emotions that relate to suffering. In harmony, consonance and dissonance refer to specific qualities an interval can possess but, although consonance relates to mathematical constants, musical experiments outside the acceptable ranges of the time attuned the human ear gradually to more dissonant sounds. In the Middle Ages, the tritone musical interval (the interval between, for instance, F to the B above) was once prohibited by the Roman Catholic church due to its dissonant qualities and perceived ties to the Devil. Nowadays, however, this very interval is one of the main building blocks in jazz harmony, especially in the music of Duke Ellington and Art Tatum; music considered completely palatable to today’s ear.
Differentiation in ability to determine pitch, timbre, volume and time between tones could account for more or less appreciation of complex music. When two pitches are played together the mind appreciates the combination while also picking apart the unique pitches. More distortion or dissonant intervals will lead to added overtones and sum tones, creating very complex waveforms, which will force the listening brain to work harder to decipher it. These complex waveforms are what people would be hearing in music they consider to be difficult. The reason why some people react so poorly to modern classical music that delves into dissonance is that there are no easily discernible patterns. Philip Ball, in The Music Instinct, writes that “the brain is a pattern seeking organ, so it looks for patterns in music to make sense of what we hear.” The lack of predictability of tone sequences in the music of Stockhausen, for example, can confuse the brain, but the mind can learn to appreciate the complexity. We learn to appreciate this through listening to more complex music but, as the noise in our environment has increased, it is our adaptation that further enables us to enjoy what previously was rejected. The music mimics the noise in the environment and, in turn, the environment programs us to accept more noise as music.
Who are these loud and noisy people? They are like fishermen hawking fish.” – Buddha
How much has noise increased in the past few hundred years? Statistical comparison is a struggle, but noise appears to have been a concern for every society throughout history. The Buddhist Digha Nikaya, committed to writing in 29 BCE, records some contemporary noises of concern:
“Ananda, was neither by day nor night without the ten noises,—to wit, the noise of elephants, the noise of horses, the noise of chariots, the noise of drums, the noise of tabors, the noise of lutes, the noise of song, the noise of cymbals, the noise of gongs, and the tenth noise of people crying, ‘Eat ye, and drink!’”
Allowing for the unknown volume of an ancient Buddhist toast, the loudest sound on the list is that of the Asian elephant, trumpeting at a maximum of 90dB. The decibel level of the loudest sound in a city environment would increase as time went on, pacing more rapidly in the decades leading up to the 20th century. In an 1896 article entitled The Plague of City Noises, a clearly irate Dr. John H. Girdner called attention to the “injurious and exhaustive effects of city noises” from such sources as horse-drawn vehicles, bells and whistles, animals, persons learning to play musical instruments, peddlers, and that most infuriating member of late 19th century street-theatre, the organ grinder. What Dr. Girdner and the Buddha share is a concern for largely natural sounds of animal and human activity. However, the industrial and urban development of the 20th century altered the make-up of street noise and a poll of New Yorkers in 1929 issued an updated list of ten sounds to break a Buddhist samantha, with every one a product of a mechanisation.
The everyday noises of Girdner and the Buddhists pale in comparison to what the modern ear has to contend with, especially baring in mind the logarithmic nature of the decibel scale. Rule of thumb: the sound must increase in intensity by a factor of ten for the sound to be perceived as twice as loud. A car horn (120dB at 1 metre), a jet flyover at 1000 feet (103 dB), a power mower (96 dB), a food blender (88 dB), and a car driving at 65 mph (77 dB at 25ft) could conceivably occur simultaneously and for extended periods of time, albeit in a particularly poorly-situated home. Even the average lowest limit of urban ambient sound today is 40 dB; a constant hum that crosses the frequency spectrum.
“Natural sounds generate a sinusoidal wave, with rounded peaks, which is easy on the ears. Many mechanized sounds are square or sawtooth shaped or have jagged edges. If you see them on an oscilloscope, you’ll know why they’re unpleasant to listen to.” – Gordon Hempton
The increasingly urbanised and industrialised modern world has become a place of almost constant unnatural sound. The American acoustic ecologist Gordon Hempton contends that in the whole of the United States there are just 12 places that could be considered naturally ‘silent’. By measuring average noise intervals at various locations over time, Hempton demonstrated that in the state of Washington there are just 3 places that are free from anthropogenic noise for longer than 15 minutes, compared to 21 places in 1994. In the UK, research by Sheffield Hallam University found that Sheffield City Centre was twice as loud in 2001 as it was in 1991. With this increase in the spread and intensity of noise there has followed a general adaptation and acceptance of noise, but accompanied by some very negative consequences.
The word noise is derived from the Latin nausea, meaning seasickness, and noise can have many physiological and psychological effects that are deeply unpleasant, even causing permanent harm. In addition to the obvious hearing damage that can occur from repeated exposure to loud sound, diverse research over several decades has uncovered a variety of problems related to noise exposure. Fatigue, irritability, insomnia, headaches, anxiety disorders, depression and an increased prevalence of stress diseases have all been shown to be possible negative consequences. A WHO report from 2011 estimated that Western Europeans lose over one million healthy life years annually from noise-related disability and disease. Noise could also be making us less kind to one another, as research into noise as an urban stressor has found that a noisy environment can increase anti-social behaviour.
A series of studies at Wright State University in the mid-seventies found that noise interferes with social cues from a person in need of help and reduces helping behaviour. Further study in 1979, at the University of Washington, into noise and social discrimination found that noise may cause people to distort and over-simplify complex social relationships. Key to these outcomes, both physiological and psychological, appears to be our primal response system. Studies of blood chemistry have shown that exposure to noise causes an increased production of epinephrine, a central component in the fight-or-flight response. The more ‘unpleasant’ a sound, the more the amygdala, which plays a role in processing fear, is activated and therefore the stronger the emotional response.
The only rational reactions to an environment that threatens are either to escape or to adapt. However, even if one can ignore it, there is no physiological habituation to noise; an auditory assault affects us even when not consciously registered. Furthermore, it appears that the adaptation to noise that modern life requires is leading to an increased fear of silence. In 1999, the BBC accountancy office was refurbished with noiseless air-conditioning, double- glazed windows, and silent computers.
The makeover was effective in abating noise, but the employees were uncomfortable. They complained that the silence was stressful, leaving them feeling lonely and paranoid that others were listening in on their phone calls. In response, upon consulting noise expert Yong Yan from the University of Greenwich, the BBC decided to buy a noise machine to combat what Yan calls Pin Drop Syndrome. This covered the silence by producing a continuous 20 dB murmur of unintelligible voices, with the occasional snippet of bottled laughter, and the accountants relaxed into their faux-hubbub soundtrack. In a world of noise, silence equals exposure. The noise can fill in spaces that separate, cover up the sounds that bring attention and can blend individuals into an amorphous group. Perhaps it was this comforting, masking relationship with noise that the BBC accountants were found to be craving when absent.
Our ears have an inbuilt hypersensitivity to sound that was invaluable in the days when humans were hunter and hunted. We can hear a pin drop in a quiet room because our auditory system enhances the volume of a sound to several hundred times louder than the source volume before the brain itself registers the sound. While humans have transformed their relationship to environment and the conscious perception of noise, the brain and auditory system are still somewhat stuck in the fight-or-flight world of pre-civilisation. We tune out the noise in our daily lives but the physical and psychological forces are still present, pushing up blood pressure and promoting the release of stress hormones behind-the-scenes, even when we aren’t consciously aware of the sound.
“Wherever we are, what we hear is mostly noise. When we ignore it, it disturbs us. When we listen to it, we find it fascinating” – John Cage, The Future of Music: Credo, 1961
Today there is no firm basis for a distinction between music and noise. With the abandonment of traditional, harmonic definitions of consonance and dissonance, the distinction is entirely subjective and particular to context. There is no such thing any more as the ‘non-musical sound’ that John Cage wanted to highlight in his compositions; everything is fair game. We are born into noisy environments and the necessary adaptation means that the normative level of acceptable noise has been rising exponentially with each generation. But with musicians of today using white noise, the entire range of audible sound-wave frequencies heard simultaneously, where is there left to go?
The Austrian anthropologist Michael Haberlandt claimed that the more noise a culture could bear, the more ‘‘barbarian’’ it was. Hanatarashi’s bulldozer performance was nothing if not proudly barbarian, but the violent expression was peacefully received – unlike the riots that followed the performances of earlier noise music. Noise has found its audience and the Noizu crowd at Tokyo’s Super Loft were purposefully escaping any sense of tranquility, seeking out that dangerous thrill that the body provides when the fight-or-flight response goes haywire. Like skydivers and train- surfers they were after the exhilaration that comes from hacking the body’s primordial response mechanisms. They were all freaking out together, each body screaming to run but with safety in numbers and the perversely comforting wash of noise connecting and concealing everyone. The enjoyment of the performance came from the transgressive destruction on not just the venue but the audience themselves. They were pushing at the biological limits of their minds and bodies, going against the grain like the boundary pushing experimental music, in order to feel a rush. In earlier decades, or centuries, that rush could have been achieved with less. The charge of a herd of elephants or the clattering and cheering of a horse race might have once been at the upper limit of common noise, but with the constant, and constantly increasing, cacophony of noise in our environment today, the level of acceptable noise has been dragged further up the decibel scale and further out from consonance. The result of this trend is that the noise music listener will always be like a heavy drug user who requires an ever increasing fix. The Hanatarashi fans amongst us are bathing in extreme noise to induce the fight-or-flight response; musical adrenaline junkies looking for a high that the body and mind will continue to adapt to over time. Only, unlike drug use, everyone is taking noise everyday, whether we like it or not, and we have to choose to either embrace it or escape it.
But where to escape to, when silence is disappearing? Perhaps noise music highlights how people are too accepting of the damage and social alienation that the daily exposure to noise is producing. Are we all barbarians for living with noise that would have driven our forbears crazy? Noise is now presented by health authorities and scientific studies as a pollutant but, unlike with oil spills and insecticides, some people inure themselves to this pollutant through choice. By choosing to embrace the constant noise of modern life, with all of its negative effects, they are like the BBC accountants, a symbol of the slow death of silence. If a solution isn’t found, there might come a point where the silence on Earth is found through noise-cancelling headphones rather than a trip out of the city, and natural silence will have truly vanished. And what will the music of that time sound like? The Rite of Spring sounded like noise, even Beethoven sounded like noise to the ear of the day, so in a few hundred years time will we be looking back on Hanatarashi with a feeling of quaint nostalgia as we wonder how anyone could have considered such classics as Boat People Hate Fuck or White Anal Generator to be noise?
I.
Can you dream your own death? Once, while sleeping, my life was spared because I had a cold.
One by one, people in single file were being flung off the subway platform onto the tracks. It was winter, a season no less harsh for existing only inside me. I was five and traveling alone; the adults wore worn, scratchy coats that flapped like the flags of defeated countries as their bodies fought the air. The tunnel’s acoustics amplified their screams, the only sound besides the thud of bodies. Everything was regimentally organized, and I took my place in line.
When my turn came, I explained in reasoned tones that I should be allowed to live because I was sick. The executioners, also bundled in big, drab coats, huddled to consider me: a child coughing, sniffling, wheezing, hardly able to breathe. They nodded and waved me away.
II.
At the age of 17, I dreamed that the executioners returned, still wearing bulky overcoats but now standing in the kitchen of my parents’ house. There was no food, for this was a place of hunger in a country of famine. At stake this time: not my life, but control over knowledge that affected the future of humanity. An object that resembled a ping pong ball contained the secret of the universe; a hidden spring, if touched just so, would unlock it. We grappled for its possession, scuffling on the black-and-white checkerboard floor like breakaway chessboard knights. Could the world, here in this kitchen, be won or lost to the sound of panting, the odor of cold, dirty wool? The wall clock, ticking its impatience, commanded me to seize the moment. So I did, wresting the ball back. Realizing that the executioners could retake it before I found the hidden spring, I crushed the ball in my hand.
The men froze and stared, coats heaving with their still-ragged breath. An eye like a Cyclops’s filled my palm and a voice through my lips declared, “The eye/I? sees all things.” I stood with my enemies, listening for more, but there was just silence. And cold.
He’s been driving for hours. Driving West. He’s now in the middle of New Mexico. He feels good despite the exhaustion. He’s focused laser-like on the road. It’s a cold dessert night One of those nights when the stars are painfully vivid, and lizards’ blood begins to freeze.
– Gideon Berger
This week on Litro Lab podcast, we have an experimental piece with original music. On a time when many of us are stranded in one place – do you ever dream of taking a solo road trip? Get out of your house to join Sam while he drives through the desert at night. This will be a journey full of bizarre occurrences in which reality becomes gradually weird, visceral, and even sensual.
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Suffering. All life is subject to it. The first of the four Noble Truths, the shisho-tai. It is the only one of the four that I readily embrace still today. The desires which are said to cause the suffering I just can’t seem to annihilate, and hence I might not make it to that state of eternal peace we all seem to be running away from. But long ago I did embrace the fourth Noble Truth, or the attempt to efface selfishness by following the hassho-do, the Eight Fold Path. These include the rightness of belief, speech, action, effort, livelihood, resolve, thought, and meditation. And this is what led me to Japan the first time, long ago. Fate again had me placed in the Land of the Gods: Some bureaucrats placed me there in a small town in the board of education.
I left behind (planning to return, of course) a life in Paris, a future of great cheese and wine, and, well, Paris, to live in the countryside of Japan, two hours from Hiroshima, in a town on the Japan Sea coast that smelled of fish, a town of less than 53,000 (officially), in a place someone like the writer Alex Kerr would lovingly label “Lost Japan”.
The Lost in “Lost Japan”
Mr. M: “Remember!”
Me: Uh…What?
Mr. M: “My name!”
Me: Uh…OK. Uh…could you tell me your name first?
Sometimes teaching English in Japan can seem like you’re teaching in a madhouse. In this case the metaphor was reality; I was teaching in one. And, of course, my student-patients were more sane and pleasant and interesting than those in the unofficial madhouses labeled schools.
I can’t recall now how I ended up visiting N Hospital for the Mentally Ill a few times a month to join a therapist running an EFL class attended by people diagnosed with schizophrenia, bi-polar disorder, and depression. Probably as a favor to someone. Certainly I was trying to follow the Eight Fold Path at that time.
You may think it strange that someone would propose it therapeutic for people especially prone to the negative impact of stress to study a second language, but someone would and did. So people who, almost by definition, have trouble with language, with social relations, with things like appropriate conversational turn-taking, were gathered in a circle for our twice-a-month English conversation class. The idea appears to be grounded in social skills training therapy. And I was very moved and happy to see that it seemed to be a positive thing for many in the group over the one and a half years or so I was able to devote to it.
I and Mr. M, who was the first person to speak to me on that very first day of our class, enjoyed those days of sticking to our rightness of effort. He didn’t speak much, but would often give me sincere questions with an earnest though at times malevolent scowl, followed by, after what he felt was an appropriate response from me, an impish grin. For example, during our second class we had this exchange:
Mr. M: “Do you have a complex about it?”
Me: Uh…about what?
Mr. M: “Being short.”
Me: Uh…now I do.
I looked forward to the two Saturdays a month I would spend at the hospital. Walking along the river in the morning and watching the fish jump and the sagi (heron) trying to catch them. My main work teaching at the town’s junior high schools was not generally something to be looked forward to, so this was my chance to enjoy my profession.
Some of the students were in a torpor at times, heavily medicated, and the others were garrulous. I couldn’t help, like any teacher, taking a liking to certain students. There was the one who promised to marry me in five years if no one would have me. And the woman who launched into her original song while playing guitar the first time she joined the class. There was Mr. D, who couldn’t come to a class because he “had been a bad boy” and wrote me a very in-depth report in very good English tying in the use of bad words in the pop culture to the economic decline. And Mr. K, an outpatient and former English teacher who played a great guitar. I sometimes saw him at a local restaurant where we chatted and both enjoyed some akaten, a kind of fish paste with some togarashi. But my favorite may have been Mr. Y, a young man who suffered from bullying in high school, partly for being smart. He stopped going to school and suffered from severe depression. I later learned that his father was in the same hospital, also depressed. He had a sweet disposition and loved to chase after information about anything. He wore unstylish glasses and a bad ponytail. In our group picture you would be forgiven for guessing he was the sensei and I a patient.
At some point my regular job teaching at six junior high schools burned me out and all I wanted to do was sleep on Saturdays. Maybe I was depressed. And so I arranged for a friend to take over the Hospital classes.
A year or so later I met Mr. Y (now without ponytail) again near a small rundown market close to the sea and we chatted briefly. He was off to his job at a fish-packing place and beginning his new life with a radiant smile and seeming confidence.
“I’m enjoying my days now. Day by day finding some moments to smile at the world instead of frowning at it.”
We shook hands and he wished me well, maybe sensing that it was I who was starting down my path of frowning at the world.
DM Zoutis is a farmer and writer in Hiroshima and Shimane Japan.
There was no shame in it. He liked perfect specimens. Models, he said. But models was the wrong word. They were extra terrestrials. Long-limbed, wide-set cheekbones, eyes unblinking with otherworldly control. He took their pictures as they tried to shun their inhibitions, vacuuming their gauche youth into his camera. Immortalising the sublime.
I suppose he told me this because I was not a model. Or particularly interesting looking. I had unremarkable features. My skin was covered with peach fuzz, acne at my jawline, thin, sparse eyebrows, deep-set eyes. My androgynous haircut designed to hide all these things. I took his candour to mean he found me trustworthy or talented but throughout the meeting my portfolio remained open on the first page, barely glanced at on the table.
“If it sounds arrogant that’s because people are afraid to acknowledge their instincts. I don’t give a shit about that. You got instincts? Act on them. Besides, you’re going to find most guys are guilty of the same thing. Even the inadequates who pretend not to notice their wives or girlfriends look like shit, on the inside we’re all the same. We like beauty. So shoot us. Where you gonna go from there?”
I was flattered he was talking to me straight. I was a wisp of person. I had yet to complete two decades around the sun. I felt he was being honest with me. That he was treating me as a potential equal, revealing truths weaker people tried to hide.
He asked me if I smoked. I shook my head.
“Everyone important in this industry smokes. You should take it up.” I thought this showed faith. After all, the reason I was there was because I wanted to become somebody like him.
*
He told me how he got into the industry. Photography being the result of a failed attempt at being an artist.
“Most people fail right? At something? I was awful at painting to be honest,” he said, tapping the ash from his cigarette. “You ever fail something?”
“Piano?” I said. I didn’t realise that all my answers were questions and all his questions were answers. He nodded.
“I made sure I succeeded at photography. You’ve got to make sure.”
His name had weight in certain circles. They were crucial, he said, the circles. Being in the right ones, having his name pass from one mouth to another. Making sure the things he said or did came back around. It was always circular.
“Look at the earth, the sun, the moon. Everything’s based on orbits. What goes around and all that. However, it helps to be outrageous,” he explained. It was one of the ways to keep the money coming in. Especially in fashion. They liked controversy.
“Just pick a taboo – something shocking,” he asked me, “there’s plenty of angles to be had.”
I tried to think of one. I could think only of my shyness, crippling my chances at impressing him one stumbled word at a time. He didn’t wait for me to speak.
“Wanna know how I made it? I came up with concepts. Muses, locations. And here’s the trick – I started dark,” he said. “Darkness adds drama to the clothes. And let me tell you, some of the clothes demand drama. Don’t blame me. I just have the ideas, but everything comes from somewhere. I can’t be held accountable. Blame Hollywood. Blame Hitchcock. I don’t know. Example: the kidnap shoot I did for Praye. Masking tape over a pair of made up lips. A red smear on the cheek. Smudged mascara. Stiletto’s sticking out the trunk? There’s something so visceral about it – you can’t look away. You mix menace with fashion, and you’ve got yourself a fucking photo shoot. So I started there. Everyone was so upset. The fashion houses! The feminists! But that’s the point. Give them a reason not to forget you. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, you’re just looking for a taster right?”
He talked in monologue. He was my first celebrity. My first American. My first solo trip to London. I was that green. Fresh from nowhere. I didn’t know it was charisma he possessed; I didn’t have the vocabulary. His skin had a different quality – greased with the protective Vaseline of fame. I still remember how he looked at me and how it made my stomach clench. Just for a moment when he checked in on my face to see if I was still listening, still being astounded.
I was taken aback with my reaction to him. My words static. He dropped names while his cigarette smouldered. Said he’d “made” several models like they didn’t exist until he pressed the magic button of his camera.
Frederica Prince. Hadley Birch. The Nymph. Rosa May. Waifish girls who had struggled to become women after their modelling days went into decline. Now you saw them shooting breast cancer campaigns or making ads for heirloom watches, preparing to hand over to the next generation. Alien looks grown strange in age. Artificially preserved. Each time I saw another “new face” dominating the magazines I was reminded that women live longer but their lives are so short.
“She nearly suffocated.” He laughed to himself when I said I admired his work with Hadley Birch. I was thinking of a museum-themed shoot where all the models posed amid cabinets of taxidermy animals. A menagerie of chimps, jackals and birds. I remembered a model holding a lifeless tortoise like a clutch bag, its neck wound with pearls, shell concealed under the drape of her sleeve. And Hadley who was styled as a dead version of herself, body mounted inside a glass box, her lips two purple lozenges, pearls of perspiration beading on the pane, giving her away.
“The best thing is they don’t even realise how important they are to the whole thing. Especially when they’re new. You can tell them to do anything. Be obscene, bend their necks right back. Do the fucking splits. It’s the model who has the power to make the shoot fly or fall fucking flat. But it’s the photographer that gives them that power. You manage their ego. You create the rapport. You’ve got to make them hate you and love you in equal amounts. I tell you this in confidence,” he said patting my shoulder.
He laughed. I remember thinking he had misunderstood my gender.
“Question. What kind of a photographer do you want to be?”
“A good one,” I said, making him snort.
“And how much do you want it?”
“A lot.”
“Right then, the job’s yours. You do what I tell you. You watch what I do. That’s how you learn. You’ll have to sign an NDA. Think you can handle that?”
I made a submissive nod. My desire to be accepted fulfilled.
*
I hadn’t thought about him for a while when I heard what happened, the shock of it made my insides swing. He’d been out of the spotlight, going quiet the way famous people do, attention something they can turn on or off the way most people manage the notifications on their phones. I was on my way back from a shoot, taking a cab through London’s side streets, radio reciting his career highlights amid reactions from fellow stars.
By then I was counting down to my arrival home. I was desperate for a cigarette. It made me edgy not smoking all day but I didn’t like to do it at work, I thought it showed weakness. I asked the driver to take a shortcut, suddenly anxious to light up and read the news reports on my own.
By then I was established, I photographed food for Michelin star restaurants and luxury hotels. It hadn’t taken me long to figure out I preferred subjects I didn’t have to seduce. I never got good at directing people. I was never able to find a way to extract confidence from others, perhaps because I had too little myself. I felt awkward around nudity and beauty, like I somehow didn’t deserve to be near perfection. I told my friends I found fashion blithe, but this wasn’t the case. I had failed to belong. I was trapped in my own skin, unable to escape the discomfort I felt within it.
I guess this made me a different kind of photographer to him. I didn’t take risks or try to elicit love or hate from anybody. I styled food and made everything look expensive and dramatic. I wanted my photographs to look like oil paintings, lots of low light and penetrating shadows. Capturing the promise of uneaten food still plump with steam. Maybe what I did wasn’t so different. My friends joked that I shot food porn and it was true I made eggs look explicit with their translucent skins gently split, wet yolks glistening. Asparagus spears oiled beside them. I was satisfied by my work. I made enough money to pay my rent and splash out on new equipment. I bought overpriced clothes and went to watch obscure bands. I liked to see the desperation on their faces, front men with neck muscles straining, voices veering off key, trying so hard to exude their star potential. I liked to see people attempt to leave their selves behind.
Outside the window the road was dim lit. Sun dying. Grey streets made greyer. Through my reflection I watched pedestrians in dense overcoats, bodies disappearing into the shadows, faces floating like apparitions, all holding some inner thought or objective at the fore. At a red light a woman with a vape made eye contact with me before obscuring her expression behind a nicotine mist. I took out a cigarette and placed it behind my ear.
Of course, it wasn’t unusual for there to be stories about him. He had acquired further levels of influence since I’d met him over fifteen years ago. Ascending to that level where one becomes a cliché. He had released expensive coffee-table books of his work. Collaborated with Liberty’s on a print. London’s favourite American. The world saw him as predictably rebellious. It seemed to make him endearing, the way he did it.
I was guilty of using his name. It was a risk, but I figured no one would call him for a reference. I found it opened doors and made clients take me seriously, as though I could handle anything they might throw at me. It unsettled them too, I could tell, like some of his chaos might have rubbed off. If anything I surprised with my efficiency, although deep down I knew I was capable of losing it, of going too far.
*
Following that first meeting, he took me on for a month as an assistant. I checked light levels and packed his equipment, handling each piece as tenderly as a newborn. The last shoot I went on was at a manor in the Cotswolds. He had a suite at a five-star hotel and I was booked into a cheap bed and breakfast down the road.
I remember holding a reflective pad in front of a model’s chest for an hour while she writhed in a sequin dress. My arms burning with the strain. I was scared to evoke his anger, which was always there under the “darlings” and “buddys” – a rage that would see him throw props or scream at underlings until their cheeks were tearstained, just like he wanted. He’d shouted at me for bringing him the wrong lens. I was a “fucking useless idiot”. I hated myself then, but as soon as he thanked me for being on hand with an emergency battery, my faith in myself was restored. He had the power to create people’s self-worth. I saw it in action, expanding the model’s ego until she transformed from reticent novice to world-class phenomenon, her former self wrapped beneath layers of his approval. It was strange. All he had to do was walk into a room and people handed over their agency.
“You’re going to be somebody,” he’d say to the models until they believed it. I used to wish he’d say it to me. The closest I got to acknowledgment was when he said I’d earned myself a drink.
*
In a way I suppose I’d already anticipated his demise. The way you predict the course of your own life and that of others. The kind of house, lover, kids, career you might reasonably expect. My life had shaped up better in some ways. My name was respected in my niche. I turned in circles of my own, chefs and PRs and brand agencies. Restaurateurs and publishers liked my work. All of us microcelebrities in our own spheres. I never forgot what he said about circles. In general, I tried to leave a good impression.
All this time I’d been single, although I no longer had the same hair cut, my body seemed foreign to me – a device I carried about, facilitating me only in practical affairs. Whenever I saw a mirror I’d look away. I pretended to be at ease with my looks but I was playing the role of someone who’d risen above the limitations of their plainness. I suspected people found me boring. Weird. That my life had already reached its summit and that I was descending the other side. I imagined myself eventually coupled with a divorcee. Me, a late bloomer. Moving into a home I wouldn’t have chosen, taking on some children. Falling into the remains of somebody else’s life.
As for him, I imagined he’d meet his death via an accidental overdose or suicide on board a yacht. Something flamboyant. In the Cotswolds he’d often have powder dusting his nostrils. I didn’t expect him to get old in the traditional sense but the last photo released of him showed how he’d become frail. Something had hollowed him out, reducing that external gloss. Time perhaps. In the picture he was wearing a tracksuit. A cigarette clenched in his hand. He was less than he had been. Perhaps that’s why I felt able to get in touch.
*
When I left the Cotswolds I didn’t expect to come into contact with him again. I was relieved it was over. I was barely spoken to apart from terse instructions, while he put on his performance – talking himself up, sharing anecdotes, laughing. I hoped I might get close to him, become someone to mentor, but it didn’t turn out that way. Every day he’d be at the centre of the shoot and all the other somebodies, hierarchies muddled; the models and makeup artists and editors from the magazine, all hooting and squawking and overzealous as though they were having the best time of their lives, all secretly stressed, afraid to do something wrong.
I listened to their conversations. Everyone flirted with him but he kept a little distance so that every time he gave a compliment the effects were amplified.
“I need a coffee,” he’d said that last day. Everyone else chimed in with their orders. I had to ask his personal driver to take me to the nearest town. It was Starbucks or nothing. I made it to the counter with a list of elaborate requests for low fat milk or soy or extra shots of espresso. After a wait I had two trays trembling on my lap in the back seat of the car. Hot milk spilling on my jeans.
I handed out each drink, rematerializing in the collective consciousness, briefly hailed as a “lifesaver” before fading into insignificance. I approached the photographer with a steaming cup but as he turned around his elbow knocked my hand, the coffee slipped and spilt onto his laptop, which was set up on the floor.
“You fucking idiot! What have you done?” His anger sent magnetic heat into the room, drawing everyone toward the crime scene. Several more people chastised me but he’d knocked into me – it hadn’t been my fault.
I was mute with shame and indignation as the photographer shouted I could get the fuck off the shoot. I ran to the bathroom. When I saw my reflection my face was blurred and frightened, mucus glossing my lips. It was the face of someone fragile. Despite trying so hard, I was convinced I’d ruined my life. All month I’d carried out instructions. Done my best to help. He hadn’t bothered to learn my name. I was interchangeable. I wondered why I was so little in comparison to him. He was just another person, yet more convincingly real.
I remember seeing my face change in the mirror. Myself, but another version. I splashed water on the back of my neck. Wiped the coffee stains on my clothes. Dried my hands and waited while my adrenaline steadied. I wasn’t thinking straight but at the same time I felt clear, like things were suddenly in focus.
I walked out the bathroom, went across to the hotel, taking the stairs to his bedroom, anger pressed against my pores. His door had a passcode on it which he’d shared with me at the start of the shoot in case he needed me to collect equipment, but I’d not had reason to use it. I looked down the corridor and listened for noise. Punched in the numbers, heart pacing.
The room was unaired, the atmosphere dense with ash and sweat. The ceiling low beamed and the huge bed ornate and oaken. Everything was in a state of disarray. The creased covers on the bed were peeled back like a shrivelled skin. I kicked a pot plant over then lay on the bed. Tried to imagine myself as him. I wanted to provoke. I didn’t know what I was looking for but I got up and went through his drawers, tipping them onto the floor, his designer underwear ridiculous in butterfly colours. I wanted to expose him, if not to the world, then to myself.
In his bedside cabinet I found a half-empty carton of cigarettes in which he’d hidden a pouch of powder. I slipped the box in my pocket. On the floor, a few magazines with post-it notes stuck in them. I flicked through. Biro annotations, captions included “these shoes – but blue”, and “this model – make blonde”.
In the bathroom I excavated his cupboards, throwing the contents onto the tiles. A spray for athletes’ foot, a box of nicotine patches and next to the sink, some extra-strength deodorant, hairs pasted to the rollerball. And in his wardrobe, my prize find – a taxidermy tortoise. I recognised it instantly as the one from the museum shoot with Hadley. It’d been made into an ashtray, shell hollowed out and inlaid with a gold dish, neck extended so that its face looked up beseechingly with dark, jewelled eyes. Next to it, a packet of blue pills.
I took these as well, storing them carefully in my bag before decisively pulling down my jeans and defecating on the carpet. I was a lot younger back then. I didn’t realise people were pretenders – fragile constructions with only loose frameworks holding them in place. I was eighteen. Despite my self-loathing, or maybe because of it, I thought I was the only one who mattered.
Before I left I emptied a sachet of coffee granules onto his heaped underwear and poured water from the kettle on top. Watching as the stains bled into the fabric. There didn’t seem to be anything else for me to do. Somebody hated him and now he would know.
I walked out. High. Buzzing with the belief that I could do anything – even become someone new.
*
My head was starting to pound, anticipating the relief of that first deep pull. We took a sharp corner, my thoughts breaking. We were now driving through Chelsea where the houses were perfectly painted, windows adorned with elaborate flowerboxes and blue plaques fixed to the frontages of random homes, announcing former famous residents. Artists. Inventors. Actors. Politicians. The taxi driver spoke to me over the news, turning the radio down. I still couldn’t believe it. He’d rebelled against all the rules except mortality.
“Quite a guy. He lived around here for a time. Dropped him off once. Years ago it was.”
Everything was years ago. We drove past another house, another plaque. Each one proof that somebody had made something happen in their lives. As though their achievements were somehow greater than the feat of living and breathing and dealing with life’s assortment of crap. I wound down the window to get some air. On the corner was a homeless man with dreadlocks, exposed paunch beneath a grubby t-shirt, his body letting him down, getting shabby, swelling up. I watched him put his hands to his temples, a gesture of habitual desolation before the car moved along.
*
At home I waited until I’d put my equipment away before finally settling with a cigarette, precious tortoise ashtray on the coffee table, iPad on my knees.
The news stories were already multiplying. You could sense the journalistic excitement, a celebrity death giving them weeks worth of content to churn.
His body had been found in a basement flat. Someone had noticed a smell. The last person to have seen him was a lover no one had heard of. In the video interview she looked subdued. She was buxom but puffy, her skin over boiled in the sun. Hair a brittle blonde. Her figure almost matronly with two slabs of flesh that met on her stomach. She was not a perfect specimen. There was even something repulsive about the raised moles next to her eyes. The way she licked her lips between sentences, eager to catch a taste of fame.
A spokesperson said his death was not being treated as suspicious although rumours were circulating. I guessed the press would have preferred suicide or one of the more elaborate deaths I’d fantasised for him. There was more mileage in that. I took a long drag, letting the warmth sink into my lungs. I held it there, picturing my insides darkening with tar. Each time I smoked I savoured it, vowing it to be my last.
*
I thought of my final contact with him, just six months before. I’d sent him a message after the photo had been released of him looking unwell. Impermanence revealing itself in the droop of his skin. It was late at night and I’d drunk a good amount of rum, alone. I felt guilty. Lonely. Sorry. Foolish. For being so foul. For stealing his irreplaceable ashtray and even the drugs, which I’d been too cowardly to try.
I said I was sure he’d forgotten about me, but I was sorry. I hoped he could forgive me. I mentioned I smoked.
A week or so later I’d received a package in the post addressed to “The Little Shit”. Inside the box was a box of cigarettes and a lid for the tortoise ashtray, its brittle shell polished to a supernatural shine, a gold stopper on the top. Next to it a post-it on a bundle of tissue paper announcing, “This one’s on me.” Inside, something dark and fetid and revolting. I’d thrown it into the bin outside and heaved onto the cement. I thought back to that moment with a smile. His revenge had confirmed my existence beyond what I knew of myself. I felt seen. Remembered. Equivalent on some sick level. Once the shock wore off, I’d felt absolved.
I put my tablet down. It was strange to think of him as gone. I took a final toke on my cigarette, stubbed it out, crushing the embers in the ashtray, wondering if it was worth more now he was dead, but as I moved I knocked the tortoise off the table, noticing for the first time the fine print under its stomach. Made in China. I picked it up, its synthetic eyes shining, mocking the unlikely permanence of death.
Cover image: Everyone here calls me Mrs Bauhaus. The Life of Ise Frank A Biographical Novel
Letter from Irene Hecht to Ise Frank after Jana Revedin’s book, “Jeder Nennt Mich Frau Bauhaus: Das Leben der Ise Frank.”[1]
Munich, Winter 1945
Ise,
I did miss you. Why I was committed to you in the first place, I don’t know. Perhaps, it was the way you spoke to me, your vivid voice. Adorable, Barthes once said, a voice that vibrated between gravity and lightness, qualities I didn’t acquire but envied. You achieved a well-formed voice which was ahead of time while mine was lacking. Your voice was your weapon and language, your style. I didn’t lack style but your worldly voice muted me. You were in control, Ise, and so I retreated, sinking into a sphere of reticence just listening to you. What we cannot say we must pass over in silence as, Wittgenstein knew so well, the absent voice. Sure, there were times I wanted to challenge you but it wasn’t a competition. I didn’t play language games, certainly not in German. I couldn’t meet your perfection and the gap between my intention and expression widened as time passed. I pretended my interest in your tastes and freely exhibited my deficits. Your perfectly formed voice too often injured me but you didn’t hear it. I am still working on my image here and, perhaps, I should stop, since speaking to you is anyway, a redundant idea.
Irene
[1] “Everyone calls me Frau Bauhaus: The life of Ise Frank.”
How many times in a day do you say “when this is over, I’ll…?” How many plans have you put on hold since the pandemic zapped the world like a lightning bolt? Suspended in this strange in-between world, we have slipped into an in-between state-of-mind. The pandemic, sweeping over the globe in waves, has turned us all into residents of a shape-shifting world. We are in limbo in this home of ours. We make plans and unmake them. We dream of travelling the world. We remember how easy it used to be and wonder if we will ever get back to hopping on a plane without being swaddled in protective gear, weighed down by a tonne of dread. Every morning, we wake to a world whose contours confound us, unclear about how this will turn out, unsure what the future will bring.
Some days the whole thing feels like a dream. Sometimes it feels like we are freefalling, sent on a surreal trip that is designed to test our endurance. Reeling from the shock of it, we grasp at straws. Trying not to spin out of control, we ground ourselves by following the advice of medical professionals, poring over WHO guidelines, tuning into Dr Fauci’s reliable corona virus taskforce briefings…
The pandemic has made most of us become acutely aware of life’s fragility. Because death is no longer an abstraction hovering in the wings, because we are forced to see sickness and suffering and loss up close, everything seems charged with meaning in this in-between world. Paradoxically, everything seems pointless in this in-between state, every pursuit a pipe dream, every ambition a seed without a chance to sprout. As hospitals overflow with the sick, as grief and mourning grind us down, as we fret about the health of friends and family and hang our hopes on a vaccine that is in the works, how do we find the courage to hope and plan and dream? How do we make art? How do we write books? Rooted in the shifting sands of the present, buffeted by the winds of uncertainty, how do we sustain our creative selves and conjure up a future in which our words and songs matter?
The creators of some popular tv shows and sitcoms have responded by looking our new reality in the eye. They follow the motto: ‘the only way to get over it is to get through it.’ So, the latest season of the charged medical drama Grey’s Anatomy features face masks, temperature checks, and a band of exhausted healthcare workers. The Good Doctor zooms in on the harrowing choices doctors and nurses are forced to make as hospital beds fill up with the Covid-infected. Patients, away from friends and family, are shown fighting their own lonely battles.
It’s not just the medical dramas. The emotional toll of quarantine, the rigours of social distancing and isolation, the tightrope walk retail workers have to pull off at work every day, the challenges of juggling parenting, work and home-schooling, the glory, humour, and horrors of Zoom meetings, the questions that haunt both adults and children in this ‘new normal’ are all thrown into the mix in shows such as This is Us, Blackish, and Superstore.
In Naya, a village in West Bengal, India, a group of patachitra (traditional scroll) artists have set out to paint striking, intricately detailed scrolls to capture the essence of our in-between existence. In some of these scrolls, the corona virus looms – a fierce monster with a hungry mouth. Others show a beast with a giant head and muscled arms stalking a terrified populace. Shades of fear, anxiety, grief, and glimmers of hope and human resilience animate these vivid scrolls. Different artists, interpreting reality differently through their creations, shine a light on our collective experience in the time of the pandemic.
Then there is the recent slew of dystopian fiction – set in the near future – that could possibly have been inspired by the disruption of our familiar rhythms. Don DeLillo’s The Silence, Rumaan Alam’s Leave the World Behind, and Jonathan Lethem’s The Arrest published within a few months of each other in 2020 are all set in an ‘arrested world.’ Technology – computers, phones, networks of commerce and travel – breaks down in these fictional worlds. Consequently, society breaks down. The world is thrown into a state of total upheaval, chaos kicks in, and the characters are left grappling with the unfamiliar. Perhaps catharsis for writers lies in creating such dystopias; and catharsis for readers in being drawn into their chaotic hearts. Dystopian fiction has stepped into the breach – a classic case of art offering us a chance to purge our emotions. The demons these fictional worlds unleash seem to have the power to tame the demons we wrestle with in our lives these days.
“Our life is frittered away by detail! . . . Simplicity, simplicity.”
Walden, ‘Where I Lived and What I Lived For’.
Such is the gospel of Henry David Thoreau. Transcendentalist, eco-anarchist and wild old man of the woods, Walden is a gargantuan presence in landscape writing that never fails to make the bookshelf of any suburban dad over the age of fifty-five with even a passing interest in rambling.
That said, it’s also one of the most heartfelt and compelling treatises on the rural that continues to resonate within the landscape of nature writing to this day. In July of 1845, Henry David Thoreau packed up his life to live in an isolated cabin on the shores of Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts, to escape the irritations of modern living and develop his understanding of the land he resided in both as a writer and as a human being. The literature he created is a moving, heartfelt narrative of his life as a woodlander; and as he fishes and reads, marks the passage of the seasons, we become party to a deep and powerful sense of belonging within the leafy acres. We begin to question our own relationship with the everyday and the modern as Thoreau calls us to find simplicity, simplicity and experience the same urge to remove ourselves from the trappings of conventional urban society for a calmer, greener life based on an earnest relationship with nature.
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.”
Walden, ‘Where I Lived and What I Lived For’.
But Thoreau’s peace of mind comes at a cost. He lives alone in the landscape, without the influence of modernity: he has no running water, no support network, no amenities closer than the nearest township of Concord, no luxuries and none of the trappings and comforts that the nineteenth century offers–but he is compelled towards the natural like it is a vital, biological part of himself, eschewing all else for it. He argues that it is through this transaction–gaining tranquility through the adoption of an ascetic life, choosing to nourish the soul over garnering profit or achieving societal renown–that we might achieve a life as we were intended to have, a life that is worth the living of it. But this philosophy raises some questions when we come to examine it apropos what it means for our own conceptualisation of Thoreau’s works and how they might still have meaning in a twenty-first century setting.
In the construction of his cabin by Walden Pond, we see a writer whose intent to immerse himself in the rolling natural woodland is motivated by a distinct dissatisfaction with modernity and the compulsion to strip away the trappings of city life and live as he believed nature intended: as the most famous part of Walden reads, seen at the beginning of every eco-tourist vlog since 2005, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately”. Thoreau is dissatisfied with the face of the nineteenth century and what its complications have done to humanity’s precarious balance between enlightenment and the animal, removing them from the natural landscapes they came from and “liv[ing] meanly, like ants […] and our best virtue has for its occasion a superfluous and evitable wretchedness.” In returning to that seminal state within nature, as opposed to living nearby it or, worse, without it, Thoreau makes a statement on the idea of what nature is worth within the landscape of a life. By foregoing the century’s common comforts and embracing the land’s precariousness and danger, he finds something of greater worth than the ease and affluence of his previous existence.
Walden implies that there is an innate desire to pursue wilderness, to expose ourselves to the danger of an unmanaged landscape–but what does that desire come to mean when we complicate it with the notion of the deprivation of comfort as an integral prerequisite? We explore, we ramble, we are inspired by, but we don’t live in the woods. Even were we to pack up completely and live forever alongside the lake, miles from anywhere, we still would live less completely in the landscape than did Thoreau, our cabins replete with the modern comforts of air conditioning, indoor bathing, eBay and Diet Coke. In that, we aren’t truly making the transactional sacrifice that Thoreau believes is key to living a freer existence. Our experience of wild country is for most of us devoid of the negative aspects that define Thoreau’s experiment. We might holiday in the landscape, but we are still foreign to it, landscape-adjacent as opposed to within.
It distances us a little from the text: it cools the ardour a little to think that although we might sit on the same stony shores of Walden Pond, trail our fingers through the shifting pondweed, wander through the arrowy trees that formed the stack and body of the famous cabin in the woods, we are not interior to the landscape in the same way. We might camp out in the woods a night or two, but we can return to the relative ease of our suburban homes whenever we choose. We might spend a day hiking alone in the hinterlands, but a vibrant thread of red in the sunset might then be splattered across social media, connecting us with others across the globe and shattering our supposed isolation. We enjoy the luxuries of emergency support, rescue services and a much greater interconnectivity of transport, the thrilling absence of which gives Walden its almost unique character. In traversing these landscapes we are tourists, rendered other by our modern world, able to observe Thoreau’s anchorite devotion for the sake of his soul but never to emulate it on a level that would bring forth true understanding.
So, then, how may we appreciate what Thoreau’s writing truly means when, by dint of our modern existence, we’re so removed from the deprivation inherent to Thoreau’s chosen life that renders Walden such a compelling piece of landscape writing?
It’s easy to get lost in the romance of the image. The figure of the lone, haggard, bearded man stumping about the perimeter of his rough-hewn homestead, growing beans and gourds for sustenance like some kind of nineteenth-century Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall is compelling, and we’re drawn into the narrative in a way that we can’t help but look on longingly as he exists without friends, without delicacies, without a LinkedIn profile. There’s something of Christ in the Desert about it, tapping into our eternal fascination with the hermit, the walled-in priestess, and any and all who traipse back into an old high past as corporate life becomes more invasive and vines its way into the home. But what we tend to forget in the haze of this heady New England Mills and Boon is that Henry David Thoreau–grandfather of landscape writing, builder of cabins and naturalist champion of all things pious and good–wasn’t quite the ascetic heart of the wilderness that pop literature implies.
Henry David Thoreau was an educated white man of no small means, and although that doesn’t indicate that he never experienced danger or deprivation in his time on Walden Pond, it means that his choice in doing so might not be the high-stakes gambit for his soul that sells copy after copy, year after year.
Upon graduating from university, the young Thoreau met fellow writer Ralph Waldo Emerson. The older man took a patron-like interest in him, and from there Thoreau’s literary aspirations grew. Whilst Thoreau focused his attentions on the natural from the very beginning, it was during this period that Emerson began introducing him to key players in what would solidify as the wider Transcendentalist movement, finding him employment in Emerson’s household and opening doors in the publishing industry that would have otherwise remained shut to the young writer. The pair often talked about landscape, advocating a return to the cradle of nature in their writings and championing the green and the good above all things modern and canny. Eventually, and with Emerson’s blessing, Henry David Thoreau left to embark upon his venture of simple living in the woods.
What is often occluded, however, is that his homely plot by the side of Walden pond was actually situated on a swathe of land owned by Ralph Waldo Emerson, far from the heart of the forest. Likewise, the pretty dell that would become the setting for Thoreau’s magnum opus of solitude was less than two miles from the Emerson family home. And whilst the young writer did live simply–growing what he needed, buying only what he could neither build nor propagate–he wasn’t entirely unsupported by the society he reportedly sought to remove himself from: upon being apprehended by a tax collector and promptly jailed, Thoreau’s aunt bailed him out with a vast sum equal to six years of poll tax avoidance. We must ask ourselves: does there truly exist risk, danger and deprivation if, in a heavy snowfall, one has the option to wrap up and head to Emerson’s house for Saturday tea? Does one really risk the penalties of civil disobedience if, although against the writer’s wishes, extended family may rally to pay all debts and release one from the life-altering ramifications of a prison sentence? The genius of Walden remains unassailable, but the reality of Thoreau’s ascetic experiment is that the romance by far outweighs the reality: the stakes were relatively low, the networks of modernity still present. Thoreau, like us, was a tourist in an antique land.
Yet it has no bearing on his art.
Walden is characterised by its open-faced affection, and although its affected rustic heart may only be a stone’s throw from Emerson’s front porch, the work remains a triumph of nature writing that unlocks the green potential of the imagination and indeed compels us to simplify. The way Thoreau regards the forest-scape is moving, finding multitudes in the way his sun catches in groundswell, in the scurrying of his rabbits and the swaying of his ferns. The whole text sears with a vast, many-levelled appreciation of the processes of nature and season. It’s a labour of love in the purest sense; and although it may sometimes be difficult to share Thoreau’s philosophy, we can share his fascination, his great love of the land and his small part in the cycles that dictate his existence.
It is easy to look at Thoreau’s experience of landscape and feel exiled from the text, to believe that there’s no modern way to live in such proximity to nature, but the truth is that Walden was motivated by love of the landscape and a desire to ‘get away from it all’ in much the same way that we book secluded Airbnbs in the Lake District for a social media detox. Thoreau too had the option to go home–yet he chose not to, instead writing of his simple life in a way that, even two centuries later, continues to drive us into the woods, into the wildernesses, to consider the nature of what is vital as opposed to what is simply expected of us in our lives.
Walden is far from a philosophical masterpiece–contradictory, self-righteous at times, complex in its innovation and obfuscating meaning behind the lengthiest and most arduous passages–but it stokes us to passion. We too might venture out into the woods with the intention of living more deliberately, and even now the work inspires us to explore, experiment and deviate from the norm, as Thoreau himself did, to attain a richer understanding of ourselves.
The black threads of the tree cut into my mind like a knife; humming down over the freeway from whatever dimension they are in when they are dying – coming in to the world. This world, from its red blood pouring over the sky, saves me from the things I might otherwise write, for its terrible beauties describe the nightmares who inhabit the landscapes of the marshes around the town of Whitechurch, whose waters south of the river, where it splits, at the right hour of night, below the dying sun, pitch me darkly into the world, so that I might recover, from the burden of being alive.
There are four of them above the road, the trees, their knives etched against the red. Like murderers watching the motorists. There is a vicar here – where I am going – this man who has forgotten – or never knew to begin with – what we are doing here. What I am doing here.
Red. I am red, because it is easier than being other things, and because the locked metal bolts shift inside of my head on seeing it, like a bull, this landscape, covered in blood, and over my hands. Like a wailing woman confronting the death of all her loved ones, written into the landscape like a poem waiting to be read. No, that is not quite right. Too melodramatic. It is deeper than ghosts and dead women and loss and love and heartache. It is the colour of the landscape itself: the black against the red: like the shape of my mind against the car, a nightmarish colour reflected inside the prism of the world made to build these empires who keep my soul tethered to the earth.
I am being killed by England, like all of my brothers before me, marching into the iron staves of the night. The trees are our pall bearers, covering the staves with their teeth, so that we might be saved. Do not be afraid: I have been here before. It is the color of night, before it is night, and the color of death before you have died. The watchword of spirits is only your own language, turned inward: the firebolt from space inside your stomach and lungs and capillaries, working to burn better the loan of the punishment you have carried this far, in at least two parts: before, and during.
This also is not quite right, though perhaps closer: before is probably wrong. Rather it is that during – the now – is so immense that it cannot be properly described. And the person I become under its light bleeds over the edges of the moment into the man who writes these words – a necessary failure of description – and the man who is left behind, both there and then and now, like a kind of torture victim, his body twitching from the wires.
I twitch from the wires, but it is all right; these things are necessary when you have been touched. It is just par for the course. If I am a tour guide, then I must guide you, and I promise you I will show you everything that I have time for – and many things you would not have expected to have seen. I promise that bitterness itself – the beverage of my countrymen and yours – is here too celebrated as the fine winestuff to mark our meeting, and to remember us to our loved ones. That the world bound tight to the pelt of the earth, quiet and careful in its menacing intensity, this thing that is never familiar no matter how many times we see it, this palpable evil – a word I should not use, but I cannot yet think of another – is our home. My brother, I am home again, half dead, and I promise that everything I have is yours, if you want it. This is my legacy, cut from my staff, into your kingdom:
*
The road is not long. You can find the church just beyond the bend in the river, beyond the stretch of trees that stand like soldiers guarding a Neolithic burial site. The vicar – a word which means “a substitute,” takes my hand in the dark and smiles – this evil man (and here the word is fine) – my demon to invite me in.
The substitute for England is America, just as the substitute for America is England. This also is not quite right, but that is because I do not know what the substitute for America is. Perhaps it is the place which has no substitutes, even as it has no vicars. We have many preachers and apostles and wise men, charlatans and mad men and reverends and priests and slaves, but no vicars.
In standing under the dark of the English colour, the man is transformed out of his body and into the trees, for the trees are also men, and in their coloration I stand eager, tired and sad, a man against some black wall in Los Angeles, or a prisoner about to executed in some bog. Consider him in his churchyard, before the English dark becomes complete, and before my little car runs out of petrol, before we shake hands again (how many years has it been?), before I know entirely why I have come, and before the reason for the coming of the trees over the red whose knives meant I would I write this story.
“Did you find it all right?”
“No, not really,” I said. The car was still running. I leaned in to switch it off. “My phone ran out of juice. “
What are vicars substitutes for? Not God, surely. It is related to viking: some inlet of water, where the church stands.
Like God stands over us, in his deadly might, and I stand over the river a dead man, I embrace my brother to come home into the night where I had thought I could die at last…I say it like that but it is not so. I do not know what it is that happened. Or who this priest is. Not my brother in Christ or in any other capacity. A monster.
“A cup of tea for you? I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Yes all right.”
Vicar as Viking: an inlet into the water into the country. A vital slit into the vein.
Though I could be wrong I will say anyway: I am glad to be here. In the dead land of my brothers from beyond the sea.
*
1.
There are always so many things to do before you leave. Lock behind your keys, or leave them behind. Choose the crockery to transport. Pick the winter clothes. Arrange for a bed at the other end, assuming they let you in over the border, across the ocean, before the clock runs out.
It’s been ticking for a while, have you noticed? That little background sound. Like a lover in bed, ready to get out:
Viking and vicarage come from an ancient word for clan: weik. The ocean is barely registered in clan histories, except as a god encountered and recorded. Just another being over the stretches of the human imagination. But the boundaries of the clan – that eternal question where one people ends and another begins – ultimately describe the nature of the evil of my brother the vicar in the village of Whitechurch, England. Not only what he decided to be, and didn’t (and the same for me), but what all of us decided to be and didn’t. And what, in preventing us from certain decisions about who to be and who not, the trees made possible. The trees are to blame, you see, absurd as it might sound to some of you. These old and quotidian gods of ours in all their stubbornness, made it possible for the madness to enter my brain, and that of my brother, and for the red to pour down out of the sky, in its blood-brain.
I had to catch my plane:
I’m running down the aisle (a dangerous thing to do after 9-11), and my brother is running through the marsh, and both of us, in our strange ways, are falling in love again, the way you do with brothers, mixed with a little hatred and grist for the milling of our dogmatic bread.
*
2.
There is a red light behind the trees and I am driving to see the vicar. I found out later that the trees are actually men – or pictures of them – stretched over the freeway where they stand on the overpass, figures which in daylight appear mischievous and strangely joyous, leaping behind one another – stick figures.
There is an owl that stands in an ordinary Hampshire wood, next to an engraving of an Easter Island head, both inscribed to Elizabeth Regis, to mark her occult power. The men trees are like that, but deeper, and older, even though they cannot have been constructed much earlier than the owl itself. They remind me of the straw men – the wicker men. the burning of the children over the bright bridge of light that is the world. But still they speak to me also of escape: both outside of and into the world.
Like the Vikings with their wicks – their encampments – I am hanging like a stubborn piece of religious wool caught on a tree – tied on – encamped here to make war in the only way I know how – by writing.
The enemy – a word that means literally “not a friend” – is also not specially an enemy in the way that generals and presidents and kings use it. Probably Satan is the better word, though I would try to use it in some pre-Christian sense. His name means “adversary.” Friends too can cross your path, in this sense. Act against you. And certainly those who are neither friends, nor enemies in the English sense.
Like the Red King asleep in his magical kingdom the wicker men stand as trees over the freeway overpass, running north, freeing some adversary we cannot see, and invoking in their bright stance before the red sun in his sinking the chill of the mysterious powers of the world, something so bright and vast it sinks over my body like a medical tunic, or X-ray blanket, a leaden magnet charging my flesh with orders I cannot help but obey.
*
3.
England does not really exist but Ing does, and I am his prisoner. Here in Ing’s land, I feel the necessity of my obeisances, whose artfulness is encoded into my genes, in some place I am unable to precisely locate. That is the religion of this island. Long before Rome arrived we have our religion encoded, as is the case in the rest of Europe, into our days of the week, as you know:
Sun’s day
Moon’s day
Tiu’s say, god of war and sky
Woden’s day, the skyfather
Thor’s day, his son
Freia’s day, the earth
Saturn’s day, the harvest, with his bright sickle
Well, the last of those gods is pretty Roman, isn’t it? And many claim that the religious bodies of this island are more accurately represented in geographical terms, as in other ancient parts of the world (which is to say, everywhere): mountains, streams, forests, paths and lakes and seas and coasts and hills and circles of flowers. Gods of clouds and grasses and caves and animals. All of the people of the earth and its neighbors in the sky and in the ground and in the fairies’ and other worlds next to our own.
My obeisance cannot be in writing but it is the truest way I can express it, though that is lying to you. I write to understand my obeisances, not to perform them. The performance of them is merely in walking on this island, under the gaze of these many gods, and under the guise of a visiting writer, a cloak no better and no worse than any other thousand wayfarers who came here before me, looking for all the same kinds of things: love, and shelter.
*
4.
It should be all right – this is something I tell myself. The way you can remind yourself of how things went and hope for it again. A form of learning? Yet what happened beneath the color of the sky seems not to be something I can learn from in the same way. Rather it feels like a door I stumbled on inside of myself, the way they appear in nightmares, extending infinitely into a realm you can explore but which you have no guarantee of leaving. I did leave it, you see. The man who called himself the vicar and I had our meeting and I left … but that was later.
Rather it is the color red itself which concerns me. Has the color never bothered you? It is, for instance, the traditional color of all revolutionary movements. In the middle ages, when you wanted to kill your lord, what you hoisted on the pole to see if anyone might salute was the color red. Ditto, the communist revolution. But politics aside, blood color aside, it has further unsettling elements. That low spectrum at the edges of our visibility carries with it that suggestion of edge and all its meanings: abandon hope … or abandon knowledge … abandon sense … or justice … where we approach the edge of the color red.
It’s nothing, of course. We can tell ourselves it is nothing. I can tell you it was just a color in the sky. The same color you are used to seeing. But have you never felt quite this way about it? Have you ever told anyone? Some things do not kindly bear explanation…
It is a fixation of mine. A fixity like the flag itself, and the peasant who hoists it – even though he moves among his fellows he trusts to the fixity of the pole, the fixity of the tree. Perhaps that is all it is: this story I fell into is just one aspect of my love affair with trees. My last name is the color of trees: brown. And that is the color of my hair and eyes. But beneath a red sky we all tremble together, as our flesh before the flame:
*
5.
They say darkness is a friend, and maybe they’re right. It’s a strange friend to have, though. The kind who shows up when you least expect it, with no explanation, or any warning, and who sometimes stays longer than is wanted.
The night who moves, in his ineluctable grace, should not be feared, yet he cannot be welcomed either. He arrives in his own time, in his long sleeves, naming all of the things you had dreamt and could not name yourself, the rivers of time and the starlit gaze of all the beings who dreamt you too.
We are traveling to China, as lovers, though the world has already ended. And its circumveillanced reality, however bright, is dark to me too, for I fled before I knew why it was I had come, to England. That is: we can see all the way around it, without trying too hard, but its nature is beyond control or reason, and if it is not beyond comprehension, that is only because we comprehend it through acting it out, my dark players on our stage of life, burying the truth inside of our bodies like a terrible food that brings no satiety.
My friend darkness knows me like no other, and his grip is soft and loose, like a panther or a character in a play, telling me which lines to say and reminding me of the timing, so that I might recompense him for his grace.
I have brought a woman with me to China. After it all fell out with the vicar. I felt I knew these reasons – as though I should know! As though I should know what it is I was, and am! Better am than was, but still. I am not aware of anything I do. I just find myself doing things, and then try to puzzle out why. Like a dog chewing on a bone, which he has brought into his favorite place, beneath the house and beyond any troubling noise, to gnaw.
Into the darkness we must go, where we can find no shelter, and where all the kingdoms of my life find silence and reason – a reason whose circumference shadows all light. A reason who I tremble to know, incapable, pilgrim characterized in the famous poem as never too urgent – though I am urgent – and never too sure – though I am that too often – and always slow on the right path, through the Slough of Despond and all the rest of it, on towards god and all of his terrible friends, in the world after this one.
Of course, I have said it wrong. Darkness is none of those things. Darkness is something you know, like you know the feeling of toothpaste in your mouth, and the feeling of the covers over your night skin. The sound of your mother’s voice.
“Robin?”
She is coming to meet me in China, she says. She is worried about what I have become.
“What is that, mother?”
She will not say.
*
6.
The vicar would not move; some attack from inside his body. I had summoned help and waited for it arrive outside in the dark, where I could see the sky.
They say the moon is reborn in every cycle; the moon is literally new. For the sun it takes longer: some period of millennia. The light in the garden is diffuse: a damp blanket cleaving last night from this prison. But the possibility of liberation: in whatever condition, and whatever place, on the sheer merits of the imagination, awaits. I wait with it, on my own, burying and unburying the hatchet.
That he is my blood, the vicar, is indisputable: perhaps this is what has enraged me. Some cousin sheared to my body like a tumor: that I am to carry as a child through some terrible pregnancy. A representative of the Queen: but not only a baby-eater. This tribal initiate: guardian however inadequate of these territories stubbornly bequeathed to our children.
He is at the hospital, attended by the deacon. The word has a terrifying root: “to hasten from all sides.” Surrounding the truth in order to quash it.
The older I get the more I respect the quality of Hamlet most subject to the criticism of readers and playgoers: his indecision. To me it seems that insistence on delay kept everyone alive – for a few more hours.
But the use of that indecision for me – the notion that I could make peace with England – the idea that Claudius and his adulteries and betrayals could be preserved in this life – that our findings despite their burning truth could be filed away for some more convenient hour – it has already passed. That is, I want to believe I could be Hamlet because of the preserving power of his indecision but I already decided long ago. Long before I came to England.
Perhaps the revolution of my ancestors – once on these shores and once on others – was never about kings of forms of government, or even land. Perhaps the religious war trumped all other concerns, and its fragmentary union of the disparate selves who inhabit these bodies we call human leashed and liberated us both at once: leashed to this conflict with the European monarchs, and liberated from the boxes into which they had thrown our peasant ancestors. Irrespective of parliamentarian debate or questions of landownership turned the fires of the night over which our dreams depended, strands of life descending over the waywardship of this life, bonded to and breeched from the earth. Tied again, re ligio.
Thomas Browne’s magnum opus, Religio Medici, from the period that spawned my absurd American warrior tribe, the Seventeenth Century, stands as a monument above other things to the Orwellian fear (300 years before his birth) of speaking your mind. To avoid being taken for a heretic, Browne delivers a tractatus on not delivering a tractatus. Another kind of Hamlet. These priests and their tribal fears writ into the logics of our hands and bones – the images we see in sleep.
I must go to the hospital.
*
7.
Perhaps a vicar is a kingdom all his own: they say the religion is dead but it is not so. It is tied to so many things: even the shape of your breath. The names you have for the sky. Clothes and paths and boats. The relationship you have with birds. All the village conundrums and fealties spread out over the hill and field, numberless beyond the imagination.
If I am tied again let it be to the weik again, so I can know my place inside of the dreams of my ancestors, waiting for the word in the dark.
Here is my word to you, brother. I am dead, but I am whispering into your heart all the things we’ve yet to do together.
On Saturdays Mr. Mathur came to the apartment to teach my mother the Hindu way. A retired jeweler, his life was now devoted to spirituality. He wouldn’t take money so my mother often gave him little presents of flowers or fruit. Her job at Paramount did not pay much, which meant sometimes on Saturday mornings she grabbed a pair of scissors and walked around the block, returning with a couple of our neighbor’s Bird of Paradise blossoms. Every day at Paramount the producer made her cry and every day my mother hid in the Ladies Room until she got over it. One Saturday she overslept and said to me, “Go to Ralphs and get an orange to give to the teacher.”
January was orange season and the orange turned out to be six cents, no tax. Outside the store someone was calling my name. Freddie. Since preschool he had been in my class. Now we were sophomores together at Uni High. More importantly, Freddie straddled a cherry red Honda scooter. He said, “Wanna go to Hot Dog On A Stick?”
My mother and I used to go all the time, except now we were nearly full time vegetarians. In high school, she had worked at Hot Dog On A Stick, wearing the crazy hat and squashing the lemonade. I would have liked to have worked someplace after school to earn some extra money but she said I couldn’t because of my poor grades.
Freddie and I sat on a concrete wall eating the hot dogs and watching the sun bang off the ocean. The scooter belonged to his uncle and his uncle was in the Marines. Freddie was pretty sure his uncle would give him the scooter if his uncle got posted to Okinawa.
“The guru,” Freddie said. “What does he do?”
I pointed to the hot dog. “This is a delusion. Once you begin a life of meditation, you can see that.”
“The hot dog?”
“No. The wanting the hot dog.”
“You meditate?”
“No.” Even my mother did not meditate all that much. She lay in bed with the pillow over her head.
By the time we got back to the apartment, the lesson was over, but Mr. Mathur was still around, standing with my mother on the sidewalk, and pointing to something in the sky.
A daytime moon. Only half of one, tilted towards the sun, a silver tennis ball that floated just above the palm tree.
“Oh, hello, Freddie.” My mother smiled when I handed her the orange.
I hadn’t thought about it before, but were the moon and the sun ever supposed to be in the sky together? One gave way to the other, right?
“Where did you get that scooter, Freddie?” my mother asked.
A narrow white cloud was streaked across the sky. At the beach today children had been playing and I felt the urge to join them though Freddie and I were too old to play in the sand.
“My uncle,” he said.
Mr. Mathur was pleased with the orange. An orange was an excellent fruit, he said, the color especially. Man could never produce anything as amazing as an orange. He peeled the orange and split it into four parts, one for each of us. After he ate his part, he folded the peel in half and ate that.
The orange was delicious, the best six cent purchase I had ever made. Also I have never been able to replicate that moment.
IN THE HIGH COURT OF JUSTICE
QUEEN’S BENCH DIVISION
THE ADMINISTRATIVE COURT
Before:
MR JUSTICE EVANS
Between:
JASON GREENE
Appellant
-v-
THE CITIZENS’ HEALTH COMMISSIONER
Respondent
Judgment
Introduction
1. This is an appeal against the decision of the Citizens’ Health Commissioner (‘the Commissioner’) to refuse to grant a licence under Section 20 of the British Rights Act (‘the Act’).
2. In April of this year the appellant, Jason Greene, applied for a Section 20 licence. In May, the Commissioner notified the appellant that his application had been refused. The reason given for this refusal was that the statutory criterion for obtaining a licence had not been satisfied. The issue for this court to consider is whether that was indeed the case.
Factual Background
3. The appellant is 26 years old. He lives with his wife, Joanna, in a two-bedroom flat in North East London. They have been married for 5 years, but have lived together for 7, and have been in a relationship for 8. They have no children.
4. Although the appellant does not own his home, he does own one car, and has around £5,000 of savings spread across two separate bank accounts. Evidence of these funds has been shown to me with a view to demonstrating that the appellant and his wife are financially stable.
5. The appellant left school when he was 16 years old, so did not receive a full secondary education. However, he did secure an apprenticeship with a construction firm, and has since completed numerous courses, specializing in bricklaying. He is now in his fifth year of employment with his current company, Mason’s Masons, and I have been presented with four character references written by his colleagues and superiors. By all accounts, he is a diligent, industrious, trustworthy and courteous employee.
6. The appellant underwent the Mandatory Paternity Programme (‘the Programme’) 7 years ago, when he was 19 years old.
7. The appellant’s wife is employed as a staff nurse at the Royal North London Children’s Facility. She took up this position 3 years ago, after completing specialist paediatric training with the Greater London Health Authority. I have been presented with three character references relating to Mrs Greene: one from her current supervisor, one from a colleague, and one from her line manager. Each reference documents, in some detail, her devotion to the children she treats, frequently working in excess of her allotted hours in order to assist with the care of those who are vulnerable and traumatized.
8. Finally, I note that the appellant pleaded guilty to one charge of theft 6 years ago. He received a community-based sentence, and although he does not appear to have offended since then, his brother, his cousin, and his uncle are all known to the police. The appellant’s wife does not appear to have a criminal history.
9. In April of this year the appellant provided the Commissioner with all of this information as part of his written licence application. He included supporting documentation, as required, and attended an interview with the Commissioner’s office, as is now standard. None of the aforementioned facts are in dispute.
Legal framework: Sections 18 to 21 of the British Rights Act
10. Section 18 of the Act provides for the government to create a Mandatory Paternity Programme, to be overseen and administered by the Commissioner and his office. The Programme is now in its tenth year.
11. The Programme requires all ‘eligible persons’ to do two things: first, to register with their local health authority, and second, to undergo ‘the standard procedure’. This procedure is defined in Section 18(2) as a vasectomy.
12. Section 18(3) defines ‘eligible person’ as any person who:
a. is male;
b. is resident in Britain;
c. is aged between 16 and 60 years old;
d. is sexually active;
e. is of the relevant means.
13. Section 18(4) defines a ‘sexually active’ person as any person who is not already sterile, and defines ‘the relevant means’ as having an income that is below the ninety-eighth percentile.
14. Section 19 of the Act creates the offences of failing to register with a local health authority, failing to undergo the standard procedure, and fathering children without a licence. All of these are punishable by 12 months’ imprisonment, the withdrawal of employment rights, and the termination or confiscation of any children conceived illegally.
15. Section 20 of the Act provides that, having undergone the standard procedure, any eligible person may apply to the Commissioner to obtain a licence which permits (i) the reversal of the procedure, and (ii) the fathering of children. The sole criterion for the granting of such a licence is that the applicant proves himself to be ‘a fit and proper person’, and thus deserving of paternity rights.
16. Section 20(2) states that when the Commissioner is assessing whether an applicant for a licence is a fit and proper person, he must have regard to the following considerations:
a. the applicant’s means, and whether he is financially stable;
b. the applicant’s background, which includes ethnic, religious, and social ties;
c. the applicant’s domestic circumstances, and whether he enjoys domestic stability;
d. the applicant’s family, and the risk that may be posed by the replication of biological traits;
e. the public interest.
18. Section 21 provides that when the Commissioner refuses to grant a licence, the applicant shall have an automatic right of appeal against that decision. Appeal lies to this court. The appellant is now exercising this right of appeal, arguing that the Commissioner’s decision was wrong. He appears alone, without legal representation.
Discussion
18. The sole issue in this case is whether the appellant satisfies the statutory criterion for the granting of a licence: that is, whether he is a fit and proper person and as such, deserving of paternity rights. The Commissioner’s office has failed to provide either the appellant or this court with anything approaching an explanation for its original decision, but I note that it is under no obligation to do so.
19. In assessing the appellant’s licence application, it is helpful to consider the purpose of the Programme and its licensing regime. This was laid out by the Home Secretary, Sir Harvey Jenkins MP, as the Bill made its way through Parliament. I quote from Hansard:
The policy that is contained in this Bill will safeguard not merely the future of the British people, but also their flourishing. It will act as a critical brake on our great nation’s population growth, allowing us to manage the resources we have at our disposal in a fair and responsible way – both the natural resources of the living world, and the man-made resources of capital and concrete. And it will ensure that ours is a truly meritocratic society, in which only those who have proved themselves to be deserving are permitted to enjoy the ultimate privilege: that of imitating God by creating life. Perhaps most importantly, though, it will secure our legacy by guaranteeing that only the brightest, only the best, only the most noble amongst us are entrusted with taking our country forward. When one reflects upon this trans-generational scope, it is difficult to conceive of a policy that would be more beneficial to the great British people.
20. The appellant argues that he is a fit and proper person on the following grounds (turning to the considerations listed at paragraph 16, above):
a. Means: he and his wife are financially stable, with regular income and savings of around £5,000;
b. Background: neither he nor his wife are affiliated with any ethnic, religious, or social group that might compromise their fealty to the British state;
c. Domestic circumstances: he and his wife have been in a relationship for around 8 years, without interruption, and there is no reason to think that this will not continue;
d. Family: although there are members of the appellant’s family who have been convicted of criminal offences, they are effectively estranged;
e. Public interest: granting a licence to the appellant would serve the public interest in two ways: first, by demonstrating how the privilege of parenting could be earned; and second, by allowing the appellant to serve the British state by raising a child who embodies its values.
21. The appellant’s efforts in arguing his case are laudable, and much of what he says is true. I fully accept that he has achieved a level of domestic and financial stability, but his application is haunted by the spectre of criminality.
22. In respect of his own criminal history, he has argued that the case of Cathcart v The Citizen’s Health Commissioner establishes that a single criminal conviction need not preclude the awarding of a licence to an individual who otherwise meets the criterion. However, the facts of this case are quite different from those in Cathcart.
23. First, the appellant’s conviction is for theft: an offence of dishonesty. The very existence of this conviction shows him to be a dishonest and deceitful man. Such an individual will never be deserving of paternity rights, and it is plainly not in the public interest for his criminal tendencies to be replicated. In contrast, in the case of Cathcart,Lord Cathcart’s conviction was for driving with excess alcohol, which does not reflect any equivalent underlying flaws.
24. Second, Lord Cathcart was and remains a public figure of considerable wealth and repute. Any man of his stature will be deserving of paternity rights, and it will always be in the public interest for the traits of such esteemed individuals to be replicated. The appellant holds no comparable social status.
25. I note that I am also deeply concerned by the appellant’s family background. Although he claims to be estranged from the criminals within his family, his own criminal history strongly suggests a link between his character and theirs. Naturally, this heightens the suspicion that his criminality would be replicated in any child that he has, and thus lends support to the view that the granting of a licence would be wholly inappropriate.
26. Finally, I do not accept the argument that granting the appellant a licence would be in the public interest because it would (i) demonstrate how the privilege of parenting could be earned and (ii) allow the appellant to serve the state. The public are well aware of how the privilege of parenting can be earned, and the appellant may serve the state in any number of alternative ways.
27. I applaud the appellant and his wife for the ardour and tenacity with which they have pursued this appeal. I also recognise that they are hard-working Britons who, in another time, might have made satisfactory parents. However, Parliament has made it clear that only the most exceptional among us are deserving of paternity rights, and the appellant does not fall within that category. His criminal history and connections render him an unfit and improper person; one who is not and never will be worthy of the great privilege of creating life. Granting a licence to such an individual would fundamentally undermine the purpose of the Programme, as outlined in paragraph 19, above.
28. For all of these reasons I dismiss the appellant’s appeal and make a Standard Costs Order against him for bringing his case before me. This is to be paid within 7 days.
You wonder if she’s dead. The girl in that photograph. The well-known one—photograph, that is, not girl. She’s lying at the centre of a caved-in car roof, buckled metal ripples out from under her. It’s a perfect composition; a delicate balance of soft flesh and sharp steel. You see it a lot. Replicas, mostly. Music videos and haute couture fashion spreads, that kind of thing. And there’s a particularly famous silk-screen print. It’s old. The photograph that is. And the car. Not the girl, though; she’s very young.
But is she dead? It’s important that you know this. And no, you don’t mean dead outside the photograph. No. That would diminish it, wouldn’t it? Lessen its beauty. Admit it. You’d be disappointed if, after the shutter snapped, a male voice shouted “that’s a wrap”, and the girl sat up, stretched her stiff limbs, and stepped down from the car roof into a long, unremarkable life that ended one distant night in silver-haired sleep. Yes, you would. But if death were closer… to her, to the photo… If, minutes after this final flash, perhaps as she dashed to meet her beau at their favourite seafood restaurant, she was rammed to immediate death by an overzealous squad car, then the photo retains some value. But it decreases, doesn’t it, the longer death prowls the edge of the frame. Even if it’s only for a day or two, or however long it takes for bacteria lurking in undercooked oysters to kill an otherwise healthy human. There’s a ratio to these things: beauty, time, death. So, you concede, a final photo of a soon-to-be-dead girl is all-well-and-good. But for it to be beautiful, you need to know.
For it to be beautiful, you need to know that the car, a limousine, is parked on New York’s 34th street, a little after 10 on the morning of May 1st, 1947. You need to know that the observation deck on the 86th floor of the Empire State Building is 1,040 feet high and that a ticket is required to access it. You need to know that she purchased a ticket. For the photograph to be beautiful, you need to know that it was taken about four minutes after her landing. You need to know that she was twenty-three when she jumped.
Can you look at it? Do you flinch? It’s bloodless, after all. No bones piercing skin, no sign of solid turned to liquid–although reports say that when they tried to move it, the body was little more than mush held together by clothing. A meat scarecrow. But you can’t see any of that. And perhaps this disappoints you a little. But the body hadn’t settled long enough to dissolve when photography student, Robert Wiles, snapped its image. He’d be drinking coffee in a local diner when he heard whatever sound is made when human meets steel at top speed. LIFE Magazine’s Picture of the Week. Page forty-three of the May 12th issue. “The Most Beautiful Suicide.”
Her name was Evelyn McHale.
She wasn’t beautiful.
Only the photograph is beautiful.
An exquisite shot; as artful an arrangement as you could expect to see in an edgy advertising campaign, the kind found only in those thick, heavily scented magazines. The slightly elevated camera eye allows us the full length of the upside-down body and the wrinkled steel spreads from beneath, as if she’s simply flopped backwards, after a long day, on to a bed of black metal. About her head and to the right of her feet are white dots, glass fragments that give sound to the image. The sound of calamity; the smashing of a million, million cells in a single instant. The sound of hysteria. These same tiny dots give it movement; a bounce-less energy of down, of plunge, of end. Delicate and devastating. Like one of those slow-motion films of a water drop crashing onto a leaf.
At the top edge, there’s the blurred suggestion of people. They’re very close. All men, it seems. Trench coats and cigarettes, fedoras at cocky angles. Officials perhaps? The type called to deal with situations like this. But then you remember: four minutes. There’s been no time for police or tape or procedures or statements or questions or identification or loved ones. So, these men are just there. De-mobbed veterans, stormers of Normandy, liberators of Belsen. They’ve seen worse. Perhaps these fuzzily rendered Joe Publics turn to each other, and silently decide: Let’s start at the top. With her feet.
Shoeless. Though shoes seem to be the only item of clothing lost during her free-fall. A flayed stocking drapes her right foot, and the elasticated top of its partner is visible under her left knee. Of course, we wouldn’t normally be able to see this—her knee that is, but in this prone position, her skirt is hitched a little higher than usual. Her ankles are demurely crossed. There is a suggestion in some reports that this was done by the first police officer on the scene, Patrolman John Morrissey. To preserve her dignity.
Moving our eye down the photograph and up her body … her legs are solid. Strong calves, meaty, not fat; brimming with mid-western vigour. Travelling up the curve of her thigh, the suggestion of fullness, of sturdiness is again apparent. The phrase “good stock” comes to mind. But then the curve streamlines, cello-like, to the hips and what was robust becomes voluptuous. And not just because of those Mansfield-ian proportions. No. See the hole? Just above the crotch? A missing button. A burst of sex. Like water gushing from a ruptured pipe.
Strangely—and we’ve arrived at the breasts now—this sexual surge doesn’t continue. Maybe they’re rendered flat by the angle of the lens, or perhaps her bra is not engineered to prop them up. Maybe it’s her “Thursday” bra; thrown on without thought because it’s comfortable and, well, who’s going to see it? Or perhaps her breasts just are small. Now is not the time, the Joe Publics agree, to consider such things.
But lifting our eyes to the throat, we note a different sexual charge. Not overt, like the burst button. More vulnerable, exposed. The slight incline of her chin suggests she’s offering it, her throat that is, inviting it to be kissed, bitten, or licked. And her lipsticked-lips feel wet. Open, mid-pant, a response to a mildly erotic dream. Then there’s the pearls. Perhaps it’s because they’re so close to that meaty lower lip that they too seem so wet and fleshy. Or maybe pearls are always like that. Brutal too. Snatched. Rewards.
A gift, maybe. Let’s suppose they are. From the beau. His name is Barry Rhodes. Barry Rhodes of Eastern Pennsylvania who, at the second this photograph is taken, believes that in one month, Evelyn McHale will be—as she has agreed to be— his wife. Barry Rhodes, who first saw Evelyn at a New Year Party. Who—we might imagine—watched her from his own empty table. Watched her laugh too late, too loud, too soon; watched her square-peg-self search for a way into an invisible round hole; watched her eager smile grow evermore desperate; watched it freeze, then thaw, melt and drip from that round, heavy chin. Every time she tried to talk, drip, to dance, drip, drip, to sit, to do, to be, to fit drip, drip, drip. Perhaps Barry Rhodes, engineering student, living at home with his mother, watched Evelyn McHale struggle into an ill-fitting coat, and stumble on ill-fitting shoes and then, certain no one else was watching her, thought to himself: This is the ill-fitting girl I’ve been watching out for.
Let’s imagine him, kind, colourless, Barry Rhodes, presenting his girl with this string of pearls at their favourite seafood restaurant. Let’s imagine he thought it witty. And let’s take the liberty to reanimate Evelyn McHale. To sit her upright, alive and unremarkable, her knees covered. In her hands, a velvet box. There they are, sumptuous and white against red fabric.
“Y’know, the way these things are formed, Evelyn… so interesting,” white-bibbed Barry explains, “They’re these irritants. Like a splinter, or a spec of grit in your eye.” He picks up a shell from his plate, points to the pink, lip-like animal inside, “so this little guy, he needs to protect himself, right, from this infection. So, he—or she, I guess—secretes this stuff from its glands. Layers and layers of this mucus stuff. All around this infection. To isolate it, y’know?”
She tries to hide her distaste, her instinct to recoil from the strangely obscene animal that disappears down his convulsing throat.
“So when they prize the shell, the oyster’s shell, open,” his chin glistens with exquisite juice and she focuses her eyes on the contents of the box, “they find…”
Tiny balls of mucus, she says. Then she lifts them, dangles them in the candlelight, and she fancies she can see the source. The piece of grit, the splinter, the cut, the ache, the pain at its centre. Tiny balls of infection, she says. Then she notices his open mouth and the familiar jolt of shame makes her eyes water and her fists clench, because she tries, she does. She tries and tries and tries but still… …I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…
He chuckles then, ‘No, no you’re right,’ he says, because he loves her and is happy to retune his pitch to hers. “Pure Timeless Chic is how the sales girl put it! Ha! Whatever that means!”
She puts them on to please him, and feels their sickness against her throat. He smiles. ‘The girl said they’re the same type Lana Turner wears.’ He pays the bill and places her ill-fitting coat on her shoulders. ‘And y’know Evelyn, every woman should have a set of pearls.’
Gentle, well-meaning Barry Rhodes, who we have to imagine didn’t immediately the recognise the elegant beauty in the photograph as his Evelyn. Barry Rhodes, who’d rolled out and off her the night before she jumped; who then re-adjusted his flannel pyjamas, and planted a brisk but tender kiss on her cheek, before scuttling back to the twin bed made daily by his mother.
“’Night, Evie. Early start in the morning.”
Barry Rhodes, who can’t recall their parting words because she’d had to dash to make the 7 am train from his home in Eastern to Grand Central station, or else be late to her bookkeeping job in Lower Manhattan. Barry Rhodes, who saw no signs, and had no clue, who told investigators that she was as happy as any young girl about to be married. Barry Rhodes, who spent the remainder of his eighty-five marriage-less years, wondering just how happy that was supposed to be.
She’s clutching them – clutch is the verb used with pearls. In a white gloved hand. Turner-esque elegance with a smatter of Davis-ian melodrama. And, could we venture, a soupcon of Monroe’s innocence, mixed with a hint of Baccall-ian cynicism? Yes, there in the combination of raised chin and parted lip. A naiveté and a seductiveness. The virgin and the whore. Or maybe it’s confusion we see. Maybe she’s wondering why her descent is so rushed; why she’s hurtling like a brick and not billowing like a leaf. Why she doesn’t feel light, doesn’t feel relieved of her cumbersome mass like she expected. Because for god’s sake, that’s why she opted for this method! Why she hasn’t slashed or swallowed, gassed or garrotted. Maybe she’s wondering about why the windows of this, the tallest man-made structure on earth, this mammoth feat of engineering and imagination, watch her fall with such icy disregard. Will they remain closed? Will no one try to catch her?
Maybe she’s surprised at just how easy it is to die.
Turns out all you have to do is buy a ticket.
It’s in her purse. The ticket to the observation deck. In her purse, next to her carefully folded, ill-fitting coat, 1,040 feet above the limousine roof. They’re given to a Uniformed Man who rifles through them to find the answer. The note isn’t addressed to anyone in particular, so perhaps Uniformed Man feels that he is as entitled to read it as if his name were on the envelope. He reads:
I have too many of my mother’s tendencies…
At this time, Uniformed Man doesn’t know about mother. He doesn’t know that mother is the former wife of father; that father’s name is Vincent McHale, that mother’s name is Unknown; that Unknown mother is mother to all seven of Vincent McHale’s children, the sixth of which was named Evelyn; that Unknown mother called her Evie; and that one day something happened and Unknown mother was gone. And when she left, she left all seven of her children. But her tendencies, these she left only with her sixth born. Tendencies: tender gifts wrapped in complex codes, in cells, in blood, in hair, bones, and proportions of hip, thigh, and breast. Little hidden infections.
Let’s suppose one day, before Unknown mother disappeared, she invited her little Evie into the dark, smoky boudoir she seldom left and which stank of her unwashed illness. Perhaps Little Evie was nervous to enter this room, perhaps she sensed its danger. Imagine Little Evie. Number 6, hand-me-down, unnoticed. Imagine Unknown mother, tangled in grey sheets on an unshared bed. Imagine Little Evie’s round face held fast against Unknown mother’s bony chest. And now imagine Unknown mother apologize for being:
‘a little late… I should have told you a while ago… about the things that happen….to young girls… about what will happen to you…’
Picture Little Evie, watching the wet drops that fall from Unknown mother’s face landing on stiff sheets with an audible plop.
‘… but I’ve not been very well and… Plop, plop…things are going to happen … to you…Plop, plop…and you need to be…prepared.’ Plop, plop.
And Evie wants to wrestle out from Unknown mother’s grasp, to run from her rank body and poisoned breath. And she wants to tell Unknown mother that Big Sister Helen has already explained everything. That she did so after finding panic-stricken Little Evie stuffing red stained sheets into the garbage like she had been for months. And now Little Evie wants to tell Unknown mother to save her foul breath, but then Unknown mother’s voice tolls, cold and clear.
‘…I worry about you, Evie…plop, plop…You’re just like me.’
Perhaps around Unknown mother’s neck, there are a string of pearls. Perhaps she says to her Little Evie, “Do you know why they make them, Evie? Do you know why the oyster makes pearls?” Perhaps Unknown mother bestows these pearls, along with her tendencies, upon her sixth born. And perhaps Unknown mother, flipping idly through the May 12th, 1947 issue of LIFE Magazine, is arrested by the image of “The Most Beautiful Suicide” on page forty-three, but doesn’t recognize her not-so-beautiful daughter until she reads her name in the accompanying caption. Perhaps Unknown mother clicks her tongue knowingly. Or perhaps where she is, she doesn’t have access to things like magazines.
Perhaps Uniformed Man, note in hand, imagines a scene similar to the one you’ve just imagined. Maybe he nods and thinks; That explains that! Imagine him reading on, deciphering hasty blue scribbles, doodled whirls, pressed hard into the paper. Imagine the note is covered in them, these inky tornados, mini storms surrounding a polite request for cremation, and an emphatic plea for no one in or out of the family to see any part of me. Of course, Uniformed Man has no idea that it is far, far too late for that.
Too late because Robert Wiles had the presence of mind to grab his camera from the lunch counter he was sitting at when he heard death’s unmistakable smash. Robert Wiles who had simply raised the Kodak Six-20 above his head at an angle that was either instinctive or accidental, and depressed the exposure button; who was, for our imagined purposes, an indifferent student of photography in whom his instructors discerned no flash of remarkability; who entered his bath-cum-developing room with no visual memory of the dead girl on the car. Robert Wiles, who stood in the chemical darkness, congratulating himself on his fine artistic eye, as the image emerged in fluids and became memory.
Yep, the Joe Publics think as they sit at kitchen tables and snip a rectangular hole on page forty-two of the May 12th issue of LIFE Magazine, That’s what I saw, exactly as I saw it. Then they stick it into books scraped with other things they saw at Iwo Jima and Omaha Beach. Yep, that’s what I saw.
It’s left to Big Sister Helen to identify the messy remains with her own eyes. She has to hurry because the neighbour watching Little Bobby has to go to work at 3 and she couldn’t very well let a small boy see his aunt’s dead body now, could she? Perhaps Big Sister Helen is shocked. Perhaps she is not shocked. Perhaps she always knew that she, Evelyn, that is, had too many of their mother’s tendencies. Perhaps she’s distraught at the site of her sister’s pulverized remains. Perhaps she’s seen worse.
Perhaps she is given a bag. Plastic, transparent: Items Found About the Person of the Deceased. Clothing has been incinerated of course; nothing to be gained from the fibres that held Evelyn’s innards in. The stockings too. Her shoes, well there’s a bit of a mystery there, ma’am, Another Uniformed Man explains. He hands over the bag of Evelyn, and Big Sister Helen thinks: Shouldn’t there be some sort of ceremony? Turns out she just needs to sign and date here, and initial here and here.
Let’s imagine Big Sister Helen as the type of person who waits for the privacy of her own home to go through the belongings of a deceased sibling. That she removes a pearl necklace from the see-through bag on her kitchen table. Maybe Big Sister recognizes Unknown mother’s pearls. Maybe she holds them up to the light, watches them blink with tired lustre and thinks: These really should’ve be mine, anyway.
Or maybe she assumes they’re a gift from Barry Rhodes. Will he want them back? she wonders? Or would it be in bad taste to…
And no, she never once wonders how these creamy mucus balls are formed.
But let’s also think practically; it’s very likely that the necklace had to be cut from a stiffened clutch or pulpy neck. So maybe unfettered pearls spill from the bag onto the table. Maybe they bounce, scatter and roll and Big Sister Helen scrambles to retrieve them before Little Bobby one shoves one in his mouth. But still, maybe for weeks, for months, for years —long after Big Sister and Bobby are gone from that kitchen in that house—tiny balls of grit are found lurking in dusty corners and crevices.
And now you know. The girl on the car is dead. Indelibly so. All you need to do is purchase a ticket to see for yourself. Yes, for the bargain price of $20 (plus tax) —$10 on Good Friday— you can examine every inch of Evelyn McHale’s beautiful death. And you think about it. About buying a ticket. Of sitting there in front of huge silk-screen prints, and absorbing this piece of art. And while you do, you might think about Robert Wiles, and you might wonder if the money he made from his photograph was enough for him never to have to publish another one ever again. Or was he too overcome with guilt for having foiled Evelyn McHale’s one desire for self-obliteration to continue as a photographer? Maybe. Or maybe he just wasn’t any good. And then you wonder if Barry Rhodes ever spent $20 to see his Evelyn in her pearls? Or Big Sister Helen, or Little Bobby. Maybe even Unknown mother. And then you wonder: what did happen to those pearls?
And so maybe you go there. Maybe you spend $20 to look at her for as long as you want —between the hours of 10 and 5.
Please make sure no one in or out of my family sees any part of me.
Could you look? Would you flinch? There’s a joy in it, isn’t there? In the flinch. Because she really is dead, you know. In the photograph. And out of it. Can you see them? Her mother’s tendencies? Maybe in the burst button at her crotch, or in the wet, parted lips? Perhaps in the string of tiny infections around her neck.
She is not beautiful.
Only the photograph is beautiful.
Violet after the divorce, wanting for newness. Deciding to leave England, to go somewhere else. To go to Mexico, Honduras, and Nicaragua. Violet in an aeroplane on her own. Violet walking on the smooth floors of the airport.
Violet as expat, migrant. Moving to Granada, Nicaragua, learning Spanish properly this time.
Violet taking lovers, taking walks, taking painting-classes, taking another shot at life, and then another. Violet becoming freckled. Her hair greying. Violet taking a long hard look at herself. Violet liking herself.
Violet visiting Masaya Volcano National Park. Violet loving that place. Seeing the lava. Laughing on the bus down, even past the chicken factory stink. Violet’s big teeth catching the sunlight when she laughed. Violet meeting somebody called Sofia, speaking with her. Violet and Sofia taking walks together, taking tea together, crying together, cooking for each other.
Violet and Sofia drinking Maracuja juice on their balconies. Violet and Sofia making love, sometimes. Sofia dancing to the BeeGees and Violet snorting hot tea, laughing. Sofia dancing more when Violet smiled, and then even more when Violet was quiet. Violet reading the news. Violet trying to understand. Sofia and Violet talking about Ortega.
Violet beginning to feel very tired. Violet trying to read long books. Violet not reading, and not going outdoors very much at all. The sun slipping through the sides of Violet’s blinds, lighting her living room through curtains. Violet emailing her family with silly pictures, jokes from the internet, anything to say hello.
Violet feeling very tired, one day. Opening her curtains, and looking out at green.
Violet not opening her curtains the next day. The last day. Violet feeling very slow and very tired. Violet lying on the floor, tired and in pain and watching a lizard climb the wall the whole afternoon, it felt like. The lizard flickering. Violet dying on the cool floor, in the afternoon, with light coming in through the closed yellow curtains. Violet found, hours later.
Violet dead.
Violet as email login, as lost password book, address book, phone call. Violet mourned. Violet laid out on a strange bed. Violet in an urn on Sofia’s lap on the bus. In Sofia’s hands, against her body as she walked. Violet in the green of the National Park. Violet in Sofia’s palm on the slope of the volcano. Violet as smoke on the breeze. Ash. Violet as empty urn. Taken home. Violet as volcanic glass, strands, strung across the landscape, like fair hair.
The little girl, who was not stupid, hated the doll, and so before she went to bed that night she hid it at the very far end of her room with its face to the wall. But when she woke up the next morning the doll had moved. It was now propped up on the table next to the window, and worst of all it was looking straight at her.
– Robin Stevens
This week on Litro Lab, we bring you a spooky story about the complex relationship we all have with the objects we own. We like to accumulate them in our houses and spend large sums of money on them. Some make our lives easier, others are just pretty. We enjoy having them around because they define us. That said, have you ever wondered about the inner life of the things you own? What if they had a special kind of soul? Would they like you back? Or would they have more sinister feelings?
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When Matteo moved to London, he’d brought with him little more than a simple vision of a growing bank account. He had withdrawn all his savings, every last bit, to move from his parents’ three-storey house in Naples to his bedsit in White City. Bedsit: he hadn’t heard of this word, and the compactness of space and economy of furniture it embodied, until he was standing on its threshold. He’d been dumbfounded and impressed all at once by the ingenuity before him: a sixteen square metre space that managed to fit a single bed, a closet, a chest of drawers, a shower cubicle, a plastic table and chair, and a kitchen counter with a sink, a double hob and a microwave. A single window looked out to a metallic West London dominated by the BBC and Westfield shopping centre.
Before moving, he’d imagined living in the London of tourist brochures: emerging from the stately front door of a Notting Hill house painted in classic white to go for a jog in Hyde Park, or to glitzy bars overlooking London shimmering under the night sky. Instead, the paint on his front door was peeling, yellowed and stained; the wood at the bottom was rotting, and he had to close the door gently in case it slammed. The streets that he emerged onto were grimy and littered with trash. There were hardly any trees, and Hyde Park was too far away to reach by foot.
To keep the sunken feeling at bay, he reminded himself of what he’d also imagined: a jubilation from grasping London in his hands and conquering it. He was the first in his family to leave Naples, and he was determined to achieve more than they had, create a successful life in a global city. When he found himself reminiscing about Italy with the Italians that he’d inevitably meet, the sunken feeling would rise up, reach his throat, and begin to squeeze.
He avoided Italian company. He melded into the city’s horde of people, one amongst many, seeking comfort from strangers. When he returned to his bedsit, he passed the time on his phone, allowing social media to numb the tightness in his chest at his unsuccessful job applications. Gradually, the compactness of the furnishings, fitting into each other like Tetris blocks, reduced the largeness of London. He tried to hold on to his vision of success, but it began to wilt in his arid bedsit. He could not grasp this London; it slipped through his fingers like raindrops off umbrellas. Often, when it was past midnight, he’d realised that he hadn’t spoken to anyone the entire day. Imagine that. This was not what he’d imagined; he’d imagined a life.
But he was here. And it’d only been a month. Perhaps things would look up if he lowered his expectations, settled for something that paid the bills, sorted out the basics. Eventually, he found a job with a ride-hailing company. Why not? He liked driving, he was good at it, and the company liked people who fulfilled those two criteria. Besides, interacting with passengers every day would be good for him; it would lend some weight to his days.
His employer helped him with the requisite licences, and he rented a car from them. A few weeks later, he slapped on a smile and began his new job. At first, he greeted his passengers like potential friends and tried conversing with them.
“Hi!” he would say. “I’m Matteo. How are you?”
“Oh, hi. I’m well, thank you.”
“How’s your day been?”
“Good, thanks.”
“Nice. Where are you from?”
“London.”
“You like it here?”
“Yeah, it’s all right.”
He felt like an intruder into their private lives. When they stared out of the window, he stopped trying to fill the silence.
He brought the silence back to his bedsit where it began to crowd what little space he had. The view from his window was indistinguishable from what he’d looked at the whole day: a city dunked in a bucket of unremarkable grey paint, preparing in perpetuity for a funeral. Although it took on some colour when he received his salary, for it was more than he’d make in Naples, he began to suspect that he had it all wrong.
He held on anyway. Things had to get better. Hadn’t they?
*
And they seemed to, one Monday evening, when he picked up a pretty Asian-looking woman from the Barbican.
“Hello,” she said, and shut the door.
Matteo glanced at her in the rear view mirror. Her fair skin seemed translucent in the darkness of the car, and her eyes, framed by a pair of large round glasses, twinkled as she smiled at him.
“Ciao,” he said. He looked back onto the road. “Where are you from?”
“China.”
“What do you do in London?”
“I’m a student.”
“What do you study?”
“Mathematics.”
Matteo nodded and started thinking about what to have for dinner. To his surprise, she asked, “Where are you from?”
His gaze darted back to the rear view mirror. She was still looking at him. “Italy,” he said. “You can’t tell from the accent?”
“Not really,” she said with a laugh. “I just arrived a month ago. Maybe I will be able to tell after a few more months.”
She was like him: a new arrival. He held her gaze as long as he could, and said, “I see. You ever been to Italy?”
“Yes, Rome, a few years ago. I went with my parents.”
“You like it?”
“Oh, yes! I loved the Coliseum. So historical and amazing. Are you from there?”
“No, I’m from Naples. You been?”
“No. Is it nice?”
“Yes, of course. We have the best pizza in the world!”
“Really? I’ll have to try. Maybe I will go this summer.”
Her accent lilted like musical notes. When he could look at her in the rear view mirror, her eyes were always ready to meet his. He broke into a huge smile. “Yes, you should. I can give you some tips.”
“Yes, that’ll be nice.”
He thought maybe he shouldn’t, maybe it was unprofessional, maybe he would get into trouble if she complained. But she was still smiling at him when he pulled up at her student flat. After the payment had gone through, he turned to face her.
“Hey. Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but I enjoyed talking to you and I’d like to get to know you better. Is that okay?”
There was pinkness in her cheeks. “Oh … sure, why not?”
“I’m Matteo. You’re…” He looked at his phone, then back at her. “Xiangni,” he said, stumbling over the first syllable. “Did I say it correctly?”
“Um … yeah, kind of, more or less.”
“How should I say it?”
“Uh, it’s hard to explain. It’s Chinese.”
“What does it mean?”
“‘Fragrant mud’.”
It was the loveliest name he’d ever heard. He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Fragrant mud,” he added with a grin.
She took his hand with a brief smile. “You too. Sorry, I have to go. It’s quite late and I have a morning class tomorrow.”
“Oh, of course. I won’t keep you.” As she got out of the car, he said to her retreating back, “I’ll text you later?”
He thought he heard her say “uh, okay, bye” as she shut the door. Just before he sped off, a notification popped up on his phone: a trip request that was on his way home. He rejected it and gunned the accelerator.
Back in his bedsit, he forgot all about dinner. He sat down on his bed and texted her. “Ciao! This is Matteo. Really nice to meet you tonight.”
A while later – minutes and seconds too long – his phone lit up: “Nice to meet you too. :)”
His heart leapt at the smiley face. “Would you like to have a drink with me tomorrow night?” he texted.
Two blue ticks appeared next to his message immediately. His hand quivered as he stared at the screen, waiting for her “online” status to change to “typing”. It never did. A minute later, it disappeared. He checked his phone every few minutes, watching her come online and go offline, waiting for the “typing” that never came.
When it was past midnight, he went to bed, confused, wondering if he’d done something wrong. The next morning, there was no message from her. There was none in the afternoon, or in the evening, or the next day, the day after that, the rest of the week.
The silence had settled with a domineering smugness. His bank account brought him cold comfort, and he missed home with a tight-eyed desperation. But he hung on anyway.
*
The following week, on his rare Sunday off, he took advantage of the unusually sunny weather and went for a walk around his neighbourhood. He turned from Wood Lane onto South Africa Road, and saw a group of five men coming out of a sports complex. They were talking and laughing; one was bouncing a football. Matteo had a flashback to his weekends back home, playing football with his friends: laughing, jostling, carefree.
The nostalgia took over. He walked up to the men and said, “Hello. Excuse me.”
They stopped chatting and looked at him. Matteo said. “Sorry, can I ask where you play football?”
“Oh, it’s just here, mate,” one of them said, pointing to the complex they’d just left.
“I see. And how do you play?” He hadn’t phrased the question correctly. “I mean, how do you … you know…” he made a twirling motion with his hand, searching for the word that escaped him. He felt a flush in his face.
“How do you book, you mean?” said the same man.
“Yes! Book. How do you book?”
“You can do it online. There’s a website.” The man – blond, tall, with a friendly smile – looked him up and down. “You looking to book for your team?”
“No, I don’t have a team. I don’t play here. But I used to play a lot back in Italy.”
“You’re Italian. I guessed from the accent. Well, Tim here” – he slapped his arm around the man standing next to him – “is leaving us next week. He’s moving to Oxford.” At this, the other three men groaned. “So we’re going to be one member short. Would you like to join us?”
“Oh.” Matteo’s heart skipped a beat. “Really?”
“Yeah. Well, unless you’re a goalie?” Matteo shook his head. “That’s wonderful. Tim isn’t either. But yeah, if you’re interested, we can try it out first, make sure we sync and all that. We play every Sunday at this time. That good?”
He usually drove on Sundays. But he was his own boss; he could change things around. “Yes,” Matteo said. “That’s good.”
“Lovely. I’m George, by the way.”
“Matteo.” They shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”
George introduced him to the rest of the team: Bruno, baby-faced and Spanish; lanky Jam, from Taiwan; and John, tall and muscular, born in Nigeria, bred in London. They exchanged numbers and arranged to meet next Sunday.
Matteo finished his walk with a bounce in his steps.
*
On Friday and Saturday, Matteo worked from 8am to 10pm to make up for Sunday. By the time he returned to his bedsit, he could hardly keep his eyes open. He chucked his phone aside and went to bed straightaway.
On Sunday, when it was finally time for the game, Matteo hurried to the football complex. To his surprise, his potential teammates were already on the pitch.
“Sorry, am I late?” he said, catching his breath.
“Nah man, we’re all early for once,” said John. “No worries, mate.”
“Yeah … and you’re Italian, right? Won’t be surprised if you’re late,” George said with a wink. “Bruno is usually late. But today, he made an effort for you.”
Bruno laughed and shook his head. “Don’t listen to him. I’m always on time … by Spanish standards!”
“Please, you call fifteen minutes late on time?” Jam said, jabbing Bruno in the ribs. “I’m always on time. Like, actually on time. That’s Asian standards for you.”
Matteo laughed with them. Then George said, “All right, let’s get down to business. Matteo, what position do you play? Tim was our striker.”
That suited Matteo just fine. “Yeah, sounds good,” he said. “I can take over his spot.”
“Perfect! Okay, let’s warm up quickly. The other side looks like they’re ready.”
They got into position. At the sound of the first kick of the ball, Matteo felt a rush of adrenaline. The game’s symphony of sounds – teammates shouting to each other, football boots striking the ball – filled the silence of the past months. He was caught up in the whirlwind: yelling at Bruno and George to pass him the ball whenever he was wide open; his heart stopping when he kicked the ball towards the goal, groaning when it hit the post; shouting encouragement at Jam after he nearly scored; and cheering John when he blocked the other team’s attempted goals. It was the most exercise Matteo had done in months. The stitch in his side felt like a mere pinprick.
It was fifteen minutes into the first half when everything changed. Matteo intercepted a pass from the opposing team, and saw a clear path to the goal. He charged towards it. The stitch had intensified, but he refused to give up ground. As he dashed forward, he spotted, from the corner of his eye, an opponent gaining on him. He drove his arms and legs harder, propelling his body forward, and guarded the ball like treasure.
Only the goalkeeper was in his way now. Was that panic on his face? Matteo feinted a left and the goalkeeper fell for it. It was all that Matteo needed. With a swift kick, he sent the ball whizzing past the goalkeeper before it crashed into a soft cushion of nothing but net.
He felt, rather than heard, his teammates’ roar. He felt it even more as they rushed to him and leapt at him. “Matteo!” “What a lad!” “You’re defo one of us now!” They enveloped him in a sweaty hug, almost suffocating him.
But air surged through his lungs as he matched them smile for smile, laughter for laughter.
Me, at Thirteen
I have just returned from school. I check Blessing in my parents’ bedroom where my mother has stationed her, to keep a close eye on her. She is writhing in pain and sighing once in a while. I sit at the foot of the bed, offering silence and nothing else.
“Sorry.” I say when I become uncomfortable. Embarrassed as I lock eyes with her pain cold and naked.
“Hmm.” Her fists clench and she turns, holding her leg, crying. “Pray for me. Deborah, pray for me.”
I sit up slowly, amused by her request: what will my prayer do? How can I be the one to pray for you, and you’ll get well. Just like that? No, no, you can’t be serious! I nod my head slowly and slip out of the room, maybe I’ll pray for her when I am about to sleep; a rushed Lord, Heal My Sister kind of one.
I do not know that prayer when placed on the same side with love, on one side of the tongue, yields healing. I do not know prayer is the master key.
Blessing died two days after I refused to… Two days after.
*
When Blessing came home from school that Monday, I noticed frailty in her usual deliberate and precise walk. She looked older than my mother when she knelt to greet her, eku’le ma. Their bus was detained for the whole day because a bridge close to Minna rent itself after the heavy August rains. She and other passengers had to waddle across the water for hours. It was too much for her. A journey that should not have been more than forty-five minutes took close to seven hours.
Her cornea had never been clear-white like mine (Or other people’s), but today, they were a darker shade of lime that had my father worried and rushing to the junction to get her glucose and folic acid. The eyes that always spoke louder than her voice: a quick drop of the eyelids was a final warning. A swift sideways look was a-mind-yourself. A long deliberate look was a contemplation of what punishment would best suit your present state of foolishness. Today, those eyes held no light or vigour.
I didn’t sleep that night. I sat by her bed and checked her temperature. I told her I was now a Children’s Sunday School teacher, I told her my result in school, that I was a prefect now, and that I had been good since she left for school. I used aboniki balm on her legs and talked her to sleep
My parents could sleep because they thought well, this is like one of the others. She will be fine. She was not fine. She died three days later.
“How do we forget her now?” We are running home. Auntie, our oldest sister asked Comfort and I to get something for our mother at the junction. It is about to rain. The wind raises sand and pours it with relish on us. I spit as I speak. “If I didn’t follow you people there, I wouldn’t have believed it.”My words are broken as my feet pound hard on the ground. Abandoned train cargos appear like spectators, watching me and my sister run home.
Ever practical like our mother, Comfort replies, “we don’t. We can’t forget her, let me not lie to you.”She is sixteen.”Do you know my plan?”
We take a turn and I slow down when I see two dogs considering us.
“Come, jor!” She snaps and slows down too. “Let’s not scare the dogs.” We move closer to each other and begin to take measured steps home. She continues, darting her eyes around to monitor the dogs’ movements. “My plan, enh, is to pretend she has resumed school and won’t come back for a really long time. Try it, you’ll see.”
One month after her death, I asked my mother (or was it my father?) if she would have married my father, had she known it would end this way. She understood what I meant, so she took her time before answering.”We didn’t know better, then but if we knew, we would have stopped before things got serious.”She paused and added on a lighter note, “but we wouldn’t have had you either.”
A wave of panic rose in the pit of my stomach when the weight of her words sank into me. What if I had been born into another family? When my parents offended me, I used to play a game where I would imagine a cool father I knew and picture what it would be like to be his daughter. The game flashed through my mind as I sat there with her, perhaps, it was the timing, a deep hatred welled in me as I remembered that game.
I love this family; my father with his friendship and humour, my mother with her strength and energy, Comfort and Auntie with their drama and Samuel with his music. Still, I don’t know how we are supposed to be complete without one part. Who’s going to fill this mold?
More than once, I catch my mother sitting in her room, going through photo albums and telling whoever is close by, stories about Blessing’s childhood. More than once too, we forget, and offer the family photo album to visitors. They see Blessing’s pictures and ask questions, where is this one? Who does she look like? Your grandma? Oh, where is she now? Soon her pictures start disappearing from the walls and photo albums. I see that it is too much for my mother; the burden of seeing her daughter everywhere and seeing her nowhere at all.
No Longer Thirteen
I have tried to use all the Behavior Modification techniques and coping mechanisms of psychology I know on myself. Perhaps, if I tried hard enough, I would find a reasonable explanation or even a relief for what troubles me. For years, I have lied that I am okay, that I do not see her in her friends and the children they have now, that I do not see her in every pointed nose and tiny lips I pass, that I do not see her in myself when I look in the mirror. And every time I see her, her eyes tell me she is not happy she died. I know this because I was the one she shared dreams and thoughts with. We would sit on the threadbare brown cushion in our sitting room and talk about what we would do and places we would visit. How we would raise our children better than our parents were doing. (Not that our parents are bad parents, we just knew that if we were in their shoes, we would do better.)
The threadbare brown cushion chair is still in our house, offending me. Reminding me. Mocking me every time I sit on it.
From her, I learnt a Yoruba version of Avocado’s Law. A secret weapon that made me shine for a minute when in chemistry class, I was the only one who knew Avocado’s Law and the formula representation! But other laws came up and I sank into myself, searching for her notes, hoping she would appear and lead me on. Assignments came up and I imagined how I would have bribed her with a foot rub while she solved away the misfortunes and problems of Maths, Physics and Chemistry. Soon, the weight of living her dream became too heavy for me. I became the science student who passed her SSCE in one sitting and decided to re-sit for literature to study English, but ended up studying Psychology.
In 2018, Auntie’s sonwas six, sitting on a chair in front of his cake, and dozing. The party was set for 4 pm, but he was already dressed and waiting by 3pm. I told him to sleep for a while. He laughed at my stupid suggestion and said softly, “if I sleep, how will I be six? My birthday will pass!” He was sure life would not hold any meaning if he didn’t hold his party, sharing with friends, the cake his mother had baked, specially for him. It is then I realise that he is happy to be alive. To be born into this family filled with love. Like Blessing was. She may have died at nineteen, but she would rather choose that life than no life at all.
When the news of Blessing’s death came to me, it ran to me like a rushing wind on the lips of my mother. My mother who is ever strong, rarely ever showing a tinge of weakness, walked home, crying from Gilead hospital. A fifteen or so minutes walk from our house.
I heard her voice and ignored it, that cannot be my mother; ever dignified and practical. I did not know then that grief is the mother of all madness. A friend’s mother followed her home, trying to hold her. She burst into the sitting room and ignored all the chairs. Her legs were splayed in front of her, her back to the wall. She began to sing Unquestionable, You Are My God, a song that held no meaning to me then, since we all suspected she would die before the rest of us. She was the only one always falling sick.
I was angry at the mourners who turned our house into a help center, finding comfort in the gravity of our loss.
Oh, my own sister’s daughter died before she was nineteen, Blessing even tried. That girl was a fighter.
Oh, wouldn’t it have been better if she had died in Primary or Nursery School?
Oh, University girl. Very brilliant. They said she topped her class.
Oh, ah, eh!
And like a sound record player, my mother’s voice did not fail to give their talks a solemn soundtrack.
When you lose a thing, you don’t blame the thing for being lost, you blame yourself for being careless among other things. Like the day Auntie’s son, at three, tricked his mother and me. He made me believe he was with her, and made her believe he was with me. One hour later, I returned to my sister and ask her where Israel was. She jumped up and we began to search for him for close to four hours. When I see him trailing a group of children to our side of the camp ground, I do not scream or scold him. I do not remember any of the harsh words I had rehearsed in my head. I was overwhelmed with guilt: how could you? You know how smart he believes he is, why didn’t you make sure? How could you allow this fine boy go missing? What if and what ifn’t?
On this eleventh year of her anniversary, I still feel guilty, knowing if I had prayed, I could have bought her more time: one day, two weeks, three months. Maybe three years, but certainly, she would not have died the following day.
Today, I tell myself that when you have carried a thing for too long, you either get used to carrying it or you get tired, and let go. Today, I tell myself I am letting go. I forgive me.
A flag was fluttering in the wind. Its design could not be seen clearly as the cloth kept waving and creasing up high on its pole. A man was looking up at it. He knew that it had three horizontal stripes; a white one between two blue, and in the centre was a six pointed star.
It stood above a watchtower where a sentry was sitting at the top. A long barrier with thick iron strips at the top and bottom blocked the path.
The traveller called to the sentry. “Do you speak English?”
A face looked down. “Of course.”
“Can I get through?”
“Maybe not today.”
Three men were sitting by the side of the road, dark skinned and scruffily dressed, with large bundles next to them. The man walked over, wheeling his suitcase.
One smiled at him. “Welcome.” He sat down and they passed him an orange. He peeled and ate it quickly, without feeling any taste. As they talked among themselves, he listened to see if he could understand but he knew too little of their language. Then they said a word that he had heard before. It signified something like revolution or resistance but here it referred to a specific movement about which he knew little.
After landing at the airport, there had been two short interviews, with a lengthy wait between them. He replied to his questioners directly. Towards the end, they seemed sympathetic about his choice of destination. After collecting his suitcase, he met up with the driver then it was a two hour drive. It had gone smoothly up to this point. He gave an anxious look to the barrier. If they didn’t let him through, he did not know what he was to do.
There was a figure on the other side of the barrier. He got up and called. “Are you Bill?”
The man replied, “Hi, Mansoor.”
That was something; his contact from the university was there. Some months before he had interviewed Mansoor on the phone and then offered him the job.
He had been drawn to the idea of living and working there. Reactions from friends and family were unpredictable. Some were genuinely impressed. Others acted supportive though he could tell that they thought his decision strange. His mother had given a shocked gasp.
After a while two boys and a girl came from the darkness. Each had a rifle strapped over their shoulder. They joked with the waiting labourers as they positioned themselves by the barrier. A loud electronic alarm signalled its opening. The soldiers looked at the workers’ papers and let them pass.
Mansoor stepped forward and handed over his passport. One of the boys leafed through it. He asked, “Where is your visa?”
Something had been troubling Mansoor but he had put it to the back of his mind. “They didn’t stamp it at the airport.”
The soldier spoke in his walkie talkie then said, “You can’t go.” Mansoor started to wheel his bag. “I said you can’t go.”
His shoulders sagged. He looked over to Bill. He walked towards him so he was in speaking distance. The soldiers followed. He was trying to calm his mind.
“They didn’t stamp my passport.”
Bill frowned. “What?”
Mansoor put his hand through his hair. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Bill turned to the soldiers. “It’s not his fault. He’s new here. He doesn’t know what’s going on. Security at the airport should have given him a stamp.”
Mansoor added, “They knew I was coming here. Isn’t it on computer or something?”
The boy shook his head. “There is no computer. What is the purpose of your visit?”
“I’m a teacher at the International University.” His voice was quivering.
The first soldier spoke on his walkie talkie again then turned to Bill. “I’m sorry. He can’t go through.”
Bill spoke to Mansoor. “You have to go back to the airport. I’ll call the driver.”
Mansoor was told to move away from the barrier. The alarm sounded again as it closed. The two boys and the girl headed back to their barracks, leaving him alone.
A pack of dogs approached the watchtower. Mansoor watched them. He took his suitcase, walked past the plain buildings and stopped by the roundabout leading into the checkpoint.
How could this have happened? He had to fight his tiredness and focus his mind. Maybe at the airport they would refuse to stamp his passport. Then the experience would be over before it began.
He looked over to the other side of the barrier but it was all darkness. He needed to know how people lived with death and he suspected that he could find out there, with those who lived within that space. He watched the lights of the cars in the distance, hoping that the taxi would arrive soon.
Late that night when the river outside was black like octopus ink and inside the only noise was the low buzz of the boiler, he heard a scratching sound and found that she was not next to him. Her clothes were abandoned on the floor by the bed. He followed the scratching, got closer closer closer… until he screamed with terror as he saw what was happening.
– Sabrina Mahfouz
This week on Litro Lab, we bring you a spooky ghost story. Moving houses is disruptive: it can take a while to feel at ease in a new space. Things tend to get lost or misplaced. You get startled by noises you’re not used to. By different smells. By the shadows in the mirror that hangs in the windowless bathroom. But what if there is something else? Something truly wrong with the place?
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In Night of the Long Goodbyes, Erik Martiny takes us into a dystopian near-future. Set in the mid-21st century, Britain is in the grip of hyperpopulist post-Brexit politics. With the electorate sleepwalking into what turns out to be the final general election, a coalition of right-wing parties have taken power and are using it to find what they believe to be the quintessential essence of Britishness, each party looking further and further back in history to find its own acceptable version of gene purity. The Night of the Long Goodbyes, otherwise known as The Great Purge, refers to the terrifying mass deportation of anyone not deemed to be British enough. As if this isn’t awful enough, add in catastrophic climate change and a pandemic that suddenly sweeps through the population and renders people needing biotech in order to feel anything and … well, you get where this is going.
And then comes the Blue, a snow-like substance that simply starts falling one day and covers everything. It doesn’t melt and, for a while, provides some much-needed relief to the population, but then it hardens and contorts, and people are stuck in despair once again.
At this point in the novel our narrator, Kvist, decides to take a journey. He is obsessed by the Blue and so he sets out to tour Britain in the hope of finding out what it is and where it came from, planning to write the definitive guide to it. His journey is also one of self-discovery, as Kvist is desperately trying to piece together his own fragmented psyche and find some peace in the face of both his mental and physical decline.
At the start of the book there is a dedication, which reads: “In memory of Angela Carter”, and it’s when Kvist starts his journey that things do take a distinctly Carter-esque turn (it reminded me of The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman). As he tours the country, furiously writing and recording everything, he meets a bizarre cast of characters and gets embroiled in an increasingly absurd set of adventures, leading to an ultimately tragic finale.
Night of the Long Goodbyes is a humorous novel, albeit a macabre humour in places. One of the most memorable encounters is with Bora Johnson, the shape-shifting Lord Mayor of Brexishire who has an aerated mop of blonde hair. Things happen with Bora that I won’t repeat here, but just be prepared to both chuckle and squirm in horror while reading it.
We never get an explanation of what the Blue really is because ultimately, of course, it can be read as a metaphor for many different things and while our narrator has his own theories, it’s up to the reader to decide what it means to them. And as absurd as it all is – I’m fairly hopeful that we won’t wake up in a few years to see the world covered in blue snow – there is much in Martiny’s novel that resonates, making it a compelling, sometimes funny, sometimes horrifying read.
Night of the Long Goodbyes is published by River Boat Books.
I write while he’s in the other room. Every time I get up he looks at me and gives me a quick smile. Smiling is nice and so is raising your head, but I would rather he keep his down.
I read an article about breaking up in the time of corona. The article was published in a big American newspaper, and is written from the point of view of the woman who won’t stop apologizing as she knows that there are more important issues out there. The only bit worth reading is where she describes her six months’ relationship with Paul and the bags of rice they used to buy in the supermarket. They were ten-kilo bags, that don’t cost anything, and that she can no longer afford to get because she’s too weak to carry them up the stairs. The story ends well though. She tries to be optimistic as it means being “a good citizen lately” and she says that, eventually, she’ll find another guy to carry her bags.
It was a friend called Sarah who sent it to me. She’s a journalist, which gives her an authority on these kinds of things. I guess she expected me to tell her how deep the story was, which I would have done if he hadn’t come back into the room. I feel like bursting into tears. It’s Monday morning, normal people are working, from home maybe, but they’re working, while we smile at each other and cry. There’s also that hour every day we spend walking. In the most cordial way, we talk about our childhoods, about the weather, which is grey, and about things that are happening, like that time we saw a little white dog make a disabled child cry. There are also the meals we’re going to cook and the shopping we’re going to do; there is no one more pleasant than us.
Lately I have been thinking about my previous break up with a guy called Tamir and about our last phone call. I shouted at him that if he called again, I was going to kill him. I remember that it was a hot summer’s day, and that my landlord was on a ladder fixing the AC. He had a fat belly and a builder’s bum, as is often the case with this kind of man, and I shouted, “I’ll kill you”. Tamir knew it was a joke and so did I. Besides being tall and heavy, Tamir was a former soldier, but I meant it and he never called again, except to tell me that I owed him money.
Now, it’s different. We’ve been together three years, and Dean is thirty-one years old. He has curly brown hair and for the past two months, he has been watching television. I talked him into coming with me to Paris and now he’s stuck in my mum’s apartment, who is looking after her own mother, ill with cancer. Our apartment is in a suburb of Tel Aviv, surrounded by palm trees and cockroaches. Dean lost his job after buying himself this trip to Paris. “Talk about an idea”, he said, and he’s right. I’m in the same situation, with 374 euros in my bank account. He didn’t want to come here but he did it out of love and now we’re going to break up. Who could have predicted that a month after moving here, corona would lock Paris down? But who can predict anything these days?
Of course, there are good times. Saturday, we drank a bottle each, opened the windows wide and danced. The blue sky had turned dark, and the music we’d put on was nice – Italian songs that make you get closer to each other.
Before it finished with Tamir, we didn’t drink. We would party and take drugs and then walk home in the middle of the night. It was Jerusalem, and we were surrounded by ruins. The Muslims would be calling the dawn prayer and the Eritreans walking along in their white suits with their children who would run away when they saw us. They would go into a church above the club, and as we left, our pupils loaded, we would see them happy and singing. It took many nights to say goodbye, and for me to shout that I was going to kill him.
But Dean and I, we dance and drink. That Saturday we both ended throwing up. We threw up and then we smoked cigarettes at the window. Neither of us brushed our teeth. Neither of us cared, and we almost kissed to show it. A long time had passed since people had clapped at their windows, and the neighbors’ lights had gone off, but we weren’t sleepy. Outside, in the street, a homeless guy went past. He stopped under our window. He had a broom and lots of plastic bags and he started to piss. Dean saw it before me and told me not to look. He stared at me for a minute. Then he began talking. He told me that it was late and that we should go to bed, that maybe tomorrow there would be a flight but that tonight, there was nothing else to do, except, perhaps, dance.
The pandemic has fundamentally reconfigured the shape of our lives – both public and personal. Masks in place, we navigate the pandemic-hit world tentatively, alternating between panic and hope, despair and dreams, our eyes scanning the horizon for a vaccine and a glimmer of reassurance. It’s too soon to gauge the extent to which this season of uncertainty affects our imagination. No doubt novels and poems and paintings will be born of this churning. No doubt songs will be sung, and symphonies composed. Stories seeped in the heartbreak and grief of this time will be told. Novels that probe the depth of our despair and the resilience of the human spirit are in the works. But which aspects of this tumultuous time will they highlight? What new forms will writers and artists forge to contain the enormity of this experience? The answers are not within our reach right now.
One thing we do know for sure at this point is that people across the world have started to spend more time reading since the pandemic descended upon us. The lockdown(s) have spared many the daily commute to work, freeing up some time to read. Being a writer, I’m delighted to hear this. I cheer the news heartily. The more people read the more reason for us writers to keep writing. Reports from several countries have caught my attention. All of them agree that people – across continents and cultures – are reading more than usual.
So, what kind of books are people reading? Are their picks deeply personal? To what extent does the collective dilemma we’re facing at the moment influence our reading choices? Has there been a radical shift in people’s reading preferences in the time of the pandemic? Since human beings are complicated entities with widely differing individual needs and preferences, it would be absurd to expect an easy, one-size-fits-all answer. But I’ve been scanning recent surveys and news reports in search of discernable patterns.
My search threw up some interesting discoveries. For instance, in Europe, during the first lockdown, people turned to “pandemic books” like Albert Camus’ The Plague. The current phase has readers opting for books on Greek mythology and science fiction, which whisk them away to the past or propel them headlong into the future, both offering guaranteed escape routes from the chaotic present. Some readers connect their choices to the level of panic they are experiencing. Their choices during the initial phases of the pandemic when panic levels were at an all-time high were starkly different from the books they turn to in the current phase, where the needle of anxiety has moved to a less frantic, but persistent zone.
Many people found comfort in the classics. Novels such as Middlemarch, War and Peace, Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary, One Hundred Years of Solitude, Crime and Punishment, and Don Quixote called out to them. When Chinese-American author Yiyun Li launched #TolstoyTogether, an online War and Peace reading group, 3,000 members from 6 continents flocked in. The group planned on reading 12-15 pages of Tolstoy’s masterpiece daily and get to the end of the novel in three months.
To some, the classics offered the reassurance of the familiar. They sought out old favourites, savouring every word, taking in the wealth of insights these timeless works contain. Love and loss, grief and sorrow, desire and duty – the classics have much to say on the questions that continue to haunt our lives. Some readers turned to the classics because these were the books – the literary tomes – they had always meant to read, a promise they had made to themselves and never kept. The classics were a challenge, a mountain they had finally found the time to scale. Many found the experience richly rewarding. Epiphanies were in store. Moments of grace and illumination galore.
It’s not all Flaubert and Tolstoy and Woolf of course. Thrillers, self-help books, cookbooks, books on philosophy, and topical subjects such as isolation, race, and politics are all in demand. Regardless of genre or type or subject, the good news is that people have rediscovered the pleasure of reading. They are reading to be entertained and to be comforted, to open up their hearts, to slip into another’s shoes and to see and touch and taste the world in fresh ways, to improve their skills, to relish wit and wisdom, to surrender to the magic of words.
The anxieties the pandemic have inflicted on us do weigh us down. It shortens attention spans. It interferes with our focus and slows us down, which means that even though we may spend more time reading the volume we read is reduced. But what does it matter if we read two books or three? It’s not a numbers game or a productivity contest. The value doesn’t rest on the tally because reading is its own reward.
You walk up to me in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel.
“Excuse me,” you say. “Are you Jimmy Deveraux?”
That’s not my name, but I tell you it is. I have no idea why. It’s as if I’ve heard someone else reply – distant and dreamlike. But it’s me. I’ve said the words, without thinking. “Yes, I’m Jimmy Deveraux.”
“Thank God,” you say. “Let’s go.”
We hurry past the concierge’s station and rush through the revolving doors. My head starts to spin as soon as we step into the crisp air outside.
You ask if I’m feeling OK.
“Sure,” I say, leaning against the passenger-side window of your crimson Ford Capri.
The hotel seems to dissolve in the rearview as we pull away; once it’s gone, I can’t remember where we’ve just been.
*
We drive around downtown for at least 30 minutes before you ask, “Where are we going?”
I sniffle and say, “You don’t know?”
You brake a little too hard at the light. “Of course I don’t know. If I knew, why would I need you to show me the way?”
I start to panic, nearly give up the game then and there. I’m not Jimmy Deveraux; I have no idea where we’re going.
I hear myself say, “McDonald’s.”
You smile. “Perfect,” you say, tapping an index finger against your forehead. “Very smart. A public place.”
We drive some more. I don’t recognize the names of the streets or our surroundings. I thought I knew this town like the proverbial back of my hand.
“Which McDonald’s?” you ask.
Again, I nearly break down and tell you the truth: I’m not Jimmy What’s-His-Name; I don’t know why I’ve indulged in this deception.
Instead, I say, “The next one we come to.”
You frown. “We keep going straight?”
I don’t reply.
Golden Arches loom large in the grimy windshield.
“If this was a movie,” you say, “it’d have been the bus depot.” I can’t make any sense of that, and you continue, “Because of the lockers. You know.”
A few minutes later, I sit and stare out the window, watching as you leave the car and walk toward the restaurant. There’s something both familiar and alien about the way you move, though I’m sure we’ve never met.
Suddenly, I can’t remember what you look like or recall the details of your face. I can’t even remember if you were male or female.
I push open the door and start to run back in the direction we came, but you’re there beside me. “Come on,” you say. “We’ll talk inside.”
*
By the time we’ve finished our vanilla shakes, you’ve grown impatient, tap-tapping your fingers on the table in a steady beat.
“Is that a song?” I ask. “It sounds familiar.”
You shrug, bite into a French fry. “So – where is it?”
Of course I can’t answer; I’m not really Johnny What’s-His-Face and I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.
Apart from the bored-looking counter crew, we’re the only people in the place. The overhead fixtures flicker, like signal lamps, speaking in a code I can’t decipher.
“I understand,” you say. “You want to talk about the money.”
I nod, because it seems like the right thing to do. A uniformed teen mops the floor; foamy water sloshes in a red plastic pail.
You lean forward in the booth, almost whisper, “How about five?”
Do you mean five hundred, five thousand, five million? There’s no way to
know.
“We agreed on four,” you say quickly. “But what the hell? You take all the risks. Why shouldn’t you make a little extra?”
And you’re tapping your fingers again. It sounds unnaturally loud: like a hammer banging against the side of my head.
“We’re agreed,” I hear you say. I nod…
*
And images rush through my mind. Fragments of conversations, romantic encounters, workdays in whitewashed cubicles and vacations at sun-soaked beach resorts.
Strange: All the conversations are one-sided. I’m speaking but no one replies. The stucco office parks and tropical hotels are deserted. I’m the lone employee pecking away at my keyboard; the sole vacationer, hauling my luggage up an endless spiral staircase.
The love affairs are similarly constructed: I’m caressing empty air.
I look into a mirror (at a tourist spot, after dropping my bags at the foot of the bed). The details of the room (bed, bags, night tables, closets, entrance to the bathroom, balcony windows looking out on the sea) are vividly displayed. Reversed, of course, since it’s a mirror image; still, nothing looks out of place. Except for me. I’m out place, quite literally. I cast no reflection. It’s as if I don’t exist.
*
“Jimmy! Hey!” You’re shouting into my ear, even though we’re standing close, almost toe-to-toe.
A rotting-meat smell stings my nose. There’s an overflowing dumpster with green slime at its base, a sickening mixture of food remnants, motor oil and Christ-knows-what. Rainbows ripple on the surface of a greasy pool. “Snap out of it!”
We’re behind the McDonald’s – a golden arch rises on the left, its lower half obscured by the roof of the restaurant.
I suppress the urge to vomit. “Sorry, I was just…”
You smile. “That’s OK. In your line of work, things must get weird sometimes. So much pressure.”
Your mood changes, eyes harden, lips quiver. “Where is it, Jim?”
Now, you’re pacing and balling your fists. “It’s not here,” you say. “What the hell’s going on?”
I finally make up mind to tell you I lied, that I’m not Jerry So-and-So.
Then you smile. “I get it,” you say. “You want to make sure I can pay.”
A thought forms in my mind and I stammer, “Ha… half now…”
“Sure,” you say. “The rest later.” You’re laughing. “Oh man, you are slick. I bet the thing’s not even here, is it?”
I shake my head as you lead me back to the Capri. Once we’re inside, you open the glove box and flip a slim manila envelope onto my lap. “That’s half,” you say. “You’ll get the rest later, plus that little bit extra we agreed on.”
I want to look in the mirror, but keep my eyes fixed on the oil-smeared pavement of the parking lot.
“I’m pretty slick, too,” you say. “I knew you couldn’t have hid it at McDonald’s.”
You gun the engine and we skid out onto the street clogged with commuters fighting to get home.
“Where now?”
I hear myself say, “Just keep going.”
I’m facing the rearview, but my eyes are shut tight.
*
It feels like we’ve been driving for hundreds of miles by the time I say, “Stop!” completely at random, with no idea where we are.
I open my eyes just a little, still careful to avoid the mirror.
An urban wasteland sprawls in every direction: Dark streets dissect a plain of trash-strewn lots. They lead to the waterfront with its shuttered factories and dilapidated warehouses. A desiccated tanker lolls beside a rusted dock.
“I used to play here as a kid,” I say. But I’m speaking to fill the void – I don’t remember my childhood, or ANY of the events leading up to this moment.
You’re breathing in ragged gasps, slowly, angrily – like a radiator on the verge of collapse.
“Where is it?” you growl.
And I finally scream out, “I’m not Jackie, or Joey … or whoever you think I am! Look…”
Digging deep in my pocket, I pull out a faded plastic wallet and fumble for the driver’s license. “Here…”
I stop before handing it over. The face, while not entirely unfamiliar, is difficult to discern; the image is over-bright and murky, like an X-ray, with the lights and darks transposed. There’s a smudge where the name should be.
Tears fill my eyes and I cradle my face in my hands.
“Relax,” you say. “You’re confused and upset. That’s understandable. But … look, can you do one thing for me? Just one thing? Then we’re finished. Open your eyes. LOOK AT ME. Come on. You can do it. That’s right…”
I try to lift my head but it feels like lead, weighed down by thoughts that blaze like lightning.
“Oh God, what happens now? I look and you’re gone? I pocket the ID, staring at the empty passenger seat? Then I drive off alone? It’s all one big existential mess?! Or … you shoot me? Is that it? You shoot me?!”
“Nah.” You chuckle. “I drive us back to the hotel. We’ll play it again. I’ll be Jimmy Deveraux this time. We can even stop for some fries.”
My mouth feels gnawed-bone dry as I tap the license against the upholstery.
“It’s a game?”
You shrug. “Until it’s not.”
On the estate where I grew up there was a woman who delivered the free newspaper. She had stubble all over her chin and on the rolls of neck beneath. She walked from door to door, pushing the newspapers in a brown shopping trolley. When I was sixteen, I worked in the greengrocer’s shop and she came in every Saturday morning – early. She smelled so bad I had to turn away when I took her money. It wasn’t a human smell. It was earthy and rotten, like the smell the old potatoes made when they decayed and leaked tar-like liquid in the bottom of their trays. I was sure the smell leaked like tar from her vagina. The cracks in her hands were filled with dirt and I dropped the coins into the till as quickly as I could.
It was my job, every Saturday afternoon, to clean all the mirrors in the shop. There were mirrors lining all the walls behind the double decks of vegetables. In the mirrors, in the fluorescent shop lights, I bared my skin. I noticed three dark hairs above each corner of my top lip. I also had one dark whisker that grew from a mole on my jawbone and another that sprouted under my chin. My face and my hairs were multiplied across the shop
and by the hair of my chinny chin chin,
I headed straight home
for mum’s magnifying mirror
and plucked at my skin –
hunting for more.
I begged my best friend to lie under a magnifying glass and I scanned every woman I met, especially the beautiful ones. I couldn’t look at the free newspaper lady.
I ran my hand along my chin – my fingers worried for whiskers. The bristles pierced my sleep. I saved up and booked myself into a beauty parlour. My friend asked if I needed a beautician or a psychiatrist. I started to think I might need both.
In Elena Ferrante’s The Days of Abandonment, the poverella is the abandoned woman who loses everything, “for everyone she became the ‘poverella,’ that poor woman.” The poverella is abject, “I was ashamed for her, she no longer took her children with her, she no longer had that good smell.”[1] Always on the periphery of Olga’s vision, “I saw the poverella of so long ago, who said to me in a weary but serious tone: ‘I am clean I am true I play with my cards on the table.’”[2] If these things are not enough to remain loved, then those of us who fall short have even smaller chances.
Between childhood and adulthood, the newspaper woman drifted on the border of my vision – her chin and mine became one – a pubic mound.
Women grow whiskers during hormonal imbalances, most typically during puberty, after childbirth, or during the menopause. After childbirth the newspaper woman returns to me and my skin can no longer be trusted to contain her.
“In the first place, filth is not a quality in itself, but it applies only to what relates to a boundary and, more particularly, represents the object jettisoned out of that boundary, its other side, a margin,” says Julia Kristeva.
When I gave birth, they cut my vagina with scissors. Five snips turned my flesh into five fronds. My uterus repulsed the baby. My vagina sucked the baby back in and the fronds closed over his head. My uterus contracted again and if the doctors had not caught the baby’s dark crown in their plunger and pulled him out, I expect my body would probably still be there. My vagina would still be pulsating on the birthing table like a sea anemone.
“She is the ‘abject’ who threatens the tenuous boundary between the not-yet-subject and the not-yet-object,” writes Marianne Hirsch.[3]
After the birth, my borders would not close easily. The doctor stitched me up, joining the five fronds together, but there wasn’t a part of me that didn’t leak: eyes, urethra, vagina, nipples, arse. In the first few days, I bathed as often as I could bear. Letting out pathetic whimpers, I crouched in a bath and paddled water into my crotch. Flinchingly. Quickly – in the time I snatched from the baby. Then I’d hear him wail.
Prising the baby off was like tearing away a strip of skin. I was too squeamish, and instead, I held him most of the time. Constantly holding a baby made washing my new vagina difficult. When the community midwife did her rounds, she ordered me upstairs to inspect my stitches. I lay on the bed, skirt hitched past waist, legs spread, panting for approval. She winced, then said, “Done a good job, whoever did it. Must’ve taken a while. Try to keep it cleaner.”
“It is thus not lack of cleanliness or health that causes abjection but what disturbs identity, system, order,” says Kristeva.[4]
On the subject of vaginas, a physician called Jean Palfyn wrote, in 1708:
“There are none in the body that are uglier and more subject to several very loathsome ailments, often infected with contaminated blood and much filth. They are soiled and soaked each day by urine and emit a stinking and sulfurous odor, and they are relegated by the Author of Nature to the most contemptible place on the body, as if not fit to be seen, right near the Anus and its Excrements; they are themselves the main sewer for all elements. It is here, I say, in these bodily parts, into which all nature’s filth flows and accumulates like a pit, that the Author of Nature nevertheless wanted Man—”[5]
Palfyn seems to be channelling King Lear,
Beneath is all the fiends’; there’s hell, there’s darkness,
There’s the sulphurous pit, burning, scalding,
Stench, consumption! Fie, fie, fie! Pah! pah! (4.6.121–26).
Both Palfyn and Lear fear the monstrous place that women hide; and they fear that, from this monstrous place, men are born.
Teratology is “the study of monstrosities or abnormal formations in animals or plants”.[6] After childbirth I started to think of my vagina in teratogenic terms. The blood and mucus that leaked from the uterus clogged with the pus and scabs from my wounds and matted with my stitches and pubic hair. A teratoma is a rare form of tumour, containing hair, blood, bone, muscle (and sometimes teeth).
It is like human pelleted by an owl.
A uterine teratoma should not be confused with a molar pregnancy, although both are growths of abnormal cells. And a molar pregnancy has nothing to do with teeth (“molar” comes from “millstone”). I’ve also heard that moles have no teeth, but a quick search of the internet reveals they do. The have some very small ones.
My vagina seemed
a teratogenic
toothless mole.
A teratogen is a drug that causes “malformation in the developing embryo”. Thalidomide is a famous teratogen – a drug originally intended as a sedative.
In Doris Lessing’s The Fifth Child, Harriet is heavily pregnant when David tells their four existing children a story. In the story a young girl looks into a pool:
“But she saw something that she didn’t expect. It was a girl’s face, and she was looking straight up at her. It was a face she had never seen in her whole life. This strange girl was smiling, but it was a nasty smile, not friendly, and the little girl thought this other girl was going to reach out of the water and pull her down into it […] As for Harriet, she was wanting to cry out, ‘Stop – stop it! You are talking about me – this is what you are feeling about me.’”[7]
Throughout the pregnancy Harriet fears the that she’s carrying a monster but she also fears she is becoming a monster. The baby kicks her so violently that she begs the doctor for sedatives (teratogens?) He prescribes them – believing she’s having a breakdown. She administers them to the foetus as a form of restraint, “The drugs did not seem to be affecting her much: she was willing them to leave her alone and to reach the baby.”[8]
Ben, this fifth child, is monstrous and Harriet understands that her monstrous “throwback”, her “goblin” child, reveals her own monstrosity: “Even David, she believed, condemned her. She said to him, ‘I suppose in the old times, in primitive societies, this was how they treated a woman who’d given birth to a freak. As if it were her fault.’”[9]
Childbirth leads to Harriet’s abjection from society. The doctors, who Harriet consults over Ben, also suggest it is Harriet who is the monster, “I’m going to come straight to the point, Mrs Lovatt. The problem is not with Ben, but with you. You do not like him very much.”[10]
Ben’s violence (as a toddler, he kills the family pet) means that he must be constantly watched by Harriet. She has no time for the other children and the extended family conspire against Harriet to have Ben locked in an institution. Harriet is told he will be sent away – for the safety of the other children – and the next day a van arrives for him. No one will tell Harriet where he’s been sent and, initially, she doesn’t ask. Just like the Minotaur, he is locked in a labyrinth – straightjacketed and drugged until Harriet breaks under the guilt and breaks him out.
Freud theorised that all young boys fear castration and they view their mother as a castrated male. When my eldest son was three, he asked me what was inside my “underground hair”. I was stumped, having not yet decided what I was going to name it; having not yet decided how I was going to describe it.
“A hole,” I said, unable to think of anything else and ashamed about this inadequacy.
A few days later, with friends in the park, I crouched down and my son kicked a ball between my legs.
“I’m sorry, mummy, I nearly kicked you in your hole.”
“Of course you encounter opacity and resistance in her, as well as the repellence of matter, the horror of blood, the ambivalence of milk, menacing traces of the father’s phallus, and even the hole we left behind us when we came into the world. But she – at least – is not nothing. She is not that vacuum (of) woman,” writes Luce Irigaray.[11]
A mother who clings too hard is often seen as monstrous. She is gum. The child has to escape the mother’s sticky hands in order to see the lines that delineate themselves. The child needs to wash the mother’s blood from their hair and filth from their skin. As a mother, I became the excrement that my children must wash away to create their clean and proper bodies. However, when reading this paragraph, you could interchange mother and child. It is stickiness that threatens the sense of self and leads to abjection.
Sartre said, “I remain a solid. But to touch stickiness is to risk diluting myself into viscosity. Stickiness is clinging, like a too possessive dog or mistress.”[12]
In Elena Ferrante’s The Days of Abandonment, Olga sees her daughter, Ilaria, dressed up in her makeup and her clothes:
“…she looked to me like an old dwarf… When she became aware of the revulsion that must have shown on my face, the child smiled in embarrassment, and eyes sparkling, said, as if to justify herself:
‘We’re identical’
The sentence disturbed me, I shuddered, in a flash I lost that bit of ground I seemed to have gained. What did it mean, we are identical, at that moment I needed to be identical only to myself.”[13]
This child is abject.
Becoming a mother opened my borders and made me border. The sperm stabbed my egg, but instead of yolk dripping from my vagina, the sperm disappeared.
The embryo is uncanny. Fragments of me
joined fragments of another
and became other.
“Birth is not merely that which divides women from men; it also divides women from themselves,” writes Rachel Cusk. [14]
[1] Elena Ferrante, The Days of Abandonment, (New York: Europa, 2005), p.16.
[2] Ferrante, The Days of Abandonment, p.87.
[3] Marianne Hirsch, The Mother/Daughter Plot: Narrative, Psychoanalysis, Feminism, (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), p.171.
[4] Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror, (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982), p.4.
[5] Jean Palfyn ‘Description anatomique des parties de la femme qui servent à la génération, avec un traité des monstres, de leurs causes, de leur nature et de leurs différences’, quoted in Huet, Monstrous Imagination, p.59
[6] “teratology, n.” OED Online. Oxford University Press, June 2020.
[7] Doris Lessing, The Fifth Child, (London: Harper Perennial, 2007), p.54.
[8] Lessing, p.53.
[9] Lessing, p.74.
[10] Lessing, p.124.
[11] Luce Irigaray, The Irigaray Reader, ed. Margaret Whitford, (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), p.54.
[12] John Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness, trans. H. E Barnes, (New York: The Philosophical Society, 1956), pp. 606 – 607.
[13] Ferrante, p.120.
[14] Rachel Cusk, A Life’s Work: On Becoming a Mother, (London: Fourth Estate, 2001), p.7.
The sound of the dripping was starting to make the captives twitchy.
The tap, tap, tap on the roof of the container had been going for at least twenty minutes and as I shone my torch around I could see that Jeremy was close to losing it. With each ting on the roof, his left amphibious eye blinked while his right human eye scrunched tight. His muscular frog-like legs writhed and strained against the net I’d put him in, and his snake tongue flicked in and out of his mouth, a slow hissing sound accompanying the dripping like the percussion of a cymbal.
At least Megan, strange half-feline half-person that she was, had curled up and gone to sleep. I’d provided a cardboard box and in she had climbed. Though, I ventured a guess, there was a chance that if she was startled or aggravated all that purring could turn straight into claws-out violence.
Then there was Lena, a creature I couldn’t quite categorise. Each slice of the torch light illuminated something different. She must have been an early experiment, ‘a blend’ as I’d heard them referred to on the news. Parts of her were human, but only a few. I could recognize bear in the shape of her snout, orangutan in the orange of the fur on her arms, lemur in the stripy tail, and perhaps a Komodo dragon in the draping bits of skin that hung like stalactites from her legs. She looked the least like a person of the three, and yet was the only one who could talk.
Lena watched as I moved slowly towards the door. I considered going to find out the source of the dripping, turning my torch away from them.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you’ she growled at whisper pitch, her voice like gravel in a blender.
I hesitated. ‘What do you mean?’
She didn’t answer and I turned the torch back in their direction again. Though her eyes were still closed, Megan’s tail was flicking side to side. Jeremy’s tongue darted in and out to the rhythm of my racing heartbeat. Lena’s bear mouth broke into a slobbery grin.
‘If the dripping stops it means all the blood has run out of whatever Simon has up there.’
‘Simon?’
In this moment I considered that my plan to ‘rescue’ the subjects of the climate change adaptiveness laboratory had not been well thought through.
It might, I supposed, have been useful to find out just how many subjects they had been holding there. There seemed to be a chance that it had been a mistake to ignore the empty cages in the lab as I dragged the creatures I had drugged and rescued out of their own.
In addition, as Lena looked at me and Megan’s tail flicked and Jeremy’s tongue darted, I realised that, specifically, I should have thought about what would happen if I didn’t get them ‘out’ of the dimly lit facility the scientists had been keeping them in. Like, for example, what I might do if I ended up trapped with them in the warehouse of the facility, hiding away in a shipping container at the edge of the dark space to avoid the guards. Or, the potential that we wouldn’t be the only ones in here. I’d always wished myself to be better at planning, but never more than at this moment.
The dripping continued, though I couldn’t ignore that it was slowing down. Now that it could be blood I wanted it to carry on forever like a gentle rain. I turned back away from the door towards my captives waving the torch over each of them. I put my free hand in my pockets so they wouldn’t see it shaking.
‘Lena, just out of interest, what would you say Simon is, exactly?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
The dripping had officially stopped. None of us could deny it. In its place there was a scuttling sound and then a thump as something landed on the roof of the container. I dropped the torch in fright, kneeling down and crawling towards it. Once I was down there, standing felt difficult on jelly legs, so I stayed put.
Jeremy had become deadly still, his tongue firmly inside his mouth, no longer making any effort to escape the net. Megan’s back arched and a low meowl began to echo out from her, her fur standing straight up on ends. Even Lena, whose aggression towards me had been palpable in her beady bear eyes to this point, was looking up at the roof, shrinking into herself.
‘Lena?’
‘It depends,’ she said, retreating to the point of the container furthest away from the door, ‘on how hungry he is. Sometimes he changes form to fit more in.’
There was more scuttling moving across the roof, quick and persistent, then another thud as Simon, or whatever he’d been eating, landed outside. A short silence followed, where I imagined that Simon was full and would appear to us all now as an ant or something equally tiny. This was a short-lived hope.
The handle of the container began to rattle. I had tried to close it as best I could from the inside with my leftover wire, but it wouldn’t hold for long.
I crawled back along the floor to cower among the three I’d hoped to save. The door creaked opened and a gigantic, furry arachnid leg hooked around it. I turned off the torch.
Next time, I committed to myself, I’d plan better.
“Even if you can’t recollect it, dying alters your perspective; you live a life less attached, more forward-looking. We’re all destined to die; it’s just that some have died already.”
If you’re resolved to leave the island, it is first of all necessary to die. No use asking how this state of affairs came about; perhaps it’s always been that way. Some here like to say we’re dead already – they call the island our “open coffin” – but how can you be dead without first dying? This business of dying, it’s no game, or, if a game, a perfectly serious one. Among us there are two ways. First, and by far the more common, you can live your whole life never leaving the island: live here and die here, and they’ll bury you in the graveyard. For those of us determined to cross the sea, however, there exists a second option: to depart your life before you go. Such a departure is typically a private, solitary affair. But in certain cases, as an act of charity to those left behind, family or a friend may be in attendance. [1]
All my life I’ve been fascinated by death. Many of us are, especially among the younger generation. As a child I had a fish that died. My only regret was that it had done so while I slept so that I missed its final moments. I kept the news from my mother for more than a week, studying the process of watery decomposition. My father, by then, was long gone. Some years later, while my sister lay dying, I slipped beneath her bed, only to be discovered and driven out. I dug graves and carried coffins one summer while at school. In dreams, I saw myself often on my deathbed.
What I’m trying to say is the time had now come for my own departure. Already the matter had been too long delayed: my two closest friends had crossed before me! Even dear Anika chose not to wait. And no work these past several years. I was an old man of thirty-two. Only there was the question of my mother with whom I shared a modest home. She was old and, it goes without saying, set in her ways. No question of her accompanying me on the crossing. The kindest solution, it seemed to me, the best way to stop her missing me, worrying and feeling alone – all the ways I’d felt since Anika crossed – was to have her there to witness.
Now, as I say, those who leave my island – Anika was one such – typically prefer a private passage. Alone in their bedrooms, they wait until dark before passing unobserved and making their way over Parrot Hill. No need for any note of explanation, no search for bodies; within an hour those left behind know they’re gone. And shortly afterwards, no doubt, the dead ones take ship. A solitary departure, slipping away like that, would have suited me well, but it wasn’t to be. I made up my mind to do it in the kitchen.
First I took a bath but decided not to shave. I put on a black suit, shoes and tie. I’d chosen the kitchen on account of the table. I removed the cloth and gave the pale wood a wipe. I draped a towel over the mirror. Candles in daylight seemed like a waste. That was when my mother arrived home, earlier than anticipated. I’d meant to break it to her gently. It wasn’t until she saw the mirror that she caught on.
She said it was impossible. She said a person can have only one home. She said we were bound to live the life we’re given, in the place we were given it and no other. Did I say she harbors religious convictions? People like that, women especially, fail to grasp the nature of the modern world. Dying, she persisted, passing on, wasn’t something you chose; it was something that happened to you. Not at all, I retorted. Being killed – by accident or disease or plain old time – was something that happened to you, as it had happened to my poor sister; dying was active, or at least it could be, a deliberate choice not to go on with a certain life.[2] I could have brought up my father’s long-ago departure, but what’s the use of talking to the older generation? I feared the argument would grow heated, and I’d no wish to leave her after exchanging words.
So I simply stretched out on the table, with the heels of my shoes hanging off the end, and I shut my eyes fast. My mother made a noise like porridge bubbling on the stove. She said she’d no time for my nonsense. For a minute or two I could hear her pottering about the kitchen. Distraction. A little impatience.
Life is stubborn.
It was trickier than I’d imagined: the leaving-go.
But at last…
*
Even by the light of our paraffin lamp, I could tell she’d suffered. She’d changed into a mourning hat and dress, and flat black shoes. No doubt she’d had quite a shock at first. And then she’d pulled a chair up beside the table to wail and weep, her head like a wilted flower and a shawl draped over it.[3]
For myself I felt pleasantly detached, like I’d had a good back rub and a nap. It was all very interesting, if I may say so. I’d happily have taken my time, examining my condition, describing my emotions and state of mind, but I had a ship to catch. I sat up very gently but of course, with the shadows and so on, she let out a scream. “You died,” she stammered, pointing a stubby finger. “You’re gone.”
I nodded.
And it was back to the shawl over the head, her body quaking as though the island was suffering one of its tremors. I was ready to steal out the door, but when she looked up again something had shifted. The puzzled stare she gave me then, as though dredging her memory for my face. For a moment she seemed on the brink of recognition, but then – she spoke as if it had happened a year ago – “My son is gone.”
I’d heard about, and counted upon, this phenomenon in cases of non-solitary crossing. Of course my mother couldn’t know me now she saw me dead. (Had I chanced to see Anika afterwards, climbing Parrot Hill on her way to the ship, would I have known even her?) A week or a month from now, so they say, I would no longer know myself.
“He was my only boy,” my mother told me. “You have a slight look of him, sir.”
I forced a smile, still sitting in my black suit on the kitchen table.
“Not that he was my favorite. The other died young, a girl.”
So much for filial devotion! I ought to have cleared out years ago! There was nothing to be gained by lingering. Best get off and out the door before she started asking questions. Of course she pressed me to stay. That relentless hospitality of ours!
*
And so, late last night, it was my turn to climb Parrot Hill. At the top I halted, breathing hard. Down below shone the lights of our island’s port, from which I’d begin my final journey. It’s an arduous crossing, they say, but I feel the hardest part is behind. Perhaps you’re wondering who “they” may be, since of course none returns to tell their tale. Ours is not the first generation to leave the island. I suppose, for all the barriers and the distance between, word has a way of filtering back.
They even say, I’ve heard some say this at least, that you can leave our island without first dying. To cross like that, it sounds strange but it could be; in a place without rhyme or reason, why expect absolute rules? They say, however, that such poor souls gather at the stern rail, gazing back at the empty horizon. As the scent of our island fades some hurl themselves into the churning wake. Others, they say, complete the voyage and descend the gangplank from the ship. They stand again on dry ground but you cannot say they have arrived. Without first dying you can cross over, they say, but you never really arrive. In order to start a new life you must first set a seal on the old. This may all be so; I’m not yet in a position to comment.[4]
As for this experience of being dead, it feels not much like anything at all. Detached, as I say, a sort of living death, though not the kind endured by those who choose to stay here. Over there, in that new land, I’ll continue for a while to no longer exist. And then, with luck, I will live again (or for the first time). I’ll be born again, gradually, only that person, of course, will not be me. He’ll not remember me, or the island with its blossoms and birdsong, or death on a kitchen table. This forgetting process may have begun already; on board the ship, I’m told, it will gather pace.
And will oblivion, finally, be absolute? Some say yes; others are less certain. As I descend the switchback path to the port where the ship is in, I’m wondering about Anika of course, my sweet Anika. Say our paths should cross, hers and mine, over there, on the street of some teeming metropolis. A slim chance, no doubt. Romantic daydream! But, truly, would there be no glimmer of recognition at all? A second glance? A feeling? Surely some echoes of our old lives and loves survive the crossing?
[1] Do these words of mine puzzle you? Understand that my country lacks all significance; a pinprick in a broad ocean, it’s a long way from anywhere and nothing whatever like yours. Here, we have no industries – once, long ago, there were copper mines. No science or technology either, no computers even, and precious little in the way of logic or reason.
[2] The distinction between the two verbs is clearer in our own language.
[3] Does this peculiar practice of ours seem barbaric? Really it’s far more merciful. Easier for a mother to have her child die than have him take ship without prospect of return. Better mourning than missing.
[4] To truly make sense of all this, you’d need to have lived our lives, and deaths. You’d have to have made that long, lonely sea-crossing too.
Here Lies Steven Fulton
Beloved Brother, Uncle, Friend
Here lies Steve the peeve, Hattie said in a singsong voice. A life with no strife was ended with a knife.
Hattie liked knives. And she hadn’t liked Steve. Because Steve had liked Hattie too much.
Lived Life. Loved Life. Said the inscription underneath.
Now that was just an outright lie. She bet that Steve had not loved life at all. He hadn’t done any of the typical begging when he easily could have. There’d definitely been time for that.
But no, Hattie couldn’t think like that; she was here to pay her respects. Hattie bowed her head like they did in the movies and counted the sixty seconds for her Moment of Silence.
Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty. Done.
Goodbye Steve. Until next time Steve.
She needed to move on to her next grave. Her visits were timed. Hattie couldn’t be late to her next one, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to visit them all. And they were expecting her. Hattie owed it to each of them to be punctual.
It had rained the night before. Hattie could tell because the earth was squishy beneath her feet. She liked the way it felt under her Mary Janes, which were buckled over her knee-length cable-knit socks that Hattie had to wear because they were part of her uniform. She sunk in a little with each step, an inch closer to her friends. The tiny suction made it harder to bring her foot up again, which made Hattie happy. It made her feel like they wanted her there, to stay with them.
Don’t worry, I’m here, she said. I always come back. Squish, squish.
Adrianne Walter
Always In Our Hearts. Taken From Us Too Soon.
She was taken at the exactly right time, Hattie said back to the headstone. At the time that she was supposed to be taken. No, there was a better word for it. Meant to be taken. There it was. She was taken at the exactly right time that she was meant to be taken, Hattie repeated.
Hattie liked words, but she didn’t like when words were used incorrectly. It was a wicked thing to tell the wrong story. That’s one of the reasons she came to the graveyard – outside of visiting her friends. To tell the stories the right way.
Taken. Now that was a good word. It was the right word. Hattie traced her hands along the indentations of the inscription, feeling the damp, cool roughness of the stone against her fingertips. She curled over the word taken twice.
Adrianne Walter never did falter. Until a new girl was born, whom Adrianne scorned. As hard as the younger girl tried, the older sister despised. So an accident down the stairs was conceived, and Adrianne’s death was achieved.
Hattie stepped back for Adrianne’s Moment of Silence. She didn’t like to stand on the graves when giving them her respects. That was like standing on someone’s stomach, or on their arm, or even on their private parts. And that was not polite.
Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six.
Hattie liked Adrianne’s grave. It was one of her favorites in the whole graveyard. It looked exactly how a grave should look. A rectangular plot of grass with a rectangular stone standing upright exactly where the fractured skull would be. The sun shone down on the grave as if to agree.
The collection of colors – grass, stone and sky – probably looked pretty in the sunlight, but not to Hattie. Hattie was colorblind, which she liked. Her world was an array of grays. Darker grays, lighter grays, some grays as close to black as it could get. That’s another reason she liked the graveyard so much. Gray felt right in the graveyard. Gray was the way it was supposed to be.
When it was cloudy out, her grays were more muted, more comfortable. But when it was bright like this, everything seemed more pronounced. She felt the corners of her eyes twitch towards graves that were not hers to visit, which Hattie didn’t like. Things in the light stood out where they shouldn’t, drawing her attention from what she was supposed to be doing, which was paying her respects.
Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty! Done.
Adrianne would always be special to Hattie. Adrianne was Hattie’s first.
Goodbye Taken Adrianne. I’ll see you next time Taken Adrianne.
Hattie smiled. She liked that she’d thought of a new nickname for her sister.
She took out her light gray watch from her coat pocket to make sure that she was on time. If she left right now to go to her next grave, she would be. Hattie let out a sigh of relief.
Squish, squish, squish, squish.
Joshua Frymark
At Peace
The Lord Is My Shepherd
Joshua Frymark lived in a sty-mark. He was a terrible old neighbor, who always demanded free labor. One day he was cruel, so Hattie pushed his wheelchair into the pool. Not one person in the town missed him as he drowned.
Hattie clapped her hands. She loved when her stories worked out like that.
She stepped back to make sure she was in the right spot and bowed her head like she was supposed to for Joshua’s Moment.
Around thirty-one and thirty-two though, Hattie started to get bored. She could feel her hands wanting to fidget, which was not right for paying her respects, so she put them in her coat pockets to quiet them.
Hattie kept exactly three things in her coat pockets. Two things in her left-hand coat pocket and one thing in her right-hand coat pocket. The first thing in her left-hand coat pocket was her watch. She didn’t like things on her skin, and her pocket was the perfect place for it to go. Her watch kept her on time. And that was important. Dependable people were always on time. The second thing in her left-hand coat pocket was her pocketknife. She needed it first and foremost for safety. And she never knew when one of the tools from her pocketknife would come in handy.
Hattie held her breath while she made sure it was still there. When her fingers closed around the cool metal, she let out the air and enjoyed the sight of her gray, wispy breath. That was one thing she had that her friends didn’t have, which Hattie liked.
Her Moment of Silence for Joshua now complete, Hattie left to go to her next grave. She checked her watch again and was reassured that she was still exactly on time.
Because of the rain, all the little worms were out on the ground. Some of them had already died, which was a shame. But some of them were still squiggling and squirming, which Hattie liked. And the bitter, rotting smell that always came after rain still lingered in the air, which Hattie also liked. It was very appropriate for the graveyard. Aside from the sun being out, this was a very good day for her visit.
Hattie made a game of stepping on the wriggling worms as she made her way over to her next grave. Double points for two plus worms in one step, but minus points for stepping on the ones that were already dead. Wormy hopscotch. Squish, squish, squish.
Mary Roosner
Precious Angel
Beloved By Family, Cherished By Friends
Mary Roosner was a loser. A girl with so many friends, she lost them all in the end. She had a tongue like a snake, and a laugh that did grate, but no blood was reserved when she got what she deserved.
Hattie was still working on that one.
There were no flowers this time. Last time there had been, which Hattie really didn’t like. She’d had to tear the gray petals up into shreds and hack the stems into little pieces with her pocketknife, which had certainly come in handy that day. She’d stabbed at the flower confetti until it had mixed with the dirt underneath, at least as far as Hattie could see. Being colorblind did have some disadvantages.
It had taken thirty-four minutes and twenty-two seconds to get rid of the flowers completely, which had thrown Hattie’s schedule entirely off track for the day. She’d had to skip seven graves, which upset Hattie because she didn’t get to pay her respects like they were expecting.
Except for Mary’s, there were never flowers on any of Hattie’s graves, which she liked. They made the graves more hers. Besides, flowers just rotted. And there was enough rotting going on in the graveyard already. If she ever had any extra time at the end of her visits, Hattie liked to clean the flowers off of the other graves that weren’t hers.
Even though she didn’t want to, Hattie stayed completely still for Mary’s Moment of Silence. But she left exactly after that. Hattie didn’t need to check her watch to know that she would be ahead of schedule; she was usually ahead of schedule after Mary Roosner. Being ahead of schedule wasn’t great, but it wasn’t as bad as being behind schedule. At the next grave Hattie would linger a little for time to catch up.
But as Hattie squished her way over to her next grave, grinding the corpses of little worms into their own earthy graves, she saw Mr. Peter across the way and stopped short. This was not his usual time.
Mr. Peter was the caretaker of the graveyard. His shoulders were hunched with age, and his skin hung slack over his bones in a skeletal way, but he was still strong enough to dig and fill Hattie’s graves. He always wore clothes that were the same shade of gray, which Hattie liked because she knew what to expect. Gray suited him. Mostly because a general grayness surrounded him: a grayish face, a grayish demeanor. Hattie liked Mr. Peter most of all because he was always nice to her. But this was the wrong time for him to be here, which she did not like. She did not like that at all. It was going to throw off her entire schedule. Nothing would get done after this. Nothing. She knew it. Her friends knew it. The graveyard knew it. Hattie started to breath heavily.
Mr. Peter saw Hattie and waved.
Hattie froze. She couldn’t bring herself to wave back. This day was ruined, destroyed, dead.
Everything okay over there, Hattie? Mr. Peter called out. School let out early today?
School had not let out early. It was Friday, and Fridays were always half days at Hattie’s boarding school. But there was no way for Mr. Peter to know that; he never saw her on Fridays since this was not his usual time.
Mr. Peter was setting up with a gray shovel next to a darker gray plot of land from which the grass had already been skinned, but he stopped and looked like he was going to start walking over to her.
Hattie absolutely could not let that happen. She didn’t like to be close to people unless it was completely necessary. And it was certainly not completely necessary right now.
She had to think of a way that would keep him over there, to reassure him that everything was okay. Even though it wasn’t. Nothing was okay. Her day had been violently cleaved in two. She didn’t know if she would ever feel okay again. Everything was too bright. Her whole body felt tense and tingly.
Hattie whimpered, but that didn’t help. He was going to start walking over any second. She put her arms over her ears. She wanted to scream. Think Hattie, think!
She dropped her hands into her coat pockets and clutched onto her pocketknife, drawing the blade. She had to let some of herself out or she would burst, Hattie knew it. She ran her palm along the blade, back and forth, hard enough until it felt wet, which Hattie needed. The pain was enough to pull everything together again, at least for a little while. Hattie exhaled at the release.
What are you doing Mr. Peter? Hattie finally shouted back, in her best I’m Okay voice.
Mr. Peter seemed relieved by her answer. He picked up his gray shovel, which confirmed for Hattie that he wasn’t going to come over.
Just getting a head start on the next one, Mr. Peter said back in his grayish way.
She didn’t know if Peter was his first name or his last name. It would have bothered her if she hadn’t thought of the solution of calling him Mr. Peter, which covered both possibilities.
Who’s it for? Hattie asked to keep him safely over there, across the way.
Don’t know yet, Mr. Peter said back, laughing his gray laugh. But there’s always someone who comes along.
That’s true. There’s always someone next.
Hattie gasped when it hit her. The grave. It was hers.
All of the pressure in her body released in a whoosh. Hattie no longer felt tense and tingly, she felt light and shimmery. The brightness of the day wasn’t too bright, it was exactly as bright as it needed to be for everything to be in sharp focus. She knew what she had to do. Everything made sense again. Her schedule had been cleared by Mr. Peter for a reason. The day was still hers. In fact, it was more hers than it had been before when she was spending it with her friends. Now, Hattie was going to get to do something special just for her.
Tom Banner was a creature who posed as a teacher.
What? Mr. Peter shouted.
A man with no smile, he did things that were vile.
Mr. Peter put his hand behind his ear to help him hear her.
He made fun of her grammar, so she cracked his skull with a hammer.
Speak up Hattie, you know I love your poems.
Hattie pulled her watch with her bloodied hand out of her left coat pocket and checked it. She was exactly on time again.
Thank you, Mr. Peter, she said loud enough this time. But I have to go now. I don’t want to be late.
She turned abruptly and walked away quickly, no longer caring about the worms or the graves. She had somewhere else to be.
Hattie shoved her right hand into her coat pocket and soothed herself with what was to come. She stroked it up and down, up and down: the last thing she kept on her at all times.
The foxes are in the garden again. Five cubs and one Mother.
Magda peers out into the gloom; the night is moving within itself, shadows lapping at the edges of the trees, trickling over the grass, and pouring thick into the sky. The cubs are like fish swimming through the murk, ghostly and fluid, weaving through the long grass and disappearing into the forest. It’s the noise that keeps waking her up, that choking staccato cry that clatters out of their throats.
When she was little her Mother told her that noise is called gekkering. She loved that word, kept it well polished and ready to use like a special piece of jewellery. She didn’t understand when her Mother told her she couldn’t apply the word to humans, Magda could make that sound too so why couldn’t she describe herself as gekkering?
“Because you’re not an animal,” her Mother had explained. Magda had failed to see why that was relevant.
The Fox Mother sits patient and unmoving as the cubs play, her paws delicately placed together, her head held haughty and proud. When Magda looks out, she swears the Fox nods at her.
*
Magda has always lived here. Her cottage is old and weathered, nestled into the countryside and half swallowed by its greenery; ivy grows in through open windows, mushrooms sprout along the edge of floorboards, mice make its hollows their home. It is small but it is all she has ever needed – one room to sleep in, one to wash in, and one to work and eat in – she has never understood people who want more.
Outside of these rooms her garden slopes down a hill, falling and sprawling with the abandon of a drunken whore. It is furrowed and wild; weeds tangle like hair and ants crawl within the mess. At one corner she grows small anaemic vegetables and keeps a chicken coop. On the other side she buries all the animals she works on – a cluttered graveyard of local mammals.
She has always lived alone, but that does not mean she doesn’t need company. She has two visitors who satisfy and submerge this need; one man and one woman. They come separately, have never met nor heard of one another. She keeps each one secret, revelling in their delicious ignorance. The visitors come at different times; the man twice a week, Sundays and Wednesdays, sometimes he stays the night. There is no set time for when he arrives or leaves, it all depends on factors he alludes to but does not explain. He is bouncing and childish, takes up all her time and whips the house into a frenzy. When he leaves, he places money on the kitchen table even though she has told him not to. She assumes this money is for her silence; she knows that the man has a wife somewhere out there, past her garden and through the woods, but she does not understand how he thinks she would tell her anything.
The woman is more punctual, set in her ways; she arrives every Friday at five p.m. and lingers until lunchtime on Saturday. Her presence is more serious; they sit in silence for long stretches of time, bodies languid so their brains can move frantic over the subjects she brings with her and which she expects Magda to have opinions on. In bed Magda likes the feel of the woman’s skin on hers, the soft rub of it, the dead flop of sleeping limbs.
*
Magda makes the small amount of money she needs through her taxidermy. She could make a lot of money from it if she wanted to, her main buyer tells her its popularity has expanded to eyewatering levels. He says half the people he sells to now have never heard of these animals, animals that are just a few miles away from them – badgers and voles and mice – people buy them thinking they are exotic creatures from foreign lands. He tells her she could make a fortune off her mounts, but it would mean she would have to work faster, and she likes taking her time over each animal, getting to know them while she poses them.
She catches all the animals herself. Hunts them through the straggle of forest that surrounds her; it used to be bigger, to stretch across land that has now been devoted to cavernous houses with neat flat lawns. People rarely venture into the forest but sometimes Magda comes across a stray dog walker who has veered off the pavement and gotten lost amongst the trees. She can usually hear them and get away before they see her but sometimes one will startle her. They will usually ask for help, clutching their dog lead, eyes snapping around the foliage. The dogs are always similarly scared, quivering pathetic things decked out in little booties and designer outfits. The humans and the dogs provoke nothing but contempt in Magda; she never says anything, just points, and there has never been a time when both human and dog haven’t flinched at the movement of her arm.
She has traps set up across the land. Cages with apple cores and sometimes deep pits covered with foliage. The cages are better, the animals are cleaner when she catches them like that, less liable to break bones or scratch skin.
When she gets the animal home, she skins it, preserves the skin, poses its bloody limbs into the right position and freezes it in place. She uses plaster to make her own form and when it’s set she drapes the skin over and sews it up. Finally, she fits the eyes and the teeth, and then it is done, ready to go out into a world that wasn’t interested in it when it was alive.
*
The woman brings up the history of pregnancy. It is summer and they have just eaten a dinner of rabbit and cabbage and are reclining, full and hot. The woman has taken her top off and her breasts hang plump, jellyfish-like, her stomach a swelled mound. Magda thinks this is what a pregnant woman must look like, although she has never seen one. The woman says human gestation is parasitic; she speaks of something nestled inside you, filling your cavity with its expanding body and sucking the nutrients from you. She says pregnancy is proof that God hates women, that they were made to be used and thrown away afterwards. It was humans who righted this wrong and got rid of this unnecessary quirk of reproduction, transplanting it into labs and frozen rooms so that women could finally be equal to men.
Magda doesn’t agree, she finds the idea of pregnancy beautiful, thinks women are missing out now. When she was younger one of the dogs died when she was pregnant, and Magda cut her belly open to see. The puppies were all there, tiny and pink and glistening, just about fully formed; they looked like burstable sacks of fruit and she thought it was beautiful. What a woman could do, Magda thought, what potential they held within them.
“I want a child,” she says to the woman but is ignored. Later on, in bed, the woman clamps a palm salty with sweat over Magda’s mouth in what she assumes is a punishment.
*
The foxes are digging, and as they dig, they scream. This has been going on for weeks. The initial breathy chattering quickly descending into high-pitched shrieks; they sound like women choking through wordless pain. They emerge with the darkness, start their squawking when Magda is chewing her dinner and linger until she falls asleep.
When the foxes first appeared, she was worried about her chickens and thoroughly inspected the wire mesh surrounding the coop, mending even the tiniest tears. But to her knowledge, the foxes have not gone hear the coop; the hole they dig every night is always concentrated on the one spot. In the mornings she goes out and using a shovel undoes this hole, patting the loose earth down just to be torn asunder again.
The man sleeps over and before they go to bed, she warns him about the foxes.
“I’ve never seen a fox,” he mumbles, pulling the sheets over his pale, smooth body.
He is cold in bed, there is a metallic sheen to his limbs that sends chilled shock waves through her body when she brushes against him. They lie awake, murmuring together until the fox’s squalls start, their nightly song leaking into the bedroom.
“There, that’s them,” she whispers, sitting up to better hear.
He frowns, a single line appearing in his otherwise taut forehead, “I can’t hear anything.”
The cries are loud and clamouring, they fill the room and echo off the thick damp walls.
“Can’t you hear?”
He shakes his head, eyes drooping. Within a few seconds he is sleeping, his body unnaturally still, breath humming through him.
She turns away, lets the wailings of the foxes rock her into unsteady sleep.
*
The dog is small and shaky. At first, she thinks it is an oversized rat tangled in rags, but then she notices the collar stamped with a series of numbers, and realises the rags are a sky-blue baby-grow soiled with mud.
It’s loud and yappy, keeps baring its bleached teeth at her as she tries to fish it out. The fall down the trap has broken one of its legs, it sits in a pained crunched pose and wiggles to move away from her hand. Its tail is a spray of straight black hair, unnervingly human-like and quivering with nervous rage. Magda doesn’t understand why anyone would want this thing as a pet, they may as well invite a badger into their home.
She imagines how strange its skull must look like, how dominated by those eyes it must be. When she pushes the knife under its leg and into its heart it twitches a few times, massive eyes bulging so much she half expects them to pop.
*
Dogs are tricky to sell, so she keeps it for herself. She poses it into a placid sitting position, paws lined neatly up, but the size of the glass eyes make it look wild and off kilter, the cocktail of anger and fear still potent.
She places it on the mantlepiece above the fireplace so it can watch her work and brings its carcass into the garden to bury it.
The soil is dried out with the heat of the summer, she stabs her shovel deep into it and scoops up parched crumbling lumps. When the hole is deep enough, she gets on her knees and plunges her hands in to finish, as she works her hands feel tangled in something fine yet resistant, she breaks through what she assumes is roots until the earth is smooth. It is only after she places the body into the hole that she notices the clumps of black hair dangling from her fingers.
*
When the man comes for his visit he stares at the dog, his mouth hanging open like a fresh wound.
“Where did you get that?” he asks, and she explains while chopping carrots.
There is a silence only filled with the sharp snap of the blade hitting the chopping board, she senses something and turns around.
“What is wrong with you?” he asks, his face livid red.
“It got into one of my traps,” she explains, laying the knife down and walking towards him.
He takes a step back and away from her, grabbing his coat from the seat and pulling it onto his arms with a shambolic haste.
“That’s like killing someone’s child,” he spits.
She doesn’t reply. She can see already that he is done; he will have to find someone else to distract him from him wife.
He slams the door on his way out. She watches from the window as he climbs into his slick car; the headlights dart frantically over the thick curtain of the forest, briefly illuminating the Mother Fox, sitting, watching.
*
The sounds start as they usually do, indistinct scuffling as she eats her dinner; her molars sinking into scraps of overcooked meat and undercooked carrots. The little dog sits and watches her, and she intermittently peers up at it to nod neighbourly.
When she slips into bed the sounds are changing, there is something different lingering in the gaps between the fox’s screams. It’s wavering and nebulous, sounds like something stretching – skin pulled taught over a drum, begging to be hit.
She gives up on sleep and moves to the window. The foxes have made their hole and instead of continuing to play they are all sat around it patiently, the moonlight turning their fur colourless, intangible.
Magda grabs her coat and pulls it on over her nightdress, shoves bare feet into heavy boots and plunges herself out into the night.
The sky has given itself over to the darkest point of the night, a breeze rustles the trees at the bottom of the garden, and they whisper together like a group of gossips. It’s still warm, the earth holding onto the heat it gathered from the sun. She runs to the other side of the house and over to the foxes; she expects them to run when she nears them, but they just stare at her – five sets of glassy eyes considering her movements like she is a bug caught in a clod of earth.
The sound is more insistent here, a faltering hum pressing into her ears and seeping into her brain, filling it with a primordial ocean-like slosh.
Her boots sink into the mud, its slick and watery even though it hasn’t rained in weeks. In the faint light from the moon it looks uncomfortably red and she imagines herself walking across a massive opened belly; tripping along the glistening intestines, pressing boot prints into the meaty hunks of spleen and stomach.
The fox cubs are covered in the gunk of the wet mud, spots of it flickered over their faces, threads hanging from their mouths. The Mother Fox is clean, resplendent. She catches Magda’s eyes and nods towards the hole as if inviting her to take a closer look.
The sound vibrates when Magda looks down, it pulls her towards the hole with a numinous quality; this is something special she thinks to herself, something that must be honoured. She bends over to get a closer look. At the centremost part of the hole something is moving, squirming under the surface, stretching the bubbled milky skin of the earth with each rhythmic throb of movement – begging to be let free.
Heat prickles over her, she snaps up and takes a step back, but the Mother Fox yaps out a sharp reprimand. Magda looks at her, and her eyes – tawny and flecked – glare back.
Magda knows what she has to do. She moves slowly, easing down to kneel. Her knees squelch into the mud and it seeps into her nightdress; dark stains and cool dampness spreading, making the material transparent over her knees.
The sound is more insistent here, it puts her teeth on edge, sounds like a ghastly whistling gap cracking into the world.
The cubs start scratching at the ground along the edge of the hole, not trying to dig, just showing her what to do. She nods and raises her hands, already aware that what she is about to do is something profound and irreversible.
Fingers plunge into the balloon-stretch of the earth, oozing into throbbing heat; mud caking fingers, pebbles breaking skin. The Mother Fox yaps again – it isn’t working, so Magda forces her nails in, scratching until she feels that layer give way and suddenly the sound stops. She searches in the chasm of the wetness until her hand touches something warm, living. She grasps it and pulls it out – a baby.
It starts to cry when it is completely free. Toothless mouth screaming blindly, tiny lungs sucking in air and pushing out noise. Tears dampen Magda’s face, and sweat glimmers over her body. The baby reaches a tiny curled fist out to her face and she hears herself laugh.
When she looks up the foxes are gone.
*
Magda loves her son. She has never felt love like this before, like something sharp implanted within her chest – new but irrevocable. Sometimes when she looks at him – at the tiny slivers of his fingernails or the pink buds of his toes – the thing in her chest shifts and sends tears to shimmer in her eyes.
He grows quickly, is crawling within a week and tearing his way through the cottage. His hair is thick and dark, tangled as weeds and rough like stone; when she nuzzles her nose into the mop of it, she smells moss and the promise of rain. He belongs here, in this house filled with the sounds and the colours of the forest, he belongs with her.
But she was unprepared, spends the first few days scrambling to get things right. When the woman comes to visit, Magda sticks only her head out of the door and tells her she is too busy.
It takes her a while to figure out what to feed him. He is fussy. She starts with cow’s milk, waves it under his nose and raises it to his mouth but he isn’t interested; she rubs it on his gums but that just makes him gag and cry.
She tries vegetables – boiled to oblivion and mashed into a paste, this he throws against the walls and squeals in delight at the long colourful swatch. He sticks his tongue out at the little tender bits of cooked meat she offers him, smashes his fists into the glob of scrambled eggs.
When he starts to crawl, she finds him tugging at the front door, scratching at the wood with his shell-thin nails, so she lets him out and follows his delighted gigglings into the garden. She studies the line of trees, searching for the foxes and when she looks back at her son, he is stuffing fistfuls of soil into his mouth. His teeth have started to grow, and he munches them into the soft give of the earth before swallowing happily and smiling dark-toothed at her.
She gasps and pulls him up and away from the ground, but he screams ravenous, kicking and squirming with a strength she didn’t think possible. Eventually she gives in, places him back down and he resumes his meal. Magda sits down, weight pressing into the damp of the soil and watches him; the purple hole of his smacking mouth, the look of satiated pleasure in his dark eyes. He picks the worms and the beetles out and sucks contentedly around them, his cheeks hollowed as he chomps into their brittle shells.
When he is done, he crawls over to her, lays his head onto her lap and falls asleep.
*
The woman comes back looking concerned. Magda invites her in, ushering her into the nest she has created. He is walking now, the size of a toddler, he can say “mama” and “worm” and still mixes up which one is which sometimes.
Magda leads the woman into the bedroom where her son is napping, eyes closed and twitching through a dream. The woman stares at him, blank and uncomprehending. She walks back into the kitchen and Magda gently closes the bedroom door and follows her.
“Where did you get it?” the woman asks, her voice shrill.
“He’s mine,” Magda replies calmly.
The woman’s chest heaves, her face is empty but her mouth twitches strangely, like a malfunctioning screen stuttering through images.
“That’s not possible,” she spits.
For a second Magda thinks the woman is going to hit her. Her body quivers with a perceptible anger that wavers in the air like heat waves off tarmac, she imagines it filling the cottage like a poison; peeling paint off the walls, rotting the food, killing the plants.
But the woman just storms out, slams the front door behind her so loud it wakes her son, his cries mingling with the sounds of tyres screeching away.
*
She brings him hunting; teaches him how to set traps, how to track animals, how to be so quiet the forest accepts you as a part of it.
He moves silent and inquisitive, chubby hands grasping at bark and pulling heads off flowers. Every now and then they stop for a snack, Magda crunching carrots, her son spooning globs of soil into his mouth.
When they find a rabbit in one of her traps, she tells him to stand back while she kills it, but he can’t seem to help himself. He wants to be close to it, presses his eye next to the rabbits and strokes its fur gently.
When she shows him how to skin it, he is particularly interested in the carcass left behind, pawing at its bare sticky muscles, the stringy tendons. She tells him to stop but before she can do anything, he’s licking it and then ripping strips off with his nails and dropping them down his throat.
In a way she is glad, raw meat is more nutritious than soil.
*
The scream is short and piercing, it slices into Magda’s sleep and drags her awake. Her heart pounds in her chest, the threads of sleep still glimmering over her eyes. Another scream answers the first, hoarse and frantic, a panicked thing profound with pre-emptive sorrow. She listens and a third scream shatters into her, it is only then that she realises the other side of the bed is empty – her son is gone.
She searches the house, ripping piles of clothes apart hoping he is hiding underneath them. The foxes continue screaming, tearing up the night with their strangled cries. They pass the screams between them, taking turns and sharing out the grief, like a group of keening women. Magda knows what they are telling her. She stops looking.
She pulls boots on and walks out; the Mother Fox is already there waiting. When she sees Magda she stands, starts trotting down the road. Her cubs, almost fully grown gather around Magda’s ankles and urge her to follow. Before she moves, she runs back into the house and comes back with a bag bulging with something light and pointed.
They walk for hours, until the countryside slips away and they’re in wide sanitized streets hemmed in with gigantic glass buildings. Magda feels vulnerable, and she can tell the foxes do too, their fur stands on end, their eyes are wary. From here she can’t see the stars or smell the earth; the streetlights are so bright it may as well be day, and everything smells like burning sugar.
Eventually they come to an estate of houses like the one at the edge of the forest, all big, identical, and white. The houses are all dark, apart from one. The Mother Fox trots over to it and sits in the lawn, Magda follows; when she steps on the grass it feels bouncy yet hard, she looks down and realises it is plastic.
This close to the house she can hear the faint strain of a woman crying, the babble of it waving gently in the wind like silk.
Magda doesn’t knock, just opens the door and follows the crying up marble stairs. Something is crawling its way through her veins, cold as steel and bright as the sun at noon. The bedroom door is ajar, she pushes it open with her fingertips and there they are – her two visitors. The man stands glowering over the bed, his face shattered; a collection of shards glinting nothing but blind pain. The woman is hunched on the bed; her head hanging limp and the bubbles of her crying slipping out from behind the curtain of her hair. Her legs are splayed, something small and blanketed nestled between them.
Neither of them says anything when she walks over to the bed, the man looks at her and down at his feet. There is an absence about him; it feels as if he is sleepwalking – a shell driven by something subconscious and distant.
The woman keeps sobbing, still hasn’t looked up. Magda knows what to expect but her breath still catches in her throat when she looks down. Instead of her son with his round flushed cheeks and his ears like mushrooms there is just a pile of soil collected in the blanket, dry and crumbling as if it has never known rain, strands of hair embedded like roots.
She gathers it in her arms, careful to not let any spill. The woman doesn’t acknowledge her. Magda considers telling them they should have known this would happen, she considers showing them the gawping wound of her grief, but she knows there is no point. They would not listen to her and she would only drag herself further under the current of her sorrow, instead she digs one arm into her bag. When she pulls it out, she hears the man gasp. She lays it gently into the woman’s lap and watches as her long spindly fingers instantly curl around it, sink into the fur with a maternal grasp.
The woman raises her head, her eyes two bloodshot balls of steel. She cradles the taxidermized dog to her breast and the man sits down next to her, gazes down at it like something long fought for, finally achieved.
“Thank you,” the woman’s voice grinds out and the man nods. They both look glossy and far away, preserved in the moment and ready to gather dust.
Magda carries the pile out, The Mother Fox and her cubs are waiting in the neon green of the fake grass. She drops to her knees in front of The Mother Fox and lays the ashy pile of dirt at her paws.
The Mother Fox nods once, amber eyes soaking in the light from the house and bouncing it back into Magda. She lowers her head, ears pulled back and hair bristling in the wind, her pink tongue unfurls, laps at the small pile of soil hesitantly at first and then, consumes it.
In memory of John Prine.
Sasha arrived in mid-October in the sidecar of a Ural two-stroke piloted by a grizzled biker with Snakeman painted on his leathers. Espen stood at end of the dirt road leading into his property, a bolt-action rifle slung over his shoulder. Following a short parley he shook Snakeman’s hand and gave him a fistful of cash. The biker stood straddling his seat and extended an arm to help her exodus. Sasha jumped into Espen’s arms. As the biker tossed over a backpack he growled “Take care, sweet pea” and roared off in a cloud of blue smoke and dust.
She stayed the winter.
Sasha and Espen slept the first morning away. Both awakened when the sun stood high, then promptly re-engaged in the activities of the previous evening. It was not until two bells chimed on the old wall clock that they rose, showered, and began to forage in his well-stocked larder. Sasha, eating dry cereal from the box said, “Espen, I need meat.” He glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. She grinned. “Bird or beast, you choose.”
A short time later, as she nestled on the sofa before a roaring fire with a glass of purple wine, a distinct “CRACK” was heard outside. Not shotgun, she mused, having grown up near Boise, not pistol, but rifle. Small caliber. Twenty-two, she suspected. She glided barefoot across the brown rug, enjoying how the surprisingly soft bear fur tickled her foot. The door was open and she paused to listen. Outside Espen stood, steadily plucking a medium-sized bird while tenderly singing to himself, Woke up this morning, put on my slippers, walked in the kitchen and died. And oh what a feeling when my soul went through the ceiling and on up into heaven, I did rise…
Sasha turned to the kitchen and lit the kindling in the firebox of the Wedgewood stove before rummaging for a cast-iron roasting pan and fixings in the refrigerator. She continued the song, When I got there, they did say John it happened thisaway, you slipped upon the floor and hit your head. And all the angels say just before you passed away, that these were the very last words that you said. Please don’t bury me, down in that cold, cold ground. I’d rather have them cut me up and pass me all around…
The pheasant was heavenly. More firm, flavorful, and lean than any chicken. It was the perfect curative for their lust-fueled hunger. So began the winter of content. Pheasant, duck, goose, blue-grouse, Hungarian partridge; and when the season opened, a fine young deer. Most of these creatures were harvested within a short walk from Espen’s stone and timber enclave. He never used the same gun twice.
Their “lovemaking” (as he insisted they call it), was spontaneous, wild, and mutually fulfilling. She texted her best friend Lonnie: “Fucking like rabbits who dine daily on tiger dick and rhino horn.” Lonnie, being Lonnie, shortened this to FLRWDDOTD&RH. His future messages sometimes consisted of “Still FLRWDDOTD&RH ?” Or if he was in a hurry, “F…H”. One day, when feeling loquacious, he added a rabbit emoji.
Sasha would reply with her own rabbit emojis, generally one to three, and in November added, “If I ever text you six bunnies I have achieved the perfect orgasm and can die happy.” Lonnie, a county lineman who grew more efficient each day as the light dwindled, reduced his queries to a single rabbit and question mark. As the winter holidays approached the average number of her bunnies progressively increased toward three, with an occasional four.
Espen, some thirty-five years her senior, used a flip-phone and rarely texted. He knew of Lonnie, but not the emojis. All the Lonnies in Espen’s life had been women, so Sasha’s constant texting to this Lonnie gave him no qualms. Upon learning weeks later Lonnie was male, Espen shrugged. He was not concerned about Sasha’s other lovers, namely because he was a man of the here and now. She was here, now, and the sex was astounding. For Espen the adoption of emojis for communication was a further sign of societal decay. If he ever were to talk about sex to his friends, which was unlikely, his loyalty to the X-scale would have sufficed. It is safe to say that although he never sent a text with any number of X’s, Sasha was triple-X, and the whole idea of going beyond three never entered his mind.
Sasha’s mind was endlessly active but they both enjoyed the solitude of silence, sometimes not speaking for days. The rhythm of their lives seemed to her much like the endless cycle of ocean tides, always rising resting falling. The stillness of the snow-covered landscape was perhaps her favorite experience – as she rested between moments of intense exercise on his old cross-country skis. Espen no longer skied but watched from the porch like a wooden Indian sentinel when she departed and returned. When John Prine died of the Corona Covid-19 virus in April 2020, they cried together and then listened to all his songs. Singing along, they thanked Prine for the memories, all the while feeling a bit guilty for avoiding the ravages of the virus in their splendid isolation.
Despite the pandemic, Sasha departed suddenly in May. He had expected it for some time, knowing it was her way. Then inexplicably Espen missed an easy target, a young coyote which had foolishly trespassed onto the shore of the alpine lake some two hundred meters from the porch, a certain kill for a marksman of his expertise. No wind, no obstacles, no normal reason for the third eye not to magically appear between the two living eyes as a high-pressure jet of vaporized blood, bone and brain was blasted out the back of the small canine skull. The animal had sat and stared at him. Still as a stone until after the shot rang out, the bright lights in those clever orbs stayed lit as the coyote dashed one fraction of a paw print in front of the second bullet, which also missed.
Curious, but slowed by an old pain, Espen walked to where the animal had stood when he fired the first round. Here was the gnarled juniper tree where it sat, but there were no unseen plants or tiny branches to deflect the bullet. He limped along the escape route, following the paw prints outlined in the sand, and spotted something unusual. Squatting on his heels he poked with a stick then picked up and examined the object. A freshly severed bushy tail of a healthy coyote. He laughed. “Well my friend, I dub thee Bob. Perhaps someday you will give me another chance.” Returning to the veranda, Espen nailed the coyote tail to the cedar door frame and stepped back to admire the décor. He then fired four more rounds from the 22-250 bolt action Weatherby at a target rock. At each shot he adjusted the telescopic scope. It began wildly off, nine inches low, five inches right. Had he bumped the rifle and forgotten it? Certainly, Sasha was a lovely enough distraction to make his mind drift. Firing one last round to ensure its accuracy he turned to the gun room, cleaned the weapon, and placed it lovingly on the rack in its assigned place. The next day, when firing at a wild turkey, he missed again and suspected foul play. This rifle, a single shot .22 with a long heavy target barrel was one of the most accurate in the arsenal. It was fiddled. Sasha. He proceeded to discover she had tinkered with all his guns.
Shooting targets steadily for the next week, Espen put dozens of firearms back on target. How had she done it? Tampering with a scoped rifle was simple enough. Easy as twisting the top on a water bottle, she must have removed the screw caps on the adjustment knobs and changed the aimpoint before re-screwing the caps. But when had she done it? Except for her skiing, they were rarely apart, and when they were, he was most often in the arsenal room. Perhaps when he was sleeping? And what of the many guns which did not have telescopic sights like the .22, and were much harder to monkey-wrench? How had she done those without using his gunsmithing tools, which were locked away? The mystery deepened as each gun was put back into order.
Why had she done it? He did not give that much thought. Sasha was Sasha, an enigma in all things non-carnal. She was gone. He was here. That was that.
The last day of August Espen received a text from an unknown number. TOMORROW. Sasha returned in Snakeman’s sidecar. The same ritual as before repeated itself, although this time no money nor words were spoken. Snakeman crouched on his bike, his face covered with a heavy gaiter. Espen knew Covid-20 now raged, mostly killing teenagers.
Their daily routine returned. Duets of John Prine songs were mixed with other dead artists, for it was a time of mourning. Over the next month Espen could see no visible changes, but sensed Sasha’s movements were nebulously altered. A caution seemed to have entered her posture, even when sleeping. He noticed this minute shift and recalled each of his birthdays at thirty, forty and fifty. Age creeps up on us, he thought, we men. But we feel it coming day by day. Decade by decade. A slow decline and growing collection of minor but manageable strains and pains. And women? He did not know but suspected the opposite. Age hits them suddenly, in a sudden rush, at intervals. Maiden blooming into seductress. Seductress shifting into mother, mother bending into crone. Each transition more radical, more akin to the life cycle of butterfly than bull.
That thought stayed with him throughout mid-September, finally conjuring a long-buried memory – his own abrupt transformation at fifteen. His dad had long preached, “It’s not how you get into trouble, but how you get out.” Trouble with a capital T happened at the end of a long day of chopping wood on his father’s ranch. Exhausted, he briefly lost focus, and the razor-sharp blade obliged, brutally staking him to the tree stump he stood on. The only way to free himself was to grip the wooden haft and jerk it free. Even at a young age Espen knew he probably had only one chance before shock set in. What would happen? Was the artery cut? Would he pass out? Summoning an inner calm, he removed his leather belt and tied a tourniquet around his left ankle. The pain of that simple act nearly caused him to faint, but a sudden fear of falling while imbedded by the axe flashed through his system like a jolt of lightning. He grasped the axe and yanked savagely. In that pitiless moment he became a man. Calf to bull. The same man he was today as his sixtieth birthday approached as Sasha’s signs began to appear.
He said nothing about the guns as they fell back to the earlier routine. If anything, their passion grew as the north wind turned keen and the colossal snow goose migration energized the blue sky with enchanted cross currents of living white. The cacophony of the glorious goose calls served as a perfect symphonic backdrop for their intense lovemaking.
She continued to text Lonnie. The bunnies suddenly becoming four in number, two to four times daily. Lonnie started replying with a like number of happy-face emojis, but after a week or so, reduced his texts to a single smiling wolf per day.
Sasha staged a sixtieth birthday party for Espen on the day the first frost arrived. It was the last day of October. She made decorations and filled balloons but brooded as he prepared a cake. He said nothing about the swell in her belly, but softly remarked “Be kind to yourself, you are too young to worry.”
“And you are too old,” said she.
When the cake finished baking, he set it out to cool and donned a wool shirt and gloves and stepped outside to hunt. He returned shortly with a snow-shoe hare, its brown summer pelt just starting to turn white. Sasha was nowhere to be seen. As he prepared the meal, he knew she would come. He opened a bottle of rare scotch, a special treat enjoyed once a year.
As Espen sat reading, he became aware of the dull throb in the old scar on his left foot. He rubbed it with strong hands. The pain reappeared as regularly as the geese migration, each year since the axe incident. That evening, after dinner and cake she suddenly said, “What was that meat? I have never tasted flesh so divine?”
“Rabbit” he said.
She burst into tears. He embraced her.
Later, after they made love, and long after the final passing goose had honked aloft, Espen stood on the porch. He enjoyed the moon’s reflection on the lake as he sipped the scotch. He had seen this vista many thousands of times but never tired of it. Then the sound came, a yip-yip of a moon-lit coyote sauntering along the shore, pausing to sniff this and that. Espen smiled as he set his glass on porch rail and hefted the ever-present rifle. His smile widened when he realized the beast had no tail. The coyote then sat and looked directly at him. “Goodbye, Bob” he said, squeezing the trigger.
Above the porch in the bedroom, even before the shot rang out, Sasha was radiant and smiling. She imagined Lonnie’s face seeing the six-bunny text she had just sent.
She then laughed out loud on hearing Espen exclaim, “I’ll be damned, she did it again” as Bob scampered unscathed into the night.
The next morning, Sasha was gone. The days drew short, snow fell. Each day he hunted with a new gun, but only the one had been tampered with. Bob did not return. Espen never missed another shot. The pain in his foot faded as spring ran into summer.
As late Autumn creeped in Espen received a text: “Your packages arrive tomorrow.” He checked caller ID, the number was the same as the previous August, which he had logged into his contacts. SNAKEMAN.
The next day a battered pickup truck arrived around noon. Snakeman exited the driver’s seat, his face again swathed in a mask, and moved directly to the passenger door. The truck idled loudly. Espen took two steps forward and Snakeman raised a stiff arm toward Espen, gloved hand extended upward—
“BIDE,” he said sharply.
Espen froze. Snakeman opened the passenger door, grabbed two bulky items, rapidly setting them onto the ground next to the truck. Espen’s view was blocked. He remained motionless. Snakeman quickly re-entered the cab of the truck, engaged the transmission, and gunned it, leaving a cloud of dust to settle on a two large boxes: one cardboard, one wood.
Espen waited until the roar of engine had faded, and the magical song of a late-season meadowlark returned. As a warm south breeze rose, his nose crinkled at the rich pungent smell of feces. At that very moment, he heard a soft cry.
In six long strides he was there, just as a tiny hand emerged from a light blue blanket in the wooden box and waved.
*
Tor returned home after a four-year stint in the Marine Corps. He was twenty-two years old but had not seen his father for two years. They kept in touch intermittently on email. Tor’s return would be a surprise for Espen’s eighty-third birthday. So would be the news that he was out of the Corps. His father had gone to great lengths to keep him from enlisting. But fascinated with guns, and a deadly marksman, to avoid the draft and get his choice of duty, Tor voluntarily enlisted on his eighteenth birthday. Now after four years as a sniper, with dozens of confirmed kills, he understood his father urging him to go Navy or Airforce. After a botched suicide attempt, Tor’s last year had been in the psych ward at Walter Reed Hospital, a secret he had kept from Espen.
When Tor arrived home, smoke was coming from the stone chimney, and the front door stood wide open. His training made him pause and observe. He scanned the house and the grounds, finally noticing a strange narrow set of tire marks in the soft dirt that tracked around the side of the house. Curious, he followed, stalking softly as his father had taught him. The tracks ended in a strange contraption, an old-school motorcycle and side car parked on the side of the cabin, just under father’s open bedroom window. And from that window came a duet of pleasant voices in perfect harmony, singing a familiar song,
… Throw my brain in a hurricane
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don’t mind the size
Give my stomach to Milwaukee
If they run out of beer
Put my socks in a cedar box
Just to get ’em out of here
Venus De Milo can have my arms
Look out! I’ve got your nose
Sell my heart to the junk man
And give my love to Rose
But please don’t bury me
Down in that cold, cold ground
I’d rather have ’em cut me up
And pass me all around
Tor smiled even while wincing, he and Espen had sung that song a thousand times. John Prine, I wish I’d known thee, thought Tor. The song now gave him pain.
Dr. Smith said it was a common symptom of moral injury. “Killing does horrible things to people, Tor. You were trained to be the high hand of righteous justice, and your enemies were all called murderers and scum. But your soul knows the truth: no matter how thin you slice it, its still baloney.”
He still hated Dr. Smith, not because she was full of shit, but because she wasn’t.
A wracking cough from the window broke his reverie, and a primordial fear shot through him. He had heard that cough a dozen times this past year at Walter Reed, and knew it for what it was: the Corona-41 death rattle. He knew instantly Espen was dying, finally falling a victim to the scourge of Tor’s lifetime. His sniper training kicked in. Tor took a deep breath and held it. Exhaled. Then another deep breath. On the third exhale he would go into the house. But before he could take the first step, he heard Espen’s familiar voice singing:
I been thinking lately about the people I meet
The carwash on the corner and the hole in the street
The way my ankles hurt with shoes on my feet
I’m wondering if I’m gonna see tomorrow
Tor was shocked into immobility.
Father forgive us for what we must do
You forgive us and we’ll forgive you
We’ll forgive each other ’til we both turn blue
And we’ll whistle and go fishing in the heavens
I was in the army but I never dug a trench
I used to bust my nuckles on a monkey wrench
I’d go to town and drink and give the girls a pinch
I don’t think they ever even noticed me
This was the one John Prine tune that father had refused to sing, ever.
Fish and whistle, whistle and fish
Eat everything that they put on your dish
When we get through we’ll make a big wish
That we never have to do this again, again? again?
On my very first job I said thank-you and please
They made me scrub a parking lot down on my knees
Then I got fired for being scared of bees
And they only give me fifty cents an hour
Fish and whistle, whistle and fish
Eat everything that they put on your dish
When we get through we’ll make a big wish
That we never have to do this again, again? again?
We’ll whistle and go fishing in the heavens
We’ll whistle and go fishing in the heavens
Tor had discovered it on an old vinyl album, “Bruised Orange.” He knew all the other songs by heart, but not that one. When he started singing at the dinner table, Espen erupted, yelling at top of his voice,
“STOP, STOP, never, ever, sing that song again!”
His eyes flashed in anger as he stomped out into the cold night, the only time in Tor’s memory without a rifle.
When he returned an hour later, Espen was shivering violently, but smiling. Eleven-year-old Tor said solemnly, “Daddy, why?”
Espen replied sadly, “That was your mother’s song, and I will never forgive her.”
Tor said immediately, “Okay, me too,” and gave his father a big hug. It was the only time they ever spoke of her.
Tor only learned her name when he submitted his enlistment papers for the Marine Corps. His dad refused to help, referring cryptically to his own Army service. He refused to speak of it in detail about combat, which only flamed the lad’s interest further. Tor obtained a birth certificate by himself learn his mother’s name: Sasha Stone.
Another wracking cough turned into a fit that lasted a good long minute. Tor was paralyzed until the spat ended. He sprinted into the house, knowing from life-long experience with nine different strains of Corona, that the end was at hand. He tore around the Wedgewood in the kitchen and down the hallway to this father’s bedroom. Slowing to a silent walk, he braced himself for the worst and entered the room.
Espen was standing at the far side of his bed, his back ramrod straight, his hunting clothes, clean, ironed, immaculate. Espen’s full head of salt and pepper hair remained unchanged from Tor’s deepest memories. He was healthy-looking as a mature elk could be, still lean and strong, virtually the same in his eighties as his sixties. Tor felt and surge of joy and relief, his father was not dying.
Tears streaked down Espen’s cheeks. “Hello, Tor,” he said in the old firm voice, glancing quickly down to the startlingly beautiful woman, whose pale, tiny elegant hand he grasped tenderly in his own. Her eyes were closed, breathing shallow, a sheen of sweat on her brow. “Your mother is home, where she belongs.”
Sasha’s lids flickered and looked directly into Tor’s eyes, recognition, then a glimmer of doubt seemed to cloud her vision.
Instinctively, Tor sang:
Mother forgive us for what we must do
You forgive us and we’ll forgive you
We’ll forgive each other ’til we both turn blue
And we’ll whistle and go fishing in the heavens
We’ll whistle and go fishing in the heavens
Sasha’s eyes shone bright. She extended her other hand and slipped to Espen a delicate bracelet, crafted in connected links. Six silver bunnies.
They ate birthday cake at her side.
Sasha did not speak but seemed to listen as Tor told Espen of his time in the suck.
Espen was as talkative as the full moon.
Sasha slipped away just past midnight.
After her last breath Espen close her eyelids and handed Tor a yellowed envelope.
Inside was his birth certificate and a single sheet of handwritten paper.
This is Tor. Covid-21 is killing babies. I can’t stay put. Tor is safe with you. I’ll be back.
XXO, Sasha.
They stood vigil until dawn. Tor faced the sunrise.
“Will this plague ever end?”
Espen grabbed a rifle and offered it to Tor, who turned away empty handed. “Let’s find her a place to rest.”
The stars were fading when they arrived at the line of scrub junipers. Then, no more than fifty yards away, a very fine all-white snowshoe hare hopped out from behind a sage bush. In one smooth motion Espen lifted the rifle and fired.
Tor stared incredulous as the hare scampered away. “How could you miss that shot, Dad?”
Espen sighed, but a twinkle was in his eye.
“Did I ever tell you about Bob?”
“So you know, the theatre is haunted,” the bar back said.
“Haunted?” repeated Harveen.
“Haunted,” he said, nodding.
She assumed he was joking. They threaded through labyrinthine kitchen corridors that somberly glowed with bone laminate and steel. He was short but promising, solidly built with guileless blue eyes and blond hair razed at the sides. Like most native Icelanders she had encountered, he spoke faultless English with a jangling glissando accent.
They ascended a narrow, darkened stairway. As she swayed on her heels, he righted her with a hand on her hip and a yawning, ennui-riddled chasm deep within her twitched in response, very slightly. Governed by impulse, she constantly sought new experiences, trips abroad and increasingly shameless conquests, like the bar back that evening. They exchanged smiles, and she permitted herself the barest soupçon of guilt for not missing Max.
It was the opening gala of a film festival in Reykjavík. For the past few weeks, following a two-month television gig in the Ukraine, she had worked as a script supervisor on an Icelandic film. After wrapping the shoot that evening, the cast and crew headed to the party at the National Theatre to celebrate. Harveen first stopped by her hostel to shower and change, painting her face with an exacting hand. Before leaving, she removed her platinum wedding band and locked it in her suitcase.
The lobby was deserted when she arrived at the theatre. Wisps of conversation and music unfurled from the basement. She hung her battered fur coat in a mirrored alcove and hurried downstairs.
The evening passed in a blur. New wave music, revelers in leather and dark wool cut on the bias. After a few hours she went to fetch her coat, but the lobby had been locked for the night. The bar back, with whom she had flirted, offered to retrieve it, cautioning that they’d take the long way through back areas.
They climbed the stairway and reached the main level of the theatre. “You are Brazilian?” he asked. She shook her head. He led her through a door and flicked a switch. Milky brightness bled from above. “Boyfriend?”
She considered him. He really was too short. And she was bored with overseas romances. Her last, with a South African stuntwoman the previous week, had been decidedly lackluster.
“Married,” she admitted. “And Indian. My parents are moving from Punjab to live with my husband and me in California,” she added.
“That’s nice, isn’t it?” he said, disappointment tinging his face.
“Not really,” she said. “But we won’t talk about that.”
They stepped into a hall with crenellated chandeliers and velvet curtains that deadened the shallow light. The bar back steered her from the left wing.
“That’s the crystal bar. Stay clear. As I said, there are ghosts there. Two old women appear from time to time, always wearing the same clothing and never talking to anyone. They’re harmless. Supposedly one of them likes to critique plays.”
Harveen laughed again. “Good to know ghosts have taste.”
“This isn’t a joke. The theatre was built in the Second World War, during the American occupation. A soldier hanged himself. Sometimes people see him. Wearing a—”
“—brown coat…”
She stopped laughing. The soldier ghost stood at the end of the hall.
His smell filled her airways. Crumbling cloth, clay. Her height in heels, unblinking eyes like tar pits over a lofty Roman nose, hair combed back from his forehead in precise coils. An ephebic air. Muted vermillion cascaded from his ears, nose, and mouth onto a length of rope wound around his neck. One hand clutched its frayed end, swinging back and forth.
“You see him? I don’t?” the bar back said, eyes swiveling past the apparition. He shivered. “It’s cold up here.”
The ghost cast no shadow nor reflection in the mirrored walls. Behind him floated Harveen’s own likeness. Flat sheaves of hennaed hair slapping against her ribs, brown face with the indomitably febrile coloring of a matryoshka doll or a cocaine addict. She looked lurid compared to the ghost, conspicuously corporeal. Staring into the depths of his funereal gaze, she thought of the terrain she had seen outside of the city, ragged mountains striped with magma beneath a dark lavender sky.
“What’s wrong?”
“I…” Her voice paled. The ghost raised a finger to its lips and signaled at her to leave. Alarmed, she nodded, inhaled and exhaled as though smoking a cigarette. “I don’t see anything either,” she lied. “My eyes must have been playing tricks.”
“You sure?” The bar back examined her with concern. “You said–”
“Could we hurry, please? I’m tired and should get back to my hostel.”
They hastened down the main staircase to the lobby, where she retrieved her coat. Too preoccupied to thank the bar back or say goodbye, she careened outside into the cold.
For a few minutes she wandered, mind aswirl, struggling to process what she had seen in the theatre. Stilettos skewering cobblestones, snow stung her neck and arms, perfused with the odor of sulfur. Moonlight spilled onto slanting streets rimmed with gabled buildings painted primary colors. A susurrus of dialects gusted past, tourists surging from hostels and bars.
She breathlessly recalled the soldier ghost’s eyes that seemed to harbor the secrets of hell. Even though the bar back hadn’t seen him, she knew he was real, that her vision of him had a special purpose, that she couldn’t quite grasp. Her hip faintly throbbed, a warm flitting of cobwebby wings. She blenched, convinced the ghost had followed her and reached into her bones. No, her phone vibrating. She fished it out of her pocket.
“Max.” His face filled the screen. She hastily modulated her voice, smoothed her panicked features. “What’s happening?”
“I should ask you the same thing,” he said. Seated in their apartment kitchen, occidental sunlight cast a frail patina on his skin. “Are you outside? Where’s your jacket?”
“Why’re you calling, honey?” She draped her coat over her shoulders, deflecting him with a bland smile. She had no intention of telling him what had happened in the theatre. Partly because he’d worry, but mostly to maintain ownership over her ghostly encounter, to keep it her secret and hers alone. She greedily sequestered the memory in her bosom, where it simmered.
“I texted you today. Didn’t you get it?”
“I didn’t know I had a quota for talking to my wife,” Max said dryly. “I’m worried about you, Harvy. Something’s up. I feel it.”
“Oh come on, don’t be paranoid. It’s not sexy.”
As always, his intuitiveness unnerved her. They had married a year ago, mere weeks after a blind date arranged by mutual friends. Certainly, he was no more attractive nor magnetic than her other lovers; she wedded him out of sheer lassitude, a feeble attempt to stabilize her oscillating desires.
“I’m fine, baby, really. You’re sweet to worry.”
“You’ve been working nonstop for months. Have you bought your return ticket?”
“I told you. The producers want me to stay another week or two, at least,” she lied, feeling unpleasantly cocooned by his solicitude. “How are you? Did you ask your sister about her mammogram?”
She scanned the streets as he answered. To her right, a nightclub with a roseate façade bedizened with neon lights, from which disco music genially issued. A long queue cordoned with a sateen cable awaited entry. Locals in denim, drag queens armored with stage spackle and plumes.
A slim figure in a brown coat at the front of the line. The soldier ghost.
Her eyes widened. “I have to go.”
“Hold on—”
Harveen shoved her phone in her bag and ducked beneath the barricade. Maneuvering past irritated patrons, she didn’t stop until she reached him. She took hold of his sleeve.
He turned. A man her age, with longish copper hair, sardonic eyes. She stroked his face, wintry pale skin tinctured with azure. But human, nonetheless. Not the ghost. He gave her a strange look.
“I thought you were someone else,” she said. He shrugged and disappeared inside the nightclub.
“Miss?” A bouncer at the entrance. “Your ID?”
“Oh.” She turned to leave and reconsidered. With everything that had happened that night, she could use a drink. She rummaged through her purse and flashed her passport. “Here.” The bouncer ushered her inside.
Shouldering through the dance floor, she reached the bar and ordered two shots of Aquavit on ice. She downed them, eyes slitting as the liquid seared her throat, and tossed more cash on the counter. Winking, the bartender handed her two more shots in heavy tumblers. Periwinkle lights flashed overhead. The music slowed, grew syncopated, sybaritic. Len, she thought, recognizing the song, allowing the tension in her shoulders to dissipate. “Steal My Sunshine.”
The man from outside sat with a group of locals at a low table. She took him in, his liquid, pellucid features. Reflexively, she flashed a wide grin. “Mind if I sit here?” She eased next to him, wrists curving from the weight of her drinks. “I’m sorry about what happened in line. It’s been a strange night.”
He shrugged again. “What are you drinking?” he asked. She handed him a glass and he took a sip. “That’s too hard for me. I only drink beer.”
Tasting his drink, she likewise grimaced. “I’m Harveen.”
“Ómar.”
“Hm. That’s also a Muslim name.”
“I know.”
Her purse vibrated. Max again. She turned off her phone, traced Ómar’s hand lightly. “You’re from Reykjavík?” He nodded. His friends spoke to him in Icelandic, eying them like poachers appraising fattened pheasants. One man with a shaved head had his arm around a much older woman with a comely smile. “How long have you been together?” Harveen asked them.
The woman giggled. “We just met.”
The man waved at Ómar. “Kiss him on the cheek,” he ordered. Without hesitating, Harveen skimmed the precise architecture of his face with her lips. The others laughed. “Now the mouth.”
She looked at Ómar. They began to neck, breath deepening in unison. She pushed her fingers into his slippery mass of hair. A propitious urgency she hadn’t known in years, since she was a teenager.
“I don’t do this often,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“It’s all good, honey.”
He tensed. Diffident hands cupped her jaw and slid to her knees. From his scent of cigarettes and leather rose another smell. Dusty skin, powdered bones. She slowly withdrew, rigid and unmoving, as his face paled to grey. Lacerations encircled his neck, those of the soldier ghost, she comprehended, through which she spied the heaped rings of his trachea punctuated with gangrenous shreds of cartilage.
As he transformed before her eyes, the chasm of boredom inside her stirred as it had in the theatre, and then shuddered and narrowed. Startled, her heart constricted.
“My God.”
And then he was smooth and whole once more.
“Are you all right?”
“I don’t know what’s happening to me.” She closed her eyes, taken aback by the physical reaction that her vision had provoked. She rested her fingertips on her lids until her chest stilled. Distended, overlapping voices encircled them, to her irritation. “What are your friends saying?” she asked.
“That they can’t believe we were having mouth intercourse,” Ómar said, straightening his collar. “Assholes.”
She unsteadily made her way to the bar, where the man with the shaved head bought her another shot. “Go fuck him,” he said to her, stressing each word.
“Excuse me?”
“Ómar. We think he’s a virgin. We told him, ‘do her now or you’ll never get the chance.’” She stared at him. Somehow, his high-handed, proprietary mien jarred her more than seeing the ghost. “You can use my apartment around the corner. Or we’ll find you a bathroom.”
I can’t do this anymore, she thought. “I have to go,” she said firmly, retreating. “Thank you for the drink.”
She found Ómar smoking a joint near the entrance.
“I wanted to say goodbye.”
“I know what my friend said to you,” he said. “I normally don’t pay him any mind, but I got hard when I kissed you. I figure I should fuck the person who makes me hard.”
“Believe me, I used to think that way, too.”
“When did you stop?”
“This evening.” She took a long pull from his roach, double swatches of smoke obscuring her view. “It’s not enough, honey. It’s never enough.”
Idly, the soldier ghost reappeared in her mind’s eye. She replayed her memory of him, forwards, backwards, every which way, slowly cradling each second.
“I have to see him again,” she thought aloud.
“Who?” She didn’t respond, still mired in her reverie. “At least, let me walk you where you’re going.”
She contemplated him for a moment, nodded. “Can you take me to the National Theatre?”
Nicotine-hued fingers plaited with hers. He led her down a main street, past skeletons of buildings at the waterfront, a concert hall that resembled a roughly hewn diamond teetering over the ocean. Hallgrímskirkja towered in the distance, the church at the marrow of the city.
At last, they turned down a side road and neared the theatre, stolid and uncompromising in the blackened sky. Flanking the extinguished lights, the doors sectioned with spidery dark metal, pregnant with expectancy.
A flash of white in a window. A hand pressed against the glass.
“You can leave me here,” she said to Ómar.
He didn’t protest. “Give me your email address.” She entered it into his phone and kissed him goodbye, knowing that she’d never see him again.
When he skirted the street corner, she tentatively mounted the steps of the theatre, betwixt pillars plastered with posters of dance troupes and Ibsen plays. She paused at the entrance.
The front doors were unlatched.
Harveen closed her hand around the chilled door handle and carefully drew the door open.
The lobby was lathered in candlelight. Figures in formal dress thronged, the air tumid with mirth and mingling. Patrician men, women in tiered skirts and furred capes. As her eyes adjusted to the lambency, the people came into focus. They were all corpses, their fine clothing dappled with holes that revealed frayed skin. Rotting innards and starveling limbs.
She was the only living person in the theatre.
Within the crowd, she saw the two ghost women the bar back had mentioned. Garbed in beaded gowns and parrot-bright stockings that were too outré amidst ghoulish wraiths, withered hair frothing. The others ignored them. They all moved with cephalopod fluidity, raising imaginary cigarettes to mice-eaten lips. For them, another long night in the hall of the dead.
And then they saw her.
A gelid wind and the soldier ghost stood before her. Whispers of words rasped from the gashes in his neck, his face in shadow. Harveen nodded and he bowed, extending his arm. Suddenly alert, the hordes of corpses materialized at his back. Likewise beckoning and swaying. Their eyes seethed, for they clearly regarded her as an interloper. Beneath their vexation, she sensed something deeper, a jagged eagerness, in which lurked the true reason why the soldier ghost had summoned her to the theatre.
The void within her contracted further.
She reached out and clasped his hand.
Pain coursed through her fingers. He gripped her with behemoth strength, flyblown skin rasping against hers. She cried out, more surprised than frightened. The theatregoers hemmed in closer, toothless mouths agog in mirthless glee. Spindling fingers curved into claws. They wished to tear her apart.
This isn’t a joke, she thought, remembering the bar back’s words.
Slowly, by and by, the soldier ghost pulled her into the doorway. He yanked her close, eyes brimming with ferity, pools of shallow animal instinct and appetite. He ran an ashen tongue along battered teeth, champing at the tang of her fleshly scent as he lunged at her neck. Her chasm nearly sealed, now, inching shut with stunning swiftness. And, finally, terror. For she realized that her emptiness housed her will to live. A constant hunger that, while maddening, propelled her forward each day and cemented her in the meat of her being.
“I don’t want to die!”
With all her strength, Harveen wrenched herself free. She tumbled against a pillar, panting.
A reproachful look from the soldier ghost. Laughter reverberated through the theatre.
One last cackle and the door clanged shut.
For a moment she stood, motionless. Gathering her skirts, she fled into the streets.
He appears out of the fog swaddled around my tiny house. I am waiting at the door, one eye pressed to the peek hole. His pace is quick and confident. He is younger than I expected, perhaps even younger than me. I step back into the foyer when he reaches the stoop. I take a deep breath.
He breezes through the door and shuts it behind himself. “You should really lock that,” he says, pushing back his hood. He is enormous standing in this space, his head small, protruding from a black boxy raincoat. Strange, like the head of a turtle.
I look down at my hands, folded in front of me. “I used to,” I say. “I forgot.” I shrug and spread my arms. “Can I get you anything?”
“Sure, I guess.” He stomps his shoes and chunks of wet earth loosen and dislodge from the thick soles, scattering over the floor. “Beer,” he says. “Or wine, if you prefer.”
I turn myself sideways to let him pass into kitchen and breathe in as he goes by. He smells of spices and moss. He shrugs off his coat and drops it on the floor. I pick it up and follow him into the kitchen, drape it over the back of a chair and smooth the damp fabric.
“Nice place,” he says, looking around, hands on his hips. The room is cramped. There is barely enough room for the table and two chairs. but a large window over the sink lets in the diffused light. A screen door leads to the back yard where the first tender blades of grass are starting to break through.
Without the coat, his proportions are correct, his stature relaxed but still imposing. I see that he is in fact young, He looks like the kind of person who whistles, someone from a movie in black and white, except he is in socks, one toe worn and transparent. I fetch a beer from the fridge and open it. The crisp hiss hangs between us like something losing air.
“You’re beautiful,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. He takes the beer, turns it in his hand, scanning the label, then takes a few quick sips. I’m close enough to hear the sound of him swallowing. See the blonde stubble catching light on his cheek.
I pull out a chair for him, and he sits down.
“So, what do you do?” I ask.
“Really?” he laughs. I try to think of another question, something surprising that will make me stand out. I search the floor. The linoleum disgusts me, its repeating diamond pattern in varied hues of green is too lighthearted. Domestic, mocking.
“Do you like soup?”
He rubs his knee and takes another swig. I study his movements, try to discern if I’ve pleased him. “Yes, I do. I fact, I hope to learn how to make it myself,” he says, settling back and smirking.
“Oh that’s marvelous,” I say. “What kind?”
“French onion, I think. I like the taste of meat. But not the texture.” He takes another glug. “Aren’t you going to have one? It’s nicer not to drink alone. You could probably use one.”
I finger my hair a bit, and search for my reflection in the grimy glass. A squirrel sits in the window box nibbling at the Italian parsley. The fog is thinning, and I think can see the red paint of the house next door.
“I don’t really drink.”
“You have beer.”
“For guests.”
“Ah, come on, it doesn’t really matter now, does it?” His feet are on the table.
“Maybe some water.”
At the sink, I fill a glass and peer into the fog. Yes, I can see the neighbor’s house, the outline of the white windowpane. I could call out; if I opened the window, they might hear me. I close the tap and return to the table.
“You wouldn’t have any cheese, would you?” he asks.
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, and I find that I am. I have always tried to be hospitable.
“Fine. What’s your name, by the way?” he asks.
I wonder for a moment if I should tell him. “Mallory.” I like saying my name. Like a tongue around marble, smooth and small and cold.
“Huh,” he says. “Haven’t had a Mallory yet.” I’m not surprised. I like to think it’s an unusual name, now.
“You can call me Danny.”
“Danny,” I repeat with forced levity. It’s not too bad. He used to be a child. He likes soup. “Is that really your name?”
“Well, no.”
“Oh. Would you like to move into the lounge?” I ask. I take a dainty sip of my water, forming my lips into an O so as not to leave a distasteful mark on the rim.
“Actually, do you have any knives?” he says.
“Oh. Yes.” I lead him to the cutlery drawer, which is cluttered with things like can openers and rubber bands, a few stray chop sticks. A red pen that’s bled out in a puddle of sticky ink. I point to the knives.
“No something heavier, like a cleaver or a carving knife,” he says, pawing through the drawer.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Switchblade?”
“Oh, no of course not, I—”
“Razor? Puntilla? Bread knife?”
“Well, no, I—”
“Santoku?”
“Santo—sorry, I don’t know what that is.” I step back and watch him overturning the small bins that hold the forks and spoons.
“Japanese. You know, something to cut meat with.”
“I don’t eat meat, actually.”
“You must have a paring knife then. How do you cut up vegetables?” He looks around the room like he’s just realized he’s lost something.
“I mostly order out,” I say, embarrassed.
“Fine, it’s a butter knife then.” He holds it at his side. “Let’s go.” He gestures for me to lead the way. In the doorway, he places a hand on my shoulder, and I freeze. “I don’t suppose you have a hammer?” he asks.
I do have a hammer. I have many tools right there in the closet, just a meter away. I pretend to think. “A hammer?” I bring a finger to my lips and furrow my brow. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve borrowed the neighbor’s before, I think.” How can he be so unprepared?
“Fine,” he says, but I sense he wants to say more. Then he moves his hand to my neck and strokes the skin there with a finger. His palm is clammy and the fingertip a little bit hard, like a butt of bread. But still, it has its effect. I close my eyes to better absorb the sensation. “It’s so soft,” he says to himself. I lean against the wall, his breath on my neck melts me into it.
I am jolted upright by the coldness of the butter knife against my neck. He presses it hard into the soft spot under my jawbone where the skin has begun to sag and drags the blade a little. I turn to see his face studying the effect, biting his lip in concentration.
Danny sighs and pulls the blade away. He runs the serrated edge against the pad of his finger. “Are you sure you don’t have a hammer?” he asks again.
“I’m sure.”
“Okay.” I lead him into the lounge and turn the lights to the dimmest setting. He sits in the center of the couch, large and plush, dark brown with green pillows. My Swedish ivy spills from the bookshelf. The air is humid and slightly stifling. He doesn’t seem to mind.
“Sit.” He pats the spot next to him. I sit down, and he drapes an arm around me. The scent of him here is different, sweet, like an already decaying thing. He sets the butter knife on the coffee table in front of us. His fingers curl around my upper arm and he pulls me close.
“Want to watch a movie first?” I ask him.
“No, thanks.”
“Would you like to know about me?” I ask.
“If you want.” Everything here in the room suddenly feels very dear to me; it is filled with what I love. My eyes run over the cracked, colored spines of my many books, searching. With effort, I push myself up and take one from the shelf. It’s a slim volume of poetry. I open it, flip through, looking for a specific dogeared poem.
“Just a sec,” I tell him, and replace the volume. “It’s here, I’ll find it.” He tears at a hangnail with his teeth, both feet up on the cushions.
I pick another volume and carry it to the couch where I sit facing him, flipping through the pages that I hold close to my face. “It’s a poem. About two empty glasses. It’s so beautiful. You’ll see.”
“I don’t really understand poetry.”
I know he’s lying but close the book and look for the first time into his eyes. A swirl of blue and green in brown, the lashes heavy on upper and lower lids. His lips are thin but reddish, and there’s a spray of tiny raised bumps on one cheek.
“Rosacea,” he says covering it with his hand.
He takes the book from my hand and places it next to the butter knife.
“Before we go any further,” he says, “I need to ask some questions.”
“Yes?” I ask and find I can barely breathe. “Wait.” I put my hand up. “Danny.” Saying his name feels ridiculous. “Can you hold me? Just for a little while. Perhaps we can lay down here on the couch. Just five minutes.”
He isn’t bothered by the request and lies down, his back against the cushions. I lie down as well, and he is warm. He lets me rest my head on the soft part of his arm and smoothes the hair away from my face. He runs a fingertip along the rim of my ear, then his hands are on my body, petting me in long slow strokes like mine is the body of a dog. I seem to be sinking down into the couch, down beneath some heavy weight, and it’s dark, even when I open my eyes. I cannot locate my limbs. This does not disturb me.
*
I awake disoriented with the feeling of being roused many times over and over but never fully waking. My body is a foreigner’s, the feel of my skin like soil that’s been tilled, fresh but disturbed. There is humming coming from the kitchen.
“Hello?” I call, and the humming stops. I wait for him to appear, but no one comes, so I stand, falter, steady myself on the arm of the couch.
He is there in the kitchen, standing over the stove. Steam rises from the pot, a pot my mother gave me when I moved into this house years and years ago. His raincoat is still draped over the chair, but he has changed clothes. His feet are bare and make little suction noises as he crosses the room to take my hand. “What are you making?”
“Come,” he says, leading me. “Come and see.” I approach the stove. The smell is strong, wintery and musky. Through the steam I see a thin brown broth bubbling. He smiles proudly. “French onion,” he says. “But we don’t have any bread.”
I tell him that’s okay and sit down at the table. He brings me a glass of water then squats down in front of me, taking my hand.
“Mallory,” he says.
“Yes.” I’m so very tired.
“Are you ready?”
“What did you chop the onions with?”
He smiles and pulls a small paring knife from the back pocket of his jeans. “You were withholding, you minx. But it’s all you have, I’m afraid. It’s small but sharp. Better than the butter knife.”
“It’s okay. I understand.” I think about the fact of my body, the shit and the piss, the blood, the mess.
“You don’t have a better knife. Or a hammer. It would have been better,” he says and wipes away what must be a tear.
“I know,” I say. “It’s just… do you think we could do it in the backyard?”
He says that’s all right, and I go to stand, to follow him out, but my legs have stopped working, I feel a thousand years old and need him to carry me. He can see this without my asking, and though it isn’t easy for him, he manages, one arm under my knees, one under my back, his hand gripping my rib cage so as not to drop me as he carries me into our backyard and lays me in the grass.
“Ready?” he asks again. I turn to face the window for one last look into my home, but it is obscured by the steam of the soup. I breathe in the dark scent of the soil. The daffodils are just beginning to bloom, and I try to reach out to pick one but it’s too far away. And as it begins, sharp and difficult, my mouth falls open, slack and silent as an empty bell. At least I am home, I think through the pain. At least I will always be home.
One night a towering monster with eyes of coal and claws of jet black rock and skin like the stony ground itself stumbles into a village. The people panic, scream, flee into the hills. Some of the younger men fetch pikes and sticks and surround him. Some of the older ones expire as their hearts give out. Children cry plaintively.
The monster could very easily kill them all. Crush the houses and uproot the trees. Pick his teeth with the spire of the church the villagers labored for ten years to build.
But he doesn’t.
He is a tired monster. He’s lived a thousand years and eaten ten thousand squealing humans in that time. He’s erased more villages than he can count or remember. The screaming no longer excites him. The destruction no longer fills his heart with fire. He wants something else. Something other.
And so he picks his way to the center of the village and settles there on the green. For a while there is commotion all around him. Men bearing pathetic weapons encircle him: bread knives and walking sticks and masonry hammers. Their eyes and hearts and bodies quiver with terror. With a single sweep of his hand the monster could turn them all into bloody smears on the grass.
But he doesn’t.
Instead he sits there, quite immobile, and waits. Days, then weeks. Slowly, the panic quietens. Villagers return from the woods into which they fled. They bury the dead. They light fires around the green and watch him warily. They chatter.
The younger men, he can tell, would like to smear him with pitch and shoot him with burning arrows. The older men would like to pack up and abandon the village altogether. In the end, a middle road prevails. Months after he first arrives in the village, the villagers start to bring him offerings.
Tiny garlands of tiny flowers. Huge meals that wouldn’t sate him for a second, even if he were to eat them. Scrappy little collections of gold and silver. They pile their worthless gifts around him like an enchanted circle, as though that will somehow protect them. He sits as still as a statue and watches them. He considers, again, killing each and every one of them.
But he doesn’t.
Slowly, slowly, the panic recedes. Six months pass and he doesn’t move an inch. The villagers come to regard him as benign. A few still eye him warily, but the rest forget their fear and panic. The weekly market begins again, the pens and stalls erected in a circle around him. People decorate him with flowers and cut grasses. On summer days they sit in his shadow.
The monster watches them. The comings and goings of their daily lives. The baker’s apprentice starts courting the dressmaker, and they visit the monster and touch his toes for luck. A year later they have their wedding on the green, and drunken guests lounge against the monster’s stony skin. The baker’s apprentice (now the baker) credits the monster with the flourishing of their love in his speech. The monster, he says, is a miracle. A blessing on the village.
And so it seems to be. After that visitors start coming to marvel at the monster. A few at first, and then many more. The village swells to accommodate them. There are new inns, new taverns, new houses. The shops around the green thrive. Offerings pile up around the monster in a glittering barrow. A sign is erected, explaining his miraculous nature.
Years pass, and the monster does not move. It is different from his previous existence. No death. No destruction. No bloodtaste in his mouth. No screams in his ears. Just peaceful years passing by one after the other after the other. The monster considers this existence no better and no worse than his previous life. He does not care for the villagers. Humans are so small and so insignificant they are of no interest at all to him. This life is not better or worse. It simply is.
He could, he supposes, stay and be their miracle forever. He could let them prosper. He could keep them. Watch over them. While away his years like this, in peace and harmony and quiet.
But he doesn’t.
It is among the most hopeless of clichés, yet not without its certain bleak pointedness, to speak of time in a bar as having, in some way, stalled – the people in it, stalled – shivering frozen, pickled really, in the terrifying silence of frightening drinking. They drink with their mouths open. What they talk about is nothing. The place itself is nowhere: the closed door out onto the street; the fire door in the back propped open to the alleyway. Broken stools out there. Sunlight, grass, the smell of jasmine. Nothing happens here, not to these people, yet minutely, meaninglessly, they change. A woman comes into the bar one afternoon, her jasmine perfume, and becomes after a few weeks as a spectator the barman’s girl. Now she, too, is in it. Desolate with love, she and the others, one or two of whom, making a beggared advance, will all but throw himself at her, only to be kicked out by the chivalric bartender, so that what will pass between bartender and drunk is that hesitant look of blame, a melancholy, a resignation. Regulars disappear. Sick, they’ve heard. Ask Tom all about it. Even bartenders themselves will vanish in a restructuring of shiftwork, or off for a spell at one of the higher-class establishments where the customers tip money, where tulip glasses are used and not hung by their elegant stems in the overhead wood-slats, machines to catch smoke as though for cupping therapy; they reappear, or someone else does, and the response of the waiting crowd is as if a native son has returned. Charles is back! Where ya been, sport? They are grateful only for something to talk about. Charles has a tan, a burnt face and white above the knees, from scaling hulls six weeks in a shipping yard in Tampa. Pour us another round, sport. That is, if you still know how! In this way, the outside world, its adjuvants – everyday care, catchment moves, a bus ride; relationships built not on space but hunger; or a front door letterbox so full and flooding it could block an entrance hall like an upturned runner – are treated here as the equals of sobriety in unlit neighborhoods and far-flung places, which perhaps do operate, after all, under a different means, a different pressure of time, where surprisingly hearty molecules in the gray charm of the atmosphere collide with one another at enduring rates to build up revolution and real change; for it is simply impossible, far beyond the nature of thinking, to imagine dearest Charles should have merely laid stoned in a roadside motel, his mislaid passions around him, these absent months and hours. That tan! That new jacket! No one detail is frivolous enough to be completely lost, and the very dimness of this place, which hides freckles, moles, and laddered stockings, water stains, bad teeth, is more like the relief of an ancient movie house, each item observed a piece of laced silver in the brilliant screen four hundred feet high. A letter carrier, his hair striped with foam: The post office, man, says an idiot next to him trying to convince him to take an electric bill the rest of the way. They should have a transporter, like what’s-that-show. You put it in there, it disappears. He holds out an envelope balanced on two fingers. In the corner by a jukebox, two men in crew cuts, khaki shirts, fatigues, eloquently discuss the best piss they ever took. Could there really be such a thing? They are sitting very straight on two hard chairs, a thick frosted glass on the table between them, and a white tea candle, unlit, within it. Between the military obviousness of their dress and the general disinterest of the bar’s other patrons in this place with a picture wall of mourned dead and the predilection of its regulars to attend airshows or profess a harebrained conviction that the best part of any ballgame is a Blue Angels flyover, it appears they have been here all day. One of the men: Dan. Steve, perhaps. His name is Alex. He was shy for days in basic training. He pissed days, years. Pissed his heart away, his life. Suddenly, the front door opens. A rectangle of light is cast back into the bar, framing the new customer and keeping him in silhouette. A backpacker in outrageously heavy winter gear, he has less a face than the suggestion of one, with willowy knots of hair above his welder’s goggles and the soft mold of tape bandages obscuring ears, his cheeks, the chapped-lip mouth in a grimace no doubt. Some living paradox, a contradiction of genre, sea-grass tangles and the red dust of a desert cling as much to his boots as limp, dripping icicles. The bar’s patrons turn around to look at him. Charles himself! Or is it Ken? He unlocks his feet from skis, throws his nose into an umbrella stand. In the unexpected start of the stranger’s movements, tripping briefly on a rubber entrance mat that had upturned itself in the day’s slow traffic, a slice of exposed skin between the cuffs of his gloves and the stretch of his overcoat reveals not skin at all but a blank space, significant air. A shiver of menace could break through the place, yet in the half-silvered hollow where his nose should be, they see, perhaps, themselves. With each item of clothing removed, another shot gets lined up on the bar. People knock their glasses together, they pool change for tips or another song on the jukebox. Even the letter carrier in the back has given up his indifference for the man with the electric bill. It is the hour of charity now, the stranger in the doorway, still, as he lifts his goggles up and pulls the wet mask of his face down.
A blue-grey tomb of a mountainside, with a dozen or so buildings as a lichenous stretch across its top – that was their little world, the monastery. Perched in the cloister walk, two monks sat deciding what Heaven looked like. “If we,” Brother Pachomius was saying, in his high drawl, thinking the words at the same debilitating pace at which he spoke them – “Yes, if we are made in the image of the shadow of God, we may still guess at his form because of our own.”
Brother Anthony, his companion, square, short, with a craggy nose and cloudy but stern and matt black eyes, sat very still and did not reply. He was used to his Brother’s rhetoric.
“Surely, then, surely, our cloisters must be shadowy images of heaven’s. We are imitations making imitations.” Heaven, then, Pachomius was sure, was a monastery.
Anthony drank some beer, savoured the taste, and thought about his friend’s argument. “Different to this, though, I think. There would be differences.”
“Yes. It would be perfect.”
“How?”
Slowly, Pachomius managed, “I’m not sure.”
“There’s no sin in imagining. You must have imagined heaven, Brother. When alone, and tired of this. Sometimes you wonder.” Here he glanced upwards and clenched his jaw. “As I say: there is no sin in it.”
“Quite right, Anthony. Quite right. No sin at all… It is a way of bringing one closer to God. One may know a man by his house, after all, mightn’t he?”
The sound of rain gently beating at the stone walls of the Brothers’ own house gave them answer, along with the wind, which had picked up, and was sounding a shrill hiss through the halls. They both noticed it. One never got used to the wind – it grated on them all, there, on the mountain, and made them grind their teeth.
“So what does it look like?” Anthony muttered.
“Well,” began Pachomius. He considered. “Bigger.” He seemed displeased with how this had come out and shrank back from his Brother.
“Obviously.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Yes. Bigger. I mean to say, grander. For it would have to accommodate so many.”
“And yet it would never be full.”
And so they talked for a little while more of the architecture of Paradise, of its materials, and plan, of the thickness of its walls, the design of the forge, of the church; but they were soon called to Sext by the bells.
*
The two Brothers were in the garden, on their knees, plucking and pulling at weeds, tending to the vegetables, the dirt worked into the grooves of their hands and their nails completely black. It was a foul, unwieldly day that stank with the smell of thunder, and made green things blue. They had both thought on the subject of heaven, and quickly fell to talking about perfection. In this life, as Pachomius put it, without quite achieving eloquence, “Even if we strive to walk upwards, always along the best and true road, even if we do not stumble once, we still muddy our boots.”
Brother Anthony was not happy with this, and sought to express the thought himself: “Heaven’s perfection is divine perfection. It is unachievable for man and outside of heaven, by its nature. We aim to be perfect, but only as we can be.”
“Exactly, yes. The perfection of God awaits us; we know it by sight and not by touch, it is the image we seek to carve of our own perfection. Although, Brother, remember Jesus’s Amen – ‘be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly father is perfect’.”
Matthew 5:48. “That, Brother, is why we remove ourselves from the rest of men, so we may better try.”
“The perfection we reach is a perfection unknowable to them.” Here he gestured with a soiled hand to the valley below, unseen from their height, for a thick, grey shield of cloud and mist cut off the peak of the mountain.
Anthony nodded. “They have no time to contemplate.”
They both meant more than was said, but neither was able to fully convey his thoughts about that place. They turned from it. Anthony wondered what the perfect, earthly monastery would look like, and they discussed it, working around the difficulties intrinsic in mortal things, attempting to refine their home and make it pure. But soon the rain from higher clouds grew so intense they could barely see. They went inside, quickly, while the mud was washed in rivulets to lower slopes.
In his dorter, Pachomius found that the room had its problems: bricks had chipped and black mould was accumulating slightly; the window was not quite sealed, so that the horrid wind was in the room, disturbing him like distant voices in the dark. Things closed in on him, and he did not sleep before Lauds. In the morning he asked for mortar.
Anthony saw faults even as he left the garden, but he was, on the whole, undisturbed by them. Even so, their conversation stayed with him, and he lay awake for a while, with a mounting want and expectation that something should happen.
Pachomius fixed his window, and started to informally repair the monastery at large. He eventually asked if he may devote some of his working hours towards a comprehensive system of upkeep: a request which was granted.
*
The season wilted and the rains came finally in earnest. Brother Pachomius worked on his repairs as if it was his nature: he retiled roofs and talked to himself. He had no idea of the perfect monastery outside of fixing the one he already knew, and had not considered the possibility that his home did not offer the chance of an ideal, even if ideal itself; he simply found faults, and eliminated them. Conversely, Anthony knew less and less of their home. He strove to contemplate perfection in its variety of constructions, and committed himself to creating something free from the interference of others. He built a monastery in his mind that grew in sharpness and clarity, and, after a while, in truthfulness. Very little at all disturbed him; when he did pull himself to the present moment and look about, at prayer, or at their meals, he saw the edges of things glittering into pieces. And this vagueness and sense of unreality steered him to the solidity of his creation, to the comfort of its laws – and thin lines crept into his face.
On completion of his project, he fell into a fever. He was found, quivering and unresponsive on the floor of his cell, flecks of spit at the edge of his mouth, his eyes bloodshot and open. The Brothers moved him to the infirmary, fed him soup, gave him medicine and eventually let him rest. In this obscene, hot sleep, he raved and was not himself.
Brother Pachomius went to see him, lain up in bed, to give him God’s blessing and wish him well – a task which he had found difficult, not least because it separated him from his labour, which he now saw as intrinsic to his prayer; he wished to follow Paul’s instruction to the Thessalonians to “pray without ceasing”. He worked until exhausted, and all the while he would pray “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, for I am a sinner”.
Anthony had done nothing to acknowledge his visitor except widen his eyes, which were horrible to look at: they bore little resemblance to eyes with a soul behind them, and were purple. He was still feverous: pale, vein-ridden and sweaty. But more upsetting to Pachomius, more disgusting by far, was the obvious impression that despite his condition, Anthony recognised him, and, if only he had strength to look, he would see in those mad, apparently void eyes, recognition and understanding.
Anthony grabbed his arm, weakly, but with such purpose that Pachomius knew he would not move until it was released. His Brother stared at him, harshly, freaked, and said, with a rasping voice, “Us!” He tightened his grip, and a look of unmitigated violence showed, suddenly, in all the features of his face.
It was some weeks until Anthony recovered. He remembered that desperate “us”, but, at first, he could make little of it. This was not the case for Pachomius, who had been greatly affected by their meeting.
*
Even when there was sun, on those short winter days, it was cold in the monastery – the wind felt like it was stripping everything down to its base. Water sat in pools, spotted over the land and in courtyards refusing to dry: some of the Brothers glimpsed their reflections and smiled pityingly at their weathered faces, so different to how they remembered them.
Anthony was tending to the mill and grain. His sturdy, ruddy face was quite still, fixed absently in an expression that, had it been conscious, would have been called a sneer. He bit at a parsnip. The Brothers were causing him a problem. He was struggling to find a place for them – and for himself – in his perfect creation, struggling to imagine someone worthy enough to walk in his garden, to imagine footsteps in his hallways, so well-laid to take them, and to picture grime building up on the sills.
The bells rang several times, and the long night came.
Pachomius could not sleep; he had not been able to sleep for some time. He was gaunt, and his gangly, hawk-like body made his weight loss appear vile. He had been worrying over the Brothers, and worrying over his work, and so wandered the courtyard rather than stay in his cell. It was a clear, bright night, singularly coloured: everything was blue; and the light was flat, so the shadows and the patches of uninterrupted moonlight were gradations, barely variants, of the same, full, dark blue. It looked like he was drowned, except that the moon was in the sky, ugly and implausibly white. He found that he hated it, and looked instead at the columns of the cloister, some of which he had repaired recently. It pleased him to look at his work. The wind clawed through the courtyard – it swiped at his thoughts and cast them off like dead leaves. It blew him out into the cloister, lifted him above his dire, obsessive self, and floated him down the halls; he walked like a follower, hollowly and confidently, for his path was known to him. He stopped by the door of Brother Benedict. He went in and saw him asleep. The room, Pachomius noticed, was very well kept, and this, for some reason, filled him with joy and a sense of the correctness of everything he did. Quietly, he took off his cowl and neatly folded it several times into a rectangle. He went to the bed and placed it over Benedict’s head very firmly. His brother woke with an incredible, vicious panic, lashing out, desperate and struggling – he screamed into the coarse cloth. Pachomius did not look down, but kept his gaze on the wall in front of him, trying to make out the bricks, and saying over and over “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, for I am a sinner.”
*
The Brothers were no fools, and believed that Benedict had been murdered. They banded together as much as they could, while the abbot told them to be wary and watchful, and sought to establish what had happened.
During this time Anthony withdrew increasingly into himself. The more he was in company, the less he felt part of it. The outside world appeared far away, and none of his business, and so he explored the workings of what could be known to him: his thoughts and actions, and the ideals he had created. He saw the image of what it was to be perfect clearly, and set against it his own faults were dreadfully apparent.
When walking alone to go to get more tools for the roof of the barn Pachomius passed Brother Sabbas who had fallen asleep by the sheep-pen, idle. Without thinking much why he did it, he put his hand over his mouth and his hands round his throat – Sabbas woke, astonished, and bruised and cut his attacker. Pachomius hardly moved. Bright pink marks were left on the corpse’s neck, and by the time it was found they had changed into shiny blacknesses. Some Brothers were sent to fetch villagers from the valley, to pay them if necessary, for protection and assistance.
Pachomius had renounced himself, given up to something larger, and more persuasive – a powerful numbing feeling of concern for all creatures, which gave him peace. The next day he killed Brother Gregory, who did not struggle at all.
And so, by order, everyone spent their time together, which they were not used to. It began to drive them slightly mad. There was no word from the village.
*
A storm broke over the height of the mountain, making the sky dark and thick and unfriendly. It rained harsh rain and rained constantly, like a deluge. The Brothers were always wet, and many slipped on the flagstones as they went to the refectory, breaking their bones and scraping the skin off their knees.
In the dim afternoon, Brother Pachomius appeared in the oratory porch, silhouetted, black-brown against grey, framed by the doors, rain confusing the landscape behind him. He had come from the barn and was soaked through. He held a hammer. The several monks in the church went silent and stood still when they saw him in the doorway, an apparition of menace, and they were afraid. He came in, and with bright, meaningless eyes he looked at his Brothers: his quick steps echoed around the building.
He reached Brother Francis. Nobody had moved. The hammer was raised, Pachomius’s arm was straightened and stiff, his smile wide, his face in highlight and full of shadows. In the moment before he cracked into his Brother’s skull, bells started to chime. It was the wrong time for them, and they were badly wrung, weak, dissonant, sporadic, but the noise roused the Bothers from their horror. The hammer broke into Luke’s brain, separating and discarding fragments of bone, splintering them into his skin; he collapsed, blood dashing in small drops on the cold, smooth floor. The monks approached Pachomius, but he swung at them and shoved them off painfully; he almost growled. He brought the bloodied hammer down on the corpse, and smashed it into Luke’s head, flattening a cheek bone and rendering the face unrecognisable – blood wept across what features were left, and over the yellow-white protrusions of teeth and bone. He was tackled to the ground and his weapon stolen. They bound his hands together before hoisting him to his feet, shouting, louder than he had ever known them.
He still fought; he could not rid himself of the feeling that they were disastrous, an affront to all that was graceful and of sense. They forced him outside into the rain, into the grey hatred of the mountain weather – the bells could still be heard, just, buried in the wind. An unexpected group was gathered outside the church: the people from the village, arrived at last, led by a few of the Brothers. But they did not look at Pachomius or his captors, they did not notice this absurd prisoner with a wild face and stained hands; they looked instead at the bell-tower.
With a halo of lighter clouds behind it, the tower was an incredible object, stark and amazingly defined. Not quite half-way down, dangling from the bell’s rope, and swaying in the wind, was Brother Anthony, who had hanged himself. The swinging of his body’s bulk, its scraping over the stones of the church, caused the gentle movement of the bells, and directed their otherworldly, off-sounding song.
The Bothers were unable to take in the full tragedy of the sight; their faces betrayed the blankness of their grief. They gripped Pachomius tighter. He alone was truly moved by the sight of his friend, dripping and broken: he cried in wilful, rapturous joy – he, alone, found sanctity and love in this black terror. The Brothers dragged him to the crowd, while he squirmed and smiled and shouted; his Brother had raised himself to a state beyond this doggedly imperfect place, and was set apart, untouchable by wear and ruin: he had split apart from his faults and now gazed infinitely, outside the storm, on true perfection – he saw heaven, God’s work, unimprovable, he walked in the garden of that sublime place, part of it. As the crowd took him and led him down the mountain, beating and spitting at him, Pachomius continued to weep, though the wind and the rain blasted the tears from his eyes. He was unaware of the little life going on about him, unaware of the sharp descent, for he knew that soon, like his Brother, he would join God’s kingdom, and those who were perfect.
I loved him, up until that third bourbon. He was such a fucking amazing person but jesus he was a mean drunk.
He texted: Just had my third bourbon. Mona cornered me before I left the house.
Mona is his wife.
Mona wants to give it another try, he texted.
If you love a person you shouldn’t love, it can be tricky to know what to say.
Oh. Well. How do you feel about that?
There is no love. Doesn’t that matter? he wrote.
Mona still loves you. Apparently.
Mona wants my dollar bills. My plastic. It sure would be nice to see you.
Aren’t you at the airport? Cleveland is waiting.
Fuck fucking Cleveland, he texts.
My apartment is up in the sky, overlooking our city from a safe distance. A doorman building, because a doorman is handy, if you need to know about oncoming police action. And I do. I adore my doorman, he is four-and-a-half feet tall and almost as wide, his name is Jethro and he is passionately devoted to the notion that I should be able to do my business unmolested.
He believes I provide a service. And I do.
And Jethro loves my special Christmas tips.
I don’t know how long it was before three shots of bourbon knocked on the door. Thirty-four minutes, maybe? His fingers were wrapped tight around the neck of a bottle. This is Pappy’s, he said, striding right in with it held up before him, taking a swig, then slamming it with way too much force on my new glass-topped dining table. I rushed over to check if it had chipped.
Then I shoved him, hard.
Is that your idea of hello?
Yes, a very nice hello! It happens to be the finest bottled drink in these United States. The bottles are numbered. He stabbed a finger toward the label. See? Number.
I just feel so bad about Charles and Eduardo and Bob and Keith and Andre, I said.
These were his children. Ages 1, 3, 5, 6, 8. In reverse order.
I could say the same about your lovely wife, he said now. You are about to screw Marylea over royally. Again.
That’s not a very nice thing to say.
Marylea is my wife.
I wanted a baby. I thought about it all the time. And nowadays I wondered if maybe I get could get myself pregnant with him, via fucking, and not with Marylea, via outpatient office visit at the sperm bank.
Anyhow, those boys will be taken care of, he said. I want out. And you. You changed your hair.
I wanted it darker.
He eyed me. I think it’s trending you toward haggard.
Nice, I said. Why are you here?
I just want a little love in my life. Is that so bad?
And even then, after that haggard remark and the crack about Marylea, my heart ran toward him like water downhill. Let me make you a Lean Cuisine, I said.
You should EAT a Lean Cuisine, he said.
I took this as a note about how I had gained weight, some, in the months since we’d met. He was a one-time customer. As in, he came to me one time, to score molly.
I actually sold him ecstasy. Back then I stocked e and molly both, because I wanted to offer options. Nowadays, it’s molly or nothing. It’s more pure. I need to feel pride in my product.
So he came here for the e that first time, and instead of just keeping him in the hall, like I do with new customers, I opened my door to him. It was his face, I guess. I liked it. I let him stand in my living room while I fetched his purchase from the inventory in the master bath.
The whole time I was thinking how bad would it be if I asked this guy on a date?
I didn’t know I was going to fall in love. If only I had known. But to have known that, I would have needed a time machine, and if I’d had a time machine, I wouldn’t be dealing molly, would I? I’d be at a dinner party with Shakespeare.
In this day and age, a woman should be allowed to gain weight without it being a federal crime, though, for fuck’s sake.
If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a mean drunk, I said to him, watching him swig that bottle again.
Oh, I’m just joshing, sweets, he said. You know I think you’re fine.
I shoved him again. You want chicken parmesan or beef lasagna?
Beef me up baby, he said. And how about a glass and two to three large ice cubes.
And then the next morning. My apartment is so high, it’s close to the sun. The first light of day shoots in like a laser, this time of year. Marylea begs for drapes. At least put in some fucking blinds, she says, because I’m fucking blinded every morning!
But on this bright morning she was ok with our bare windows because she was in California, touring with Drake. She’s one of the girls who dance and she’s also known for twirling her red hair. Except this tour Drake was making all the girls wear hats.
I tapped him on his snuffling, messy head. I am ripe for adventure, I said.
Let’s do it, he mumbled, then lapsed into snores again.
I checked my period tracker on my phone. Last night, it says, was a potentially fruitful moment. And he’d come at least one and a half times, and I hadn’t bothered to tell him I’d been off the pill for a while, so I had cause for optimism. I opened my closet and looked in the full-length mirror at my belly. Then I looked at it in profile. It was protruding but well so what else is new.
Down on the lakefront there’s a restaurant with an outdoor bar I like, especially in winter when it is encased in clear vinyl and they pump hot air from toasty space heaters. I’m a sucker for the views of wind-whipped water through dirty plastic windows, and the greasy nibbles and the martinis filthy with olive juice. Marylea and I like to sit there, on a half a capsule each, and just pass the afternoon, day drinking and mildly e-puddled.
I decided I want to try this with him, for comparison’s sake.
My favorite bartender, Keegan, was there, all pale skin and blonde in her white button-down and black smock apron – who could resist her? I certainly wasn’t going to introduce her to him, so I just kept it businesslike, ordering the martinis and those rubbery fried mozzarella sticks that make you feel like you’re eating someone’s warm crumb-covered lips.
We drank the halved pills down with a can of Clamato. The first bit sucks. Five minutes in, your lower jaw feels like it’s being cranked up into your skull with a tire jack. A background playlist of say, Adele, sounds like monkey sounds, screeching.
After a little while that horrible g-force feeling leaves you, though, and everything is grand. I heard him order another round of martinis from Keegan, but I waved her back. Make that two screwdrivers instead, I said. Lots of ice.
He laughed long and hard. Screw drivers! That’s fucked up. His voice got very high when he said “up.” He smiled and shook his head in wonder.
The bar began to fill. Outside the wind swept ice chunks onto the beach.
Hey, he said, can you turn off this fucking Adele and put on something tight.
Keegan grinned and nodded. She looked a little hypnotized by him, his gold watch flashing. Something deep and bass started rumbling the bar. “My manager’s gonna fire me,” she giggled.
He raised his fourth screwdriver glass to her. The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? he said. He downed his drink.
Then he turned and winked at me. Let’s pop it, baby, he said. He pulled me close. We danced for a bit, then lost the thread and went to lay down on either side of a booth, him on one bench, me on the other. The vinyl was cold and grounding. I pressed one cheek to it and I looked across at him under the table, on the far side of the footwell. I really did love him.
Our afternoon meandered into evening. Keegan came out from behind the bar, her apron folded under one arm, her white shirt open. Red lacy camisole underneath. I’m just saying. He started dancing over to her, holding his arms open.
I blocked his way and shoved him. Don’t be an idiot, I said.
He looked me up and down like he didn’t recognize me.
Meanwhile, Keegan darted out of the door and disappeared into the night.
The new bartender said we should settle our tab because we’d had enough. She had a Caribbean accent and I felt like I really couldn’t argue with her.
Get the coats, I said to him.
Back at my apartment, the world was still spinning. I sat on the floor, leaned my head on the sofa, and turned on the television. Friday the 13th Part Five was on, and I realized it was Friday the 13th.
I yelled that to him, he was back in the bathroom. Oh yeah? he said. You’re right, so it is.
He came out holding the duffel I kept hidden under my jacuzzi. I’d removed the engine and created a nice little hidey hole for my inventory back there. I have a weapon, he said, but I could never use it on you because I’m too fucking in love with you.
Oh that’s sweet of you to say, I said.
But you know, Mona and the boys, they’re bleeding me dry. He slipped the duffel’s strap over a shoulder, picked up the bottle of Pappy’s, never taking an eye off me, and took two big swigs, then set it down again, too hard. Maybe chipped the table. You’re getting kinda sloppy, sweets, he said. They’ll just bust you wide open one of these days. You actually ought to thank me for taking this stuff off your hands. You need to find employment, get yourself in shape. Join a gym. And the hair. It’s too dark.
Jesus, he was a mean drunk. He left then, with my bag, closing the door gently behind him. I still had the remote in my hand, I’d been about to pause the movie, so we could talk. But he was gone.
I phoned down to Jethro. Then I went to take a shower and sober up a bit, because damn, it had been a long day.
He was tied up in a broom closet in the sub-basement. I didn’t know Jethro would slice his face that way, but I don’t tell a man how to do his job.
Jethro’s doorman costume looked a bit dirtied up, and he was missing his little cap, but otherwise, he was cool as can be.
I had on my raincoat, the big hooded one I used to wear when I used to be a dogwalker.
I zipped it up tight, pulled the hood up. Then took my Tec out of the pocket. Confident because I warmed it up at the range on a regular basis. Hell, I’d even let him shoot it once. He knew what a vicious thing it was.
You shouldn’t drink so much, I said.
He was crying. I wasn’t. I guess I really hadn’t loved him as much as I’d thought. I mean, I did love him, but only under optimal conditions. And is that love then, really?
I put its mouth between his brows. It fit right there, perfectly
Your last child will be a girl, I said.
I like your hair, he gasped.
We all laugh about that line now. And I was right about the girl part. Marylea and I named her Keegan.
Keegan and his youngest, Andre, they love each other. We call them the jellybeans because they’re so little and sweet.
After Jethro untied him and I brought him back to the apartment, he made a call to Mona. I told him what to say and eventually we all worked it out. We’re grown-ups.
The two families trick-or-treat together and do other activities like that. Occasionally, when the others aren’t around, I collect a kiss from him and maybe a little grope. He stopped drinking and now he is as mild as milk.
I have always been haunted by houses, which is fitting – it’s nearly Halloween as I write this. There are seasonal gourds in the shops, pumpkin patches in the fields, gruesome masks on display at the newsagents.
By some cruel irony I live not far from one of the country’s reputedly most haunted houses, Ham House, whose windows look toward the River Thames. Inside it is dark and unnaturally chilly, with a chequered floors and oil paintings bearing the faces of long-dead ancestors whose dour expressions do little to inject any less foreboding.
It is said that as many as thirty ghosts reside there, one of whom is thought to be the Duchess of Lauderdale who pushes visitors down the stairs. Having toured the house the ambiance is undeniably eerie. There’s the presence of a fourth dimension, a strange distribution of atoms in the air, the sensation that something else is trying to edge its way through. If you want to believe in the supernatural – a house like Ham makes it easier to do so.
My own experience of the paranormal is limited to a singular event but the memory is firmly written and with it, my fate as a believer, sealed. When I was a teenager I lived on the Isle of Wight and once spent a night babysitting my boyfriend’s sister. She lived with her mother in an old cottage, deemed to have links to Carisbrooke Castle where Charles The First was held before his execution. The cottage was rumoured to have an underground passage beneath it, leading to the castle dungeons. I have always found such stories irresistible. The thrill of rediscovering a buried past, a tunnel lost in time – especially something that seems impossible. Because one way or another, we all want to believe impossible truths.
His sister occasionally mentioned seeing a woman in the garden wearing traditional clothing, her hair pinned onto her head. But his sister was just a child. Six years old. Children like stories, attention, magic. I was intrigued but disbelieving when she said she’d seen the lady again when I put her to bed.
It was a warm July evening. Still light. My boyfriend and I were sat on the sofa when the room became icy. The television turned itself off. The cat who’d been sleeping in a corner scooted out of the house as though being chased by a demon, and clouds of our breath began to fog in front of us. We puffed into the air, incredulous, thrilled, a little anxious. Something Was Happening. My skin tingled and on cue, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck.
There was the sound of the front door being opened and slammed shut and the brisk clip of footsteps along the hallway which stopped abruptly when they reached the door of the room we were in, as though the person arriving had been startled by our presence, scared to see us in their home. A wanderer lost in time, repeating their life beneath the surface of this one and finding themselves mistaken, having drifted too far forwards.
The house took a while to warm up after. What had we experienced? We had both heard, seen and felt the intrusion of an entity beyond our knowledge. We had to ask ourselves if we would believe the unbelievable, or dismiss our experience – deny what we knew but couldn’t explain.
*
It seems the commercialised fears which pervade around this time of year, when Halloween calls, are fundamentally related to this membrane between what we know and that which we cannot comprehend. For a few weeks of the year, we are subjected to a proliferation of zombies, vampires, skeletons, ghouls. And while such things reside, for the most part, firmly in the world of fiction, some of them permeate our everyday existence – we can see their shadows superimposed onto real life. The skeletal bodies of the elderly. The monsters that govern countries, the living dead that we pass in the street.
Most often, it is from the belly of houses that we contemplate such fears, before we fall asleep, when our ears attune themselves to the exhalations of the brickwork, identify mice in the walls, or catch the unexplained movements of neighbours leading their own nocturnal lives beside our own. Within our houses we ruminate on what spectral dread may exist outside, as well as face the fears that lurk inside the home; the rift in a family, the face of loneliness or darker desires we wish to pursue.
This Halloween there will be no cloaked figures at our doorsteps – no seasonal threat of teens trick or treating, synthetic blood at their lips. In many ways this Halloween will be a quieter, altogether more disturbing affair. In the age of coronavirus, the idea of the haunted house takes on new meaning.
We rattle around our homes while an invisible danger creeps through the population, invading chests and taking the breath from unsuspecting lungs. It is a horror story out there; businesses boarded up, streets silenced, cities stoic. An unspoken mistrust of the other percolates; poison breath, every utterance a possible death sentence for someone vulnerable or unassuming. Yet this demon is one we cannot see or hear unless we are “frontliners” treating zombified patients in hospitals or listening to its hacking splutter in our homes. And what gross irony that such fear and death has reached us via horror’s favourite mascot – the bat. And so, we find ourselves indoors, estranged, dependent on the alchemy of technology to summon the spectral voices and apparitions of those we love.
*
At its origin, Halloween is concerned with remembering those who have departed. Such macabre topics are regular fixations for writers who are drawn to melancholy the way moths circle candlelight. It’s no wonder ghost stories have become an oral tradition, sating as they do, our appetite for answers beyond the grave. More often than not such narratives originate close to home and take place in familiar settings, giving rise to generic tropes; the madwoman in the attic, the proverbial skeletons in the closet, the basement you dare not enter.
Writers have always treated houses as pseudo characters, and as staying home becomes a national past time, I have found myself drawn to books that deal with the home and the stories that unfold therein. From Daisy Johnson’s Sisters taking place in a neglected cottage, Carmen Maria Machado’s In The Dream House – a compelling examination of domestic abuse – and Ann Patchett’s novel, The Dutch House, where a brother grieves the loss of the family home; the house as alive, as a device for memory, for fear, as a vessel for secrets, is enduringly effective. As Virginia Woolf explores in “The Mark on the Wall,” houses and their contents provide a context for us to strengthen our grip on reality, as much as they take us to the edges of what is real.
“Thus, waking from a midnight dream of horror, one hastily turns on the light and lies quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshipping solidity, worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world which is a proof of some existence other than ours. That is what one wants to be sure of…”
*
As restrictions structure our more isolated existence, we are becoming hidden between brick and tile, living and working between walls, under roofs, behind doors. Our houses have become more fundamental to us and I wonder how this will cut across the canon of fiction in years to come. Whether stories will be somehow imbued with the sense of entrapment as we are made to pace the same boards and repeat the same actions, each day layering on top of the one that came before until we are the spectres that cannot escape our own homes.
For many, the lockdown and new lifestyle limitations have created time for introspection, allowing the ghosts in our individual haunts to bubble through our consciousness and ask questions of ourselves. Who are we now? Who were we then? What matters? What, in essence, is truly real? Before vanishing back behind a wall.
*
Even without the instruction to stay in more, go out less, the idea of home has always been of interest to me. I’ve felt haunted by home for as long as I can remember – striving to understand what it means and where it truly is. When my parents divorced, for while I was ferried from houses spending alternate weeks with each parent. My life was divided – two homes, two houses yet predominantly I seemed to inhabit the space between them, the fractured line that existed between my parents, my past, my present.
I have tried to elude the need for home, that comfortable yet claustrophobic concept, but throughout my life I’ve had visions and visitations of houses, homes and rooms – the places in which I have left episodes from my past. In the house of memory there are many floors, many rooms, many doors which will always remain ajar.
*
Presently, I am on the cusp of a return. Moving from London back to where I grew up, a move prompted by a desire to be closer to family as they get older and my children grow faster – a way to close the social distance opening between us – but this desire to move predates coronavirus. Fundamentally it is a desire to feel rooted. I want to feel a deeper belonging that has eluded me in all my years living away, in Brighton, in Paris, in London, but I do not know if when I get there I will feel settled. It won’t be the same place I left and I am no longer the person I was. Yet I am lured back to my old haunts without knowing what I’m expecting to find – who I am? Or who I was?
I believe we leave an imprint on the locations in which we live. Our psyche and experiences saturate a place and, in some inscrutable way alter the atmosphere which exists within them. And it’s like that now as I tentatively search for a new abode. I am not looking for bricks and mortar. I am searching for a feeling. A distribution of energy. Somewhere that feels super … natural. A fit.
Perhaps this roving rootlessness and the inexact nature of home is one of the reasons why I’ve always had an appetite to hear about fictional houses. To me, they’re the literary equivalent of property porn, offering adopted lives and homes through which I can journey and grow. From the faded decadence of Tessa Hadley’s Victorian houses to Ian McEwan’s prime real estate in Bloomsbury, Zadie Smith’s North London estates in NW, to the disturbing quality of 124 in Toni Morrison’s Beloved, in every book there is a house, in every house there is a book, but perhaps it is within words that my writer self feels most readily at home.
*
Like the Duchess of Lauderdale jolting people on the stairs in Ham House or the footsteps that echo in the cottage hallway, whether you believe in ghosts or not, we are all revisited in our homes, haunted by pivotal memories that we can’t help but return to.
If Halloween requires us to remember those we have lost, it seems that as well as the dead, it is natural to reflect on those selves we have left behind. They trail after us like lengthening shadows cast by fading light, existing between the partial layers of time; we echo and repeat, becoming the shorthand by which we define who we are and how we have lived.
Wherever we find ourselves, our personal ghosts – sometimes ghoulish, sometimes forlorn, sometimes sweet or mawkish, play amid life’s light and shade, pacing the corridors between living and dying. We are walking through walls, forever passing between one house and another, between this life, and maybe even the next.
On the night after the funeral of O-Sono, her little son said that his mamma had come back, and was in the room upstairs. She had smiled at him, but would not talk to him: so he became afraid, and ran away. Then some of the family went upstairs to the room which had been O-Sono’s; and they were startled to see, by the light of a small lamp which had been kindled before a shrine in that room, the figure of the dead mother…
– Lafcadio Hearn
This week, Litro Lab takes a look at the Japanese ghost stories of Lafcadio Hearn and investigates the folklore of Yōkai myths, Noh plays, modern urban legends, and horror cinema along the way. Hearn was a journalist and travel writer who covered crime stories in Cincinatti, voodoo in New Orleans, and carnivals in the West Indies before settling in Japan in the 1890s. His books on his adopted country helped to fuel the Western obsession with orientalism at the turn of the last century. Hearn is now best remembered for his retellings of the traditional Japanese tales of the supernatural, collected from old texts and from his Japanese wife. His stories have been popular for over a century, influencing everything from literature to cinema.
The yōkai have existed for centuries in the Japanese imagination. However, it is thanks to Lafcadio Hearn that their stories were first translated into English and, thus, shared with the rest of the world.
Listen to this podcast – if you dare – to become acquainted with these Japanese ghosts and discover some of the secrets from Lafcadio Hearn’s life, which was as haunted as the stories he translated.
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The coach driver slams the overhead door closed before he notices me standing to the side, out of the way of the others collecting their bags.
“Are you waiting for something?” His voice has a rough edge. He doesn’t want to ask but knows it will be better in the long run. He’s desperate for a pie and a pint.
“My bag,” I say. His gaze roams over the bags lying on the glistening footpath. Ragged men and women are pulling their belongings out of the rain, ducking under cover, moving towards their next destination.
“Where is it?” he asks.
“I put it in there,” I say, gesturing to the cavern he’s just closed. With a sigh to show I’m being inconvenient, he opens the door again and peers in. He moves aside and I understand I’m supposed to look as well. It smells of petrol and dirt, and yet somehow the smell of dirty laundry is strong enough to linger as well.
“Nothing there,” he says.
“No.” We both turn away. The footpath behind us has emptied. The people snaking along the road towards the fluorescent section of town are weighed down with bags, but none of them are mine. He sighs again.
“Where did you get on?”
When I tell him he whistles.
“Long trip.”
“Yeah.”
“We made twenty-three stops after that.”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone could have taken it.”
A car passes and its headlights shine on us. He’s wearing a cap which protects him from the dripping rain, but my hair has flattened around my shoulders. I wipe water off my forehead.
“You’ll have to fill in a form and I’ll report it.”
“Okay.”
He wants more from me, or to know what I want from him, but I don’t think he took my bag.
He gets back on the bus and sits in the driver’s seat. I stand near him. The windows are steaming and the bus still smells like people even though no one is on it anymore. He takes a clipboard from below the seat and hands it to me.
“Was there anything valuable in it?” he asks, then adds, “you’re not supposed to put valuables in the hold.”
“No, nothing,” I say. I pretend I don’t need the dirty clothes, the half-empty bottle of shampoo, the stub of soap.
He speaks on the radio as I fill in the form, turning to the window and muttering so that I can’t hear his words. I’m not sure if he’s blaming me for losing my bag or just for delaying his dinner.
I hand him back the clipboard and he scans the form.
“You didn’t put a phone number on it,” he says.
“I don’t have a phone.”
“We need a number to call if we find your bag.”
I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t have a phone, and we both know that my bag is gone.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “I’ll call lost property later. If it hasn’t turned up—” I don’t finish the sentence because it would sound too dramatic to say “then it’s gone forever”, but I know he knows what I mean.
“Is there someone here to meet you?” he asks. We both look out the window, as though there might be a friendly figure skulking in the dark.
“No.”
“Will you be alright?”
I imagine he has teenage daughters and he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t ask. Not that I’m a teenager, but it’s an easy mistake to make. Maybe he wants to take me for a pie, feed me salty pastry and lemonade, and pretend a meal tonight will help me find surer footing in the future.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
*
The bus passes me as I walk along the dark road towards the well-lit seafront. He’s on the radio again. I pull a box of pringles from my rucksack and eat them one at a time. I eat quickly so the rain doesn’t have a chance to make them soggy.
The main street runs along the sea and holds a string of pubs, with chip vans and doughnut vans sitting at the kerb. There are hungry, horny people yelling, and that sugary smell of spilled alcohol has crept from the doors of the pubs onto the street. Everything is fried, alcoholic, sweet. People look at me, or maybe they don’t.
“You alright, love?” A man leans over his empty counter. No one wants a kebab yet, it’s too early, and he’s bored. It’s not a pickup line though, that would sound more like, “You right? Love?”
“What’s your cheapest kebab?” I ask. I let my rain-sodden hair hang over my forehead, sweeping over my eyes like a pathetic veil. The counter is higher than my outstretched hands. From his angle, I look like Oliver Twist’s equally needy sister.
“Chicken,” he says. “Three pounds.”
I let my face fall and turn away.
“Oh come on,” he says. “Have some chips then, on the house. Just don’t tell anyone.” I return his smile, like it’s our secret, and take the free chips. They make my breath oily.
*
The house is along the seafront then two streets back. The weatherboards look white in the glow from the streetlights, but I know that when the sun rises they’ll look grey and patchy. I let myself through the squeaking gate and up the front steps. The keys are in my rucksack and I open the door. It smells like dust, rust, dirty underwear. I flick on lights as I move through the house and drop my rucksack on the couch. The bedrooms are at the back, cold and empty. The door to Granna’s room is closed, but I switch on the hall light and open the door. Her sleeping mound doesn’t move, but she says, her voice low and croaky with the need to sleep, “Welcome back. Leave me alone.” I turn the hall light off but leave her door open a crack in case she needs me during the night.
In the kitchen, I boil the kettle and drop two teabags into a mug. The milk in the fridge is out of date but still liquid. The rain taps on the window and I listen to the blinks and dinks as I drink my tea.
I take my rucksack to the room I sleep in and sit on the bed. The sheets are the ones that were here when I left. They still smell like me, but colder. I empty my rucksack onto the tired duvet. I have coins and a twenty. A charger for the phone I don’t have anymore. A dog-eared copy of Mein Kampf that a boy on the bus gave me. He was trying to be controversial and interesting, and I let him. A copy of Wild Swans, which I’ve almost finished. Spray-on deodorant for men. Three scrunched up receipts. And the half-empty tube of Pringles. I eat a few more.
In the bathroom, my toothbrush is still in the cup on the sink. I brush my teeth for a long time. The mirror has a few extra rust spots since I last stood here. When I get into bed, I sleep easily.
*
In the morning, Granna is up early, like always. The rain has stopped and the screeching seagulls are pushing through the rubbish bins on the street. In the kitchen, she’s eating a boiled egg and a piece of toast. I flick the kettle on and put two teabags in a mug.
“There are eggs,” she says.
“Thanks.” But I don’t open the carton. “I’ll do some shopping later,” I say.
“Do you have money?”
I’ll have to spend my twenty on replacing the things from my bag, so I don’t answer. She sighs, but I don’t know if it’s at me or from the effort of standing up. She takes her wallet from her handbag hanging over the kitchen door, and hands me a tenner. “Just the usuals,” she says.
“Nothing fancy,” I say, hoping for a smile, but she either doesn’t remember our bit or she isn’t ready to forgive me yet.
“Exactly.” She sits again, leaning so heavily on the table that it tips slightly. “Fuck it,” she mutters as her tea slops from her mug. I hand her a sponge.
I add her tenner to my twenty and take my rucksack with me. I have to find some other shoes, mine are still squelching from the rain. I need a jumper. My hoodie was in my backpack because the heating on the buses is always turned up so high. I have to find somewhere to get rid of Mein Kampf.
I follow the street that runs parallel to the seafront. The rain has stopped but the sky is still overcast. I can smell the fried food vans from a block away and hear the racket of people suddenly freed from their everyday routines. This street has shops on it that normal people visit, the people who live here year-round. Granna used to work in the plant shop specifically to get away from tourists. The woman who owned the shop refused to stock any folksy, whimsical, seaside-themed ornaments, and tourists aren’t interested in pot plants that need transporting. Up ahead is the charity shop. I’ve decided it’s my best bet.
The shop has no customers. The two staff members are crouched on the floor near the glass cabinet in the middle, whispering and pointing at something. One of them, a man, stands when I enter, and behind him I can see the bottom shelf of the cabinet has collapsed. The ceramics are lying in a huddle on one side, like they’ve reached the bottom of a slide and have nowhere to go next.
“Good morning,” he says. He mutters something to the woman still crouched at his feet, and she stands too. I don’t think she wants me in the shop during this moment of crisis, but I’m cold. I flick through the jumpers. The hoodie I lost was dark purple, with a sturdy zipper that never broke or got stuck. The hood was huge, like it was designed to go over a helmet, and hung down in front of my eyes. The pockets were deep and still furry, even though I’d been wearing it every day for a year. It was perfect, really, and as I flick through the items on offer I realise it was irreplaceable. I’m going to have to compromise. The only hoodies don’t have zippers. I like zippers, it means it can double as a jacket. So no hood. That’s an extreme concession when you’re looking to buy a hoodie. There’s a blue zip-up jumper that feels soft and furry, but it has a logo emblazoned across the front. The only plain one is grey, and the material is thin. I think it was probably thin to start with and has now been worn into submission.
“Can I help you?” the man asks. The woman is crouching by the open cabinet with a pan and brush. She takes a couple of unbroken ornaments from the muddled pile and puts them carefully aside before she sweeps the rest into the pan, and tips them into a black bin bag.
“You’re not supposed to put broken ceramics into a bag. It could hurt the garbage man who has to pick it up.”
The man looks back at his colleague, and I know he knows I’m right, but he doesn’t want to embarrass her in front of me.
“We’ll sort it out the back,” he says. “We just need to get it out of the shop for the moment. Health and safety.”
“Because a customer could trip and end up with broken crockery embedded in their knees.”
“Exactly.”
I flick through some more jumpers but I’ve already seen them all, and none of them are right.
“Are these the only jumpers?”
“For women, yes. The men’s are over there.”
I decide to look, just in case, and there’s a zippered hoodie with soft material. It has a logo, ugly letters that are spiky and multi-layered, but that’s a compromise I’m willing to make. I take it to the counter and wait for him to come back from escorting his colleague and her black bin bag of broken things out the back.
“That’s five pounds,” he says.
“Right. I was thinking—” his eyes become glazed, like he’s used to people haggling and he knows how this will end. “Could I swap it for a book?”
“This is for charity.”
“But I wanted to donate a book as well, and you’ll probably be able to charge more for what I’m donating. So—”
“What’s the book?”
Thinking I should have prepared him more, I pull Mein Kampf from my bag. He doesn’t touch it when I put it on the counter.
“Why are you donating that?” he asks. It’s interesting that he doesn’t ask why I own it.
“Someone gave it to me but I don’t want it.”
“I don’t want it either.”
“You could sell it for a lot of money,” I say.
“What makes you think that?”
“History,” I say. “It’s like the first celebrity memoir, if you thought up a marketing strategy you could sell it for—”
“We don’t have a marketing strategy. This is a charity shop.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Did you just say it’s the first celebrity memoir?”
“Yes. Look, my bag was stolen from the bus last night and I don’t have a jumper. I just wanted to swap the book for the hoodie.”
“Do you have money?”
I pull out Granna’s tenner.
“I still need to buy shoes though,” I say. I lift my foot and water trickles down my ankle. It’s a sorry sight. The stench of a muddy pond wafts towards me and I wonder if he can smell it too.
“I don’t want the book,” he says. He still hasn’t touched it. “And you can’t just have the jumper for free. But if you work out the back for a few hours, you can have it then.”
“Doing what out the back?”
“Sorting the donations.”
“Can I pack up the broken crockery properly, so it doesn’t hurt anyone?”
His eyes flick to the book on the counter and I realise he thinks I am a Nazi sympathiser with a strong concern about garbage men getting hurt on the job.
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll put the jumper here.” He takes it and puts it under the counter where I can’t see it. “Keep your book though,” he says. I put Mein Kampf back in my bag. “Follow me.”
Out the back the woman is sitting on an old couch. There are piles of stuff everywhere. “Jean, can you please mind the counter? This young woman is going to do some work in exchange for a hoodie.”
She is sipping from a cup and saucer, and she sighs like Granna when she stands up. She leaves her cup by a sink at the back. We can hear her talking to a customer as soon as she leaves.
“You can start with the shoes,” he says. The shoes are in a metre-high pile in a corner of the room. They’re fenced in by old suitcases, as though the bags can stop them from escaping across the floor.
“What do I do with them?”
“Put them in pairs. Good quality ones over here, ones that need laces or a polish or something over there. Leave broken ones, or singles, in the pile where they are.”
I think he’s going to stay and supervise me, but he goes to the front of the shop with Jean. The music from the radio station playing over the shop speakers is faint here, but I can tell when Marvin Gaye comes on.
The shoes smell like leather and dirt and the laces get caught around each other. There are lots of shoes like Granna wears: soft and wide with short laces. The laces are short so that if they come undone, it’s still difficult to trip. They’re basically the same as wearing Velcro, but when I said that to Granna she was really offended, so I haven’t mentioned it again.
The shoes are all messed up together. It seems like a silly system. If I worked here I would sort donations as they came in, instead of waiting until there was a haphazard pile like this.
I find a pair that I want. Trainers made from fake denim and red laces. Or laces that used to be red and are now a dirty brown, but I could clean them. I don’t know how long I’d have to work to earn those as well as the hoodie, though.
After twenty minutes I start sneezing. The shoes at the bottom of the pile have been there a long time and are covered with dust as well as dirt. The pile of shoes that I think are sellable is growing quickly. Maybe my standards are too low, but it’s a charity shop not John Lewis.
The man comes back just as I’m finishing up. He stares at the three piles.
“Which ones are to sell?”
I point to the pile, and a kid’s shoe without laces falls slowly from the top and tumbles to a stop at my feet.
“That’s a single shoe there,” he says, pointing to a solitary purple boot.
“I know, but it’s a cool shoe. Someone might want it for something.”
He nudges the boot with his foot and it tips over.
“What can you do with a single boot?”
“Make a doorstop,” I say. “Or put a pot plant in it. Or – I’m sure there’s other things too. You could have a special shelf for them.”
“A shelf for single shoes?”
“Yeah.”
“How many are there?” His eyes are roaming the pile but he won’t be able to see them all without digging.
“A few.”
“We don’t sell single shoes.”
“What happens to them then?”
“We send them to the main warehouse.”
“And what do they do with them?”
He looks at his watch.
“Jean has gone on lunch so I need to go out the front. Take the single shoes out. Please.”
I do what he asks and when he comes back half an hour later there is the saddest pile of single shoes in the middle of the floor.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Is there anything else I need to do?” I ask. I’ve worked for over an hour. Even if he paid me minimum wage, I’ve more than earned that hoodie.
“You can pack up the broken crockery properly,” he says. “It’s that bin bag there.” The black bag is crumpled against the cupboard underneath the sink. I guess the bin is in the cupboard and he had to stop Jean from throwing it away before I fixed her stupidity.
“Do you have cardboard boxes?”
“In a pile there.” He points to a stack of flattened cardboard shoved between an old wardrobe and the wall. I sneeze again. “There are tissues in the bathroom.”
“I’m fine.”
He wrinkles his nose, but I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.
I open the black bin bag and buffer each broken piece in cardboard. I find Sellotape in the old wardrobe and bandage up the packages. They’re like sad Christmas presents. When I finish, I put them back in the black bin bag and leave it where it was.
Back in the shop, Jean is carefully wiping the counter even though it already looks clean. I can’t see the man.
“I’ve finished,” I say. I don’t know why she doesn’t like me, but I can tell she doesn’t.
“Has Mike said that you’ve finished?”
“I’ve been here for two hours.”
“So?”
We stare at each other until she looks away.
“Where’s my hoodie?”
“What hoodie?”
“The hoodie he put under the counter for me. Mike did. The one I’ve been working for.” My shoulders give a sudden jerky shiver. The door of the shop is propped open and the air is cold, but I know she thinks I’m faking it.
“There’s no hoodie here,” she says. She doesn’t even look. “Wait, the dark green one?” I nod. “Someone bought that already.”
“Mike put it aside for me.”
She shrugs and smiles, and then stops when she sees my face. I know she just wants another cup of tea.
I take a necklace from the jewellery stand next to her. I move slowly and she watches, transfixed, before she remembers to say, “Hey!” She reaches out to stop me and I grab her hand. I pin it against the counter. Her other hand scrabbles at me but she can’t do anything.
With one finger I flick open the clasp on the necklace and I press the metal into her soft skin. She screeches as blood comes up in a long, thin line. It’s only an inch long, and probably barely hurts, but she is shrieking like anything.
“What’s going on?” Mike is puffing as he comes running in. He’s holding a McDonalds bag that smells of hot oil and meat. He rushes over and shoves me away from Jean’s hand, but I’ve already stopped.
“She sold my hoodie,” I say.
“No – I didn’t—” she stammers and uses her uninjured hand to pull it from under the counter. She cradles the hand I cut against her chest as though it pains her to use it. What a fraud.
“You told me you sold it,” I say. Mike looks down at the necklace. There is blood on the clasp.
“You’ll have to buy that necklace now,” he says. “Ten pounds, for the necklace and the hoodie.”
“Fine.” I drop the tenner on the counter and take the hoodie and the necklace.
When I get to the door, I hear him say to Jean, “I bought her lunch but you can have it.” And Jean stammers something about not eating McDonalds. I hope they don’t find where I put Mein Kampf in the pile of kids books at the back of the shop. Maybe they’ll be closed down for inappropriate sorting.
*
When I get back to Granna’s, she’s not there. It’s four o’clock, so she’s probably walking the seafront to see which buskers are braving the chilly air. In the room where I sleep, I empty my rucksack onto the bed. I have the purple boot and a black one of the same size. I kick off my squelching shoes and pull the boots on. I also have the denim trainers and I put them side by side under the bed. I reshape the cap that lost its roundness under the heavy soles and hang it off the bedpost. It will protect me from the rain, like the bus driver’s cap last night.
I put the hoodie on and it’s as warm as I thought it would be. I take the necklace to the bathroom and wash the blood off. I’ll give it to Granna when she gets home. It’s only when I hold the necklace up to my neck in front of the mirror that I remember I forgot to buy the usuals.
I still have my twenty, maybe I could buy us something fancy for breakfast. I could take her to the café with the best eggs and free coffee refills. It’s near the bus station though and she might think I’m planning on leaving again. Even the best eggs couldn’t distract her from whatever she’d feel about that.
My grandmother was named after Adolf Hitler. A fact I was not aware of until five years after her death. I was nineteen at the time and all my life I’d always called her “Oja”, which meant “old woman”, just like my siblings and my older cousins before me did.
My grandmother’s name was Etila. (Pronounced A-tee-la). She was born in 1941, at the beginning of the Second World War. Her mother, my great-grandmother had been sick during her whole pregnancy. During the war, she’d lost her two sons and a pregnancy due to famine. My mother had said that my great-grandmother knew this was her final chance at procreating. She knew nothing about the war in the West, but felt the reverberations and shared the tragedies just the same in her little village where one word … one name continuously echoed. Hitler. There was no food because of Hitler. Her children died because of Hitler. She might lose this one because of Hitler.
So, when she pushed out the little waif of a girl, alone and delirious from hunger in the forest, she named her after the faceless person across the ocean that knew nothing of her existence but had tried to kill her anyways.
My mother said her mother had told her that, for my grandmother, it was the equivalent of inviting your enemy to the peace table. Because when you feared something, you befriended it. So that on the day its true nature emerges, it might remember the friendship that you both once shared.
I question my great grandmother’s logic almost as much as I admire her sense of humor.
*
I was twenty-two when I developed enough curiosity to ask my father about my name. And the only thing he could remember of it was that I had turned seven days old on a rainy morning and he couldn’t get to the mosque. So he had paid the token money to a freelance brown-toothed, dirty-turbaned, old Mallam to whisper a name in my ears before time ran out. He said I’d howled the entire time and the Mallam had looked at me and said, “This one should be called Zainab.”
“What did that mean?” I’d asked my dad.
And his answer was the same as it had been when I had asked what my name meant when I was six years old.
“I really have no idea. It just seemed fitting, I guess.”
I shrugged. “What is a name, anyways? Like being born, you have no control over it.”
“Of course, you do. If you wanted a name bad enough, you’d pick one for yourself,” my father retorted.
I thought of my aunt then, who had changed her name when she became a Christian. Grandmother had named her “Alikeju” which meant “I have seen horrors and my eyes are full”.
When my aunt was baptized, the pastor asked her to pick a name. She picked “Grace”.
“My eyes shall not be full from seeing horrors. Instead, it shall be full from beholding grace,” she said.
Grandmother neither acknowledged nor adopted this new name. Alikeju, she continued to call her and my aunt responded. So when grace-less things began to happen to her, I wondered if it was because she had betrayed the name she chose for herself.
*
My grandmother, up until her death, called me “Ojonupe” – the name she’d whispered to the wind to carry to my ears when she heard of my birth. It means “What God wants”.
Everyone else called me Zainab. But to grandmother, I was Ojonupe – her daughter’s daughter. She made music from my name and we danced around her compound beating on sticks with it. And I loved it as a thing so uniquely ours. When she died, I wondered what a name was if there was no one to call it – it was just another prayer with no one to say it, another word with no one to make a meaning of it. A language that nobody speaks, a house that nobody lives in. Abandoned. Empty. Forgotten.
The older I grew, the more names I collected, determined to keep them all safe on the lips of people who loved me.
Some people say that the most important thing a person owns is their name. Some say that your name shapes your future.
My grandmother believed that a name is only as important as the bearer decides it is.
*
Where I come from, a child is not just born, he is brought forward … guided through. Reincarnation. Rebirth. Metempsychosis. These children take up the names of their ancestor guardian, their own names fading into oblivion.
My father was born on the night the chieftain of his little village died and everyone agreed the old chieftain had gone to bring my dad forth.
“Onuh”, they called him, which meant King, from the moment he was born, whatever name that had originally been intended for him slipping slowly from their minds.
Sometimes I wondered if he missed his real name, his first name – the one his mother had called him deep within the confines of her mind when they were connected by an umbilical cord, the one she’d whispered when he slipped out of her, the one she’d called when he latched onto her breasts for the first time.
“What is dad’s real name?” I’d ask over and over when I first discovered his name, now a part of mine was not even originally his … ours.
“I’m not even sure he knows. If he does, he probably doesn’t remember,” my mother once said.
I thought that it was incredibly sad.
*
Days before grandmother’s death, I visited her in the hospital. The nurse was changing her sheets and I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching my grandmother curled up on the couch, wondering just when she became so small she hardly seemed to make a dent on couches.
“Zainab is here,” the nurse said to her when she noticed me standing there.
“Who’s Zainab?” grandmother asked dryly and I shook my head slightly as I entered the room: “Should we be worried about your memory now, grandmother?” I teased.
She scoffed, “Your name is Ojonupe. I don’t know a Zainab.”
“I’m both Zainab and Ojonupe, ma’am,” I replied warily as I sat next to her.
She sighed then, shaking her head slightly, “I don’t know who you are when you’re Zainab,” she insisted. Just before I started to voice my protest, she continued, “Your accent changes and I barely understand a word you say,” she smiled sheepishly as she scrunched up her nose , mimicking me: “Hi, ma’am, my name is Zainab. How do you do?” she drawled.
“Grandmother!” I protested.
She laughed then, her big belly laughter, wiping tears from her eyes with the edge of her wrapper. “That’s exactly how you sound.” She paused, peering at me intently. “But when you’re Ojonupe, my Ojonupe, you’re softer. Your voice is clearer and even when you don’t say a thing, I understand you.”
As I curled up on the couch next to her, my head on her shoulders, she patted my hands softly. “This moment, you’re Ojonupe.”
“What does it matter, oja?” I asked, “A name does not define you, does it?”
“It doesn’t. But people do. When people call you by a name, there is a version of you that is created to answer to it.” She paused for so long I wondered if she had fallen asleep, then she continued, “When I call you Ojonupe, you do not even know when you drop off the part of you that is Zainab. But the change is so palpable a person who knows Zainab would hardly believe that you are the same person.” She nudged my shoulder slightly, “Through the different versions of yourself that you would create and recreate to fit into a name that others call you, you must remember that none of them truly defines you. You live up to no name except that which you call yourself.”
“Yes, grandmother,” I said softly.
And as I moved through schools, through cities, through friends and lovers, I was more than grateful for grandmother’s wisdom.
Tonight, my lover plants a kiss on my lips and calls me Zai. Tomorrow, my friends would call me Nabs and the girls at my Pilates class would call me Zee. When my father is happy, he would call me Jimmy. And my mother would call me Zainab-de to express her displeasure.
I have hundreds of names. The only one I live up to is the one I call myself. Zainab. O jonupe. Ajú Etila.
A white rosebud makes a beguiling appearance
The Rose
At last it was just the two of them. Marianne had assured the others that, no, she didn’t mind. She was happy to stay.
Often Marianne found it essential to lie, but this time it was the truth. This room, which was bland as a bedroom in a hotel, had a soothing quality. And since everyone had gone, the place was quiet.
The last words she’d heard him speak were ten days ago. That was on her earlier visit, during which he hadn’t once acknowledged Marianne. Her father’s silence wasn’t a surprise – it was something she was accustomed to. Even so he was quieter than usual.
Marianne shut her book. She got up and approached the bed. His head, propped with many pillows, was turned towards her. His mouth was open, as if he’d been struck by something he wanted to tell her and then changed his mind.
Suddenly it struck Marianne she might now say – or do – whatever she liked and there was no danger.
It was an unlooked-for gift
On the table beside her was a buzzer. Pushing it would spoil everything. But the gift was too great and Marianne had no idea how she might use it. She pressed the button.
*
‘There are things we need to do,’ they told her.
‘What things?’ Marianne wondered, but didn’t ask. They might reckon she was odd, discussing her over coffee and biscuits midway through the shift. Or while sneaking a quick cigarette.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said – and went to reception where there was a display of cards and crafts for sale, along with a shelf of old paperbacks.
Marianne looked carefully at each item, wishing she’d thought to ask how long the necessary things would take. In the meantime it would show the right spirit to buy something. But what?
Those painted stones were not too bad. Marianne picked them up individually before deciding the oval one was best. She liked how it grew warm, the way it fitted snug in her palm. Automatically Marianne reached for her purse, then realised she’d forgotten her bag.
‘I’ll be back,’ she told the receptionist.
*
As soon as Marianne walked in she saw they’d interfered. So that was what things meant.
His mouth was closed. They’d straightened him and pillows had been taken so he lay almost flat. They had brought in a rosebud, a white one – except rather than hunt for a vase they’d left it by his face. Marianne couldn’t think why.
Had they wished to suggest the man in the bed was a special bloom, a flower? If so, it was laughable. They didn’t know the first thing. Her father was brambles, ivy, a curved thorn.
Or was the rose meant for her? Perhaps Marianne was supposed to sit having fragrant, uplifting thoughts till the others came.
Soon her relatives would pile in and she must decide what to tell them. But the sun had moved and, in spite of the shut curtains, the room was stuffy. She couldn’t settle. Something – a voice almost – was nagging at her
Go to the window.
Cautiously she approached. What harm could it do, letting the light in?
The room looked onto a small courtyard, dotted with shrubs. It was the sort of place where people might drag out chairs to enjoy the weather. Someone could walk by.
Open it.
And if they did pass, if they glanced in, what would they see? A visitor and a dim shape.
Still she hesitated. The absence of locks and catches didn’t mean a thing. There’d be a rule – same as there was for pillows and roses. It’s just Marianne couldn’t work out what the rules were.
You heard….
The air was almost unbreathable. Marianne blamed the rose but having sniffed – she didn’t want to touch – it had no perfume. More of a sensation, really. Like when some winged creature, a bee, kept crashing against glass, desperate to escape.
Only the far-off buzz of a television. No insect. Even so Marianne opened the window.
And then her father was gone.
…neither the term Orient nor the concept of the West has any ontological stability; each is made up of human effort, partly affirmation, partly identification of the Other.
Edward W. Säid, Orientalism
…When we reflect on the vast diversity of the plants and animals which have been cultivated, and which have varied during all ages under the most different climates and treatment, I think we are driven to conclude that this great variability is simply due to our domestic productions having been raised under conditions of life not so uniform as, and somewhat different from, those to which the parent-species have been exposed under nature.
Charles Darwin, The Origin of the Species
A monastery garden in Rangoon, Burma, 1948.
A frayed red ribbon in a pocket. Small, nimble fingers turn the ribbon over and over.
A fair-haired boy of about twelve years old is looking through a thicket of foliage and branches. His bowed head, framed by a crown of yellowing leaves burnt by the sun, shudders a little as he arches his back and stretches his bare feet over the flaking trunk of a tree; he climbs high into its branches, light and dust particles shimmering at the periphery of his vision. He moves slowly, dodging the glare of sunlight. He slips a hand into the wiry branches of the tree, angling himself so that his entire body is taut and narrow in the canopy of foliage. He clasps his fingers around a small object at the outermost edge of the branches: a perfect mango tied with a red ribbon. He draws his hand towards himself, slowly, cupping the mango. For a moment, the boy holds the mango instinctively to his nose, its skin just touching his upper lip. He cradles the mango in his shirt pocket and then drops down, lightly, patting the parched earth with his unfurling limbs, steadying himself as if the entire weight of the fruit had tipped the scales of his body, unbalancing his being.
The boy takes out the mango from his pocket and unties the sacred gesture of the ribbon. Light settles over the thin skin of the fruit and reveals a beautiful patina of pink, yellow and amber. Somewhere higher up in the trees, bronze-winged Jacana birds and bulbuls steady swaying branches. The boy presses the fingernail of his thumb down on the resistant epidermis of the fruit, dimpling the ripe fruit.
Another person might have stored up this memory of the colours, the weight of the fruit in the palm of the hand, but all this has evaded the sensibilities of the boy. Right now, the boy is thinking about hunger.
A few nights ago, the boy’s uncle had stood at their veranda with a drink in his hand. He spoke softly, as if he were removing a spider from its web.
“Without a knife, it is difficult to peel the flesh of a mango. One can push into its flesh and scratch it with fingernails, but a sharp object is always required. Ripe mangoes are easier to tear; they yield, with patience, to the uneven surface of stones. Hunger invites improvisation.”
The boy works the fruit with a knife and turns its skin inside out so that it resembles a three-dimensional tortoise shell. Messily, he rips into the skin of the fruit.
Accompanying the sense of hunger that has brought the boy to the orchard is a small, anonymous feeling of joy. This buoyant feeling is vaguely familiar to the boy, but long since forgotten until now. The only thing the boy does know is that the fruit is a symbol; he knows this because of the red ribbon in his pocket. The boy realises, now, that he is also a kind of symbol. He knows this because he has eaten the fruit.
The monks that tended the mango orchard had not counted on this particular boy’s lack of interest in authority, or ritual. The ribbons were a warning, a threat to the mortality of any human interested in eating the precious fruit that they had adorned, but the boy had felt the threat of death before, many times in fact, it held no power over him. He had grown to become familiar with his own personal set of symptoms which amounted to fear: the rumble in his chest like icy hands turning inside his ribcage, the sudden lack of saliva in his mouth, the hairs standing on end just behind the back of his (unusually) small ears.
It occurred to the boy that a strange immunity from fear now plagued him. It had first approached him gently, whispering into his ear at night, tempting him to patrol the house at midnight, hold his breath in the depths of the outdoor swimming pool, and then it led him towards more risky endeavours, lingering towards the edge of the tracks at the train station, jumping over neighbour’s fences and worrying their ravenous guard dogs. Recently he had taken to climbing trees.
Seconds, minutes pass, but there are ribbons, still, in the boy’s pocket.
Sloping down the back of his throat, another piece of mango flesh sinks into the pit of the boy’s stomach. Then, just as quickly as the feeling of hunger had arrived, his eyes search beyond the ruins of a wall. His gaze traces the contours of a courtyard where several other children are playing. The boy drops the ribbons and heads towards the shade of the stone cloisters. He runs, feet pounding against the dry earth, mud fissuring under the summer sun. The boy’s thoughts turn towards afternoon tea, arrowroot biscuits and jaggery, the slabs of golden, raw cane sugar sold by street wallahs in cellophane jackets.
Just as he turns on his heels, the boy senses the mango inside his stomach and imagines it there, curdling with this morning’s milky chai and porridge. A momentary stomach ache rouses his suspicions, unsettling his nervous system. Now, the red ribbons feel as if they are burning a hole in the boy’s pockets. He brushes a feverish hand across his face and he hears himself make a noise similar to twigs snapping, a snatch of shallow laughter.
If what the monks say is true, the boy thinks, then I am dead now and I am a ghost running towards my friends. If what the monks say is true, then I will soon turn to stone, like the ruins of the walls of the city, like the monument to Queen Victoria in the botanical gardens. My skin will always to cool and I will be still and silent, while others breathe on my frozen face. Or, I will be a ghost, haunting this spot forever.
He is suddenly aware of the fading, warm sunlight on his skin, the wind in the trees. In this short moment, the boy contemplates the sudden speed of his breathing, the feeling of air rushing through his lungs. As the boy enters the shadows of the courtyard, a question nudges him:
Do ghosts breathe?
Then, someone in the distant courtyard catches the boy’s eye and smiles. Another child, smaller and with long, dark hair tags the boy, tapping his shoulder. The boy is relieved at the evidence, the contact which must mean that he is not a ghost; even more delicious that the fruit itself, he calculates, is the thought that the threat of death is vanquished.
He does not know why he does this, but he points to the mango trees in the garden and dares the others to eat the fruit, taunting them, grinning, bragging.
Later, piles of ribbons are scattered throughout the monastery garden. A boy’s hunger has undone centuries of tradition.
*
Years on, the boy will think about the mangoes again when his daughter is all grown up and he is seven decades old and dying of cancer. He will know that his lungs are failing and he is unable to cease the muddling of time and space, the drifting through little corners of his unconscious. Waking moments are filled with snatches of gauzy vignettes fuelled by morphine. Childhood memories swim up inside him like protective armour, luring him into shallow sensations.
Armoured, he whispers: “Do ghosts breathe?”
He enters the drift again: light breaks through branches and curling leaves. A small hand pushes back the foliage and touches the mottled, mossy bark of a tree. Somewhere else, a figure turns in a metal-framed bed, dreaming of the weight of water against his body, a dream of swimming in India.
*
My father fell ill while I was writing my PhD in London. My husband and I were living with my parents in Hayes, Hillingdon, in their modest house on a street with a chemist and a petrol station at the end of it. It started when my father became very restless at night, up in the early hours of the morning in his armchair. Then, everything just slowed down.
We decided to move out of the house and I found myself leaving for a rural destination, packing books into supermarket boxes and rucksacks. As his only child, it was my responsibility to care for my father, but it felt better somehow to enter the orbit of his existence as a visitor from a slightly separated world. My mother would care for my father, and we would visit. I deliberately started to force a gap between life inside the house in Hillingdon and the life my husband and I were belatedly beginning together, after six years of living with my parents. Of course, I had not expected the end of that life with my parents to be so abrupt, but I should have known that it was never going to be easy.
My father had told me a story about his climbing up into the mango trees while he was a schoolboy in Rangoon, soon after the war had ended and the Japanese had retreated from their occupation of Burma. He had been a prisoner of war as a very young child and had experienced most of those fraught years in Burma under house arrest, while my grandfather was ordered to retain his responsibilities as the chief of the Burmah Oil Company. My father was largely silent on the subject of his internment during the war; he talked about the latter part of his childhood with extra emphasis on nostalgic tales of school life, friends he had made, cricket matches and the food he had eaten. But the trauma of his internment crept into daily life, it was quietly there, like ivy twisting its way through a hedge. Most revealing were his agoraphobic tendencies, which he never acknowledged; he preferred to stay indoors and he enjoyed the safety of routines.
After the war, school days began again, but the picking of the sacred fruit led to my father’s expulsion from the local monastery and he was immediately sent to an American boarding school in Darjeeling, a last resort which became his cherished paradise. The eating of the mangoes seemed to take on a magical significance, granting my father wishes rather than bringing about any kind of curse of death. In England, so many years later, I wished he could vanquish death again and prove that the cancerous cells dividing inside his body were just a collective, benign threat just like the ribbons tied around the mangoes by the monks in Burma.
*
We decided to move nearer to where my husband worked as a music teacher in the Home Counties. I was still a student so our budget was small. I found a surprisingly cheap, small studio flat in a large house on an estate; it had a stream with trout in it, gated walls, a marble fireplace in a communal room and a roof terrace overlooking ancient oaks and drifts of conifers bordering agricultural fields. Although our flat was in the cramped eaves of the house and its windows were too high to see out of, I felt I had found a good place to work and, really, its magical beauty brought some momentary happiness. I have since come to think that the experience of a place can change, unsettle, the balance of emotion, thought and time, even, especially if it is encountered at the right moment. I had thought my identity was rooted in the place I grew up in, but now I know how ambivalent those threads are that connect us to the exterior world.
My father was Anglo-Burmese, with a complicated ancestral heritage. While his paternal grandparents had left Coulmain, County Clare in Southern Ireland in 1885 for India via Nepal, his maternal grandparents were an unusual coupling of Austrian and Shan lineage, an ethnic minority referring to the Hill people settled on the borders of Burma, Laos, Thailand and China. (Shan people are pale, unlike the olive-skinned Burmese, they are known for their basket-weaving skills and climbing prowess). While my father had been born in Rangoon in the late thirties, he had also lived in England most of his life, arriving at the age of eighteen in the mid-fifties. He had worked at a factory in Southend on Sea before settling in West London. But home was always Darjeeling, the paradise-school. It was always in his pocket when he left for work, or turned the pages of a newspaper.
We lived in many different houses as I was growing up and I think that my father’s troubled sense of displacement, homesickness and his inability to really feel at ease in England was linked directly to his desire to keep moving; it was only when I was around ten years old that we settled and he began to busy himself with painting and minor renovations.
Yet, if there was a compass point, a destination with which all coordinates in my father’s life were pointed towards, then it was his sister’s simple oblong dining table in her Ealing semi, positioned just in front of the boiler in the crimson-coloured chimney breast. We had all sat around that table and watched my aunt move between the galley kitchen and the dining room, serving tea out and ham sandwiches. Always, at the edge of the table was a glass pirex dish with a strange combination of Anglo-Indian and Burmese food my aunt had prepared from recipes her mother had left her; Sanwihn Makkin (pronounced sinna-makin), a Burmese semolina cake made with bananas and cardamom, Country Capon, a chicken curry made with saffron, or mince pasties (pustols) and stuffed aubergines (brinjal bake). My favourite was the Sanwihn Makkin and its dense, rich squares of slippery, pale banana flavoured semolina. My aunt’s apron was always stained with saffron and her hands were often scented with lemon.
My aunt was ten years older than my father and when she married at the age of twenty-one in Calcutta, my father went to live with her during the school holidays. My aunt and uncle had forged a surrogate parental bond with my father after he became ill with typhoid fever. My uncle’s wages as an engineer at the Shalimar Paint Company meant that he could afford my father’s medication. The arrangement of the table and the furniture in my aunt’s house must have comforted my father, recalling the configuration of homeliness in Calcutta and reminding him of the love of his sister and brother-in-law which saved his life.
*
It was a bizarre thing to move from London to the old house with the stream; I had never lived outside of Hillingdon, an industrial county with arterial roads bisecting strips of factory buildings, gas towers and retail parks. Suddenly I was learning about hedgerows, shooting seasons, village politics. I could walk to the village shop and I would not meet a single person. This rural England, the England I had read about in books like Ronald Blythe’s Akenfield and the nostalgia of L.P. Hartley’s The Go-Between and Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, was entering my life sideways, across the vertical constant that was my family and, back then, the writing of my PhD. I began to think about the journeys my own family had taken, and the routes they took, crossings which encompassed southern Ireland and Nepal, Calcutta to Rangoon, and the most significant one for both my parents, Rangoon to England by boat via Egypt. England was, for them, the Royal family, Earl Grey tea, Marks and Spencer woollen blankets and Imperial Leather soap. The greenness of England and its rural palette of auburn and dirty emerald hues must have been a shock for my family as they peered through train carriage windows on their way from Portsmouth Harbour to London. They would have seen trees continually sodden with peripatetic sheets of rain, mud irritatingly clumping under patent leather shoes.
Before we had left Hillingdon, my own notion of the English countryside was only felt as a residual or fleeting presence, either suggested through the appearance of my husband’s shabby wellington boots, incongruous in the local, carpeted pub in suburban Hayes, or as a flattened image behind the windscreen of our car when I accompanied my husband to work sometimes, reading about semiotics and psychoanalysis in a school car park. Now the mud was on my boots, I was in that place he had often disappeared to and I had become a new figure in the landscape of his world, even though we had lived together for years.
An England very different to the suburban one he had experienced for the past five decades, entered my father’s everyday routines through my discussion of trees, animals and fields while he drank tea, played with the dog and shared the television remote control with my mother. I would tell my father about the pheasants I had seen nearly run over, as if they were alien entities, found objects. I described the shape of the bricks in the building I lived in, the stained glass in the Saxon chapel. My father listened. Of course, he already knew about sacred ruins, and trees, and fowl, he had experienced nature and all kinds of pastoral vistas as a child, not as exotic pleasures, but as the very fabric of life in Burma and India. We talked about the birds I had seen.
One morning, I saw my father looking out at our garden from his chair. He had turned his entire body so that he could see without getting up. A sparrow had circled the garden path and was resting by our plum tree.
“What are you looking at?” I asked.
“That bird over there. It looks just like a bulbul.”
“A what?”
“You see them in India.”
The Oxford Handbook of the Birds of India and Pakistan (1996) describes the bulbul as a small bird belonging to the Pycnonotidae family. They have long, notched tails and they can appear in colourful variations of olive-brown, yellow or brown to black. They are songbirds, keen on lively harmonies. A.L. Lintoch’s entry in the 1922 edition of The Journal of the Bombay Natural History Society describes the discovery of bulbul bird eggs in the Nelliampathy Hills, Kerala, comparing his notes with the writings of the Victorian naturalist Frank Oates. The bulbuls, or Otocompsa emeria fuscicaudata, had laid eggs in a coffee tree during December, a month not usually associated with the bulbul’s mating season, according to Mr. Oate’s Fauna of British India, including Ceylon and Burma (1889). Lintoch writes excitedly about his discovery of the bulbuls in Nelliampathy, commenting on the sizes of their eggs and the frequency with which they have been laid. The birds nest in the hills, returning in November; the migration habits of the bulbuls seems unpredictable, but then they are songbirds, as Oates also notes, they make musical sense out of the strangeness of the new.
Photo Credit: Yan Miranda
After
I’m still in bed when Manny comes home. The day had crawled by slowly and quietly, with only my thoughts for company, occasionally interrupted by the sounds of the outside world. He moves around our bedroom quietly, shedding his clothes as he leaves behind his working day.
“Hey,” he says. I don’t answer, though I know he knows I’m awake. He carries on talking, telling me about his day like I haven’t just ignored him. The train was late again and packed as usual, then had the nerve to be held at a red signal at Clapham Junction. Maybe tomorrow he’d cycle in. Yeah right. Donna and Matt had invited us to dinner at theirs this week, if we were up to it. His sister had called and said hello. Oh, and his mother wanted to come by with the ladies from her church to pray for us. “Time heals all wounds,” I remember she had said to me, when she last visited, “this too will heal.” I’d looked at Manny then, and saw the pain I felt reflected in his eyes. I wanted to believe her.
He leaves the room and soon I hear the sounds of him taking a shower. Tears prick my eyes but refuse to fall. It’s like they’re frozen in place, much like I feel now. Unable to move forward, unable to move at all. It’s like my body has taken a vow of silence against my mind and spirit. It wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t always like this. There was a time when we’d both come home from work, laughing together, teasing and loving on each other with an intensity that excited and terrified me in equal measure. I would match his stories about his day with tales of my own. We would make plans and share dreams. But that was before.
I feel the mattress dip and cool air as he lifts the bed covers and slides in beside me. He tucks me against his long lean body, wraps his arms around my waist. He smells like the rain, fresh and clean.
“Baby, how was your day?”
I still don’t answer.
“Yeah … me too,” he says.
*
Before
I hadn’t wanted children, not really. It wasn’t that I didn’t like kids – I had two nieces, whom I adored. I just didn’t see myself as someone who would be a mother or have a family of my own. My mother died when I was six, leaving me and my older sister Afua with our dad, whose idea of parenting was to leave us in the care of a succession of bored girlfriends while he spent most of his time in Ghana “on business”. Leaving me with a rather cynical view of family and relationships. But then I met Manny, and everything changed. Tall, lean and handsome, with an open, easy smile that reached his beautiful wide-set mahogany eyes denoting his Korean heritage; he worked in the admissions office at a university where I had been temping as a website content manager. Our paths rarely crossed, but when we passed each other in the hallway he always smiled a hello, which frankly made me grateful for having dark skin, so he couldn’t see me blush. We occasionally made small talk in the staff kitchen, where among other things we discovered a mutual love for books by Octavia Butler, after he saw me reading a tattered copy of Kindred. Despite that, I had already relegated him to being yet another unrequited crush, until one day as I made coffee in the staff kitchen, he asked me out. I remember burning my hand with the hot water and cursing aloud in response.
“Is it that much of a bad idea?” he asked with a grin, taking my hand to hold under the cold-water tap. His skin was rich and tan against my own, his long fingers gently wrapped around mine. Heat flushed through me in spite of the cold water cooling my hand.
“Um, well we hardly know each other…” I stammered, inwardly kicking myself for my awkwardness, as I knew what he’d say next.
“Isn’t that the point?” he said laughing. I noticed he had a slightly chipped tooth, in an otherwise perfect set. Later I would find out to my amusement that it happened when, aged eight, he had jumped off a sideboard in his parents’ living room pretending to be Spiderman. I smiled back at him, loving the sparkle in his eyes, but more so the idea that I might be the reason that it was there. I’d wanted this for a long time, what did I have to lose?
“Okay, you got me,” I said, and before I could change my mind, I added, “How about Thursday? After work. I mean if you’re free.” I bit my lip nervously. He let go of my hand and turned off the tap. I watched his eyes darken as they raked over my face, his expression somewhat unreadable. I felt my face heat up under his scrutiny.
“Thursday’s good. I’ll meet you out front,” he replied, then bent down to kiss my cheek. “Thursday.” he repeated with a smile and left. I stood still for a few seconds after he’d gone still feeling the imprint of his lips on my cheek.
*
After
I’m scrolling through Spotify trying to decide whether to listen to a podcast or music as I do some tidying up. Not much really needs to be done. Manny being slightly obsessive about being tidy has pretty much kept everything in order. But I’m tired of lying in bed and being assaulted by every thought and feeling, so housework it is. Eventually I settle on The Read as everything else feels like too much effort and at least Kid Fury and Crissle are funny. Earphones in place I wipe down surfaces in the living room, kitchen and bathroom until they’re gleaming. I dust in corners, plump cushions, and put away dishes. I even do a load of laundry. The podcast banter in my ears offers a pleasant and comforting distraction.
Checking the time, I wonder where Manny has got to. He said he was going for a run but that had been near enough two hours ago. Recently he’d taken to going out for runs during the day and occasionally in the evenings. He said it was an opportunity to keep fit now that he was furloughed from work, but I knew it was also his way of coping. Heading to the small box room we use as an office, I resist the urge to call him and start wiping down the desk instead. As I move a neat pile of magazines to wipe underneath, I knock Manny’s folder of sketches to the ground, scattering sheets of paper about. Gathering them up, I catch sight of one drawing in particular, of a baby girl, our baby. The likeness is so strong my breath catches in my throat. I still can’t get over how beautiful she was. Eyes wide set like Manny’s, her nose small and cute as a button, and full lips which was all me. I wonder whose smile she would have had and whether she would have looked more like me or Manny. It didn’t matter, she was perfect. We’d made a perfect little girl, who for reasons we still didn’t know or understand could not stay with us.
“I drew that from the photo I took with my phone,” I turn startled to see Manny standing in the doorway. I didn’t hear him come in at all. I remove my earphones, getting up shakily from where I was crouched on the floor, still holding the drawing in my hand.
“It’s amazing,” I say hastily, brushing away tears that threatened to fall, “I forget sometimes just how good an artist you are. Remind me again, why you’re not doing this for a living?” I try to smile and sound light-hearted but the action feels forced. My chest is tight, my heart heavy and I feel lightheaded. I grip the edge of the desk to brace myself.
“Akosua, are you okay?” He grabs my arms to steady me, frowning with concern.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’m just a bit tired. I think maybe I overdid it a bit. I’ll be okay.” I remove myself from his grasp and crouch down again to pick up the folder and remaining sheets of paper. Manny crouches beside me gently pulling the papers from my hands.
“Leave those, I’ll do it. You should go lie down and get some rest.”
“I’m okay, honestly,” I protest, even though I feel the complete opposite. I don’t want to admit it but going back to bed feels like a good option. Manny presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Go on. I’ll make you some soup in a bit.” He kisses me again this time gently on the lips, before helping me to my feet.
*
Before
“We should have a baby,” he said casually one evening as we prepared dinner.
“Wait, what? Why?” I said, narrowly missing my fingertip as I sliced the end of a cucumber. In the two years we’d been together, the subject of kids had of course come up but I’d always managed to push it aside feeling that we had plenty of time – at least five years – before we, meaning I, had to seriously consider it.
“Why not? I mean we’re together, we’re happy. We’re both earning decent money. We could be like those couples who make those cheesy YouTube videos, talking about their interracial relationship and their cute Blasian babies,” he replied with a sly wink.
“Argh no, you did not just say Blasian!” I cringed visibly “And YouTube videos? Really!?” I said giving him my best side-eye.
“You know I’m kidding right – about the videos anyway,” he replied. “But seriously, we’d make some beautiful babies together and we’d be great parents. I think we’re ready,” he said, moving close behind me to brush away my curls and press a kiss against my neck. The tantalising sandalwood and spice scent of his aftershave filled my senses as I closed my eyes to imagine, admittedly not for the first time, a slightly older version of us taking our kid to kindergarten, children’s birthday parties, playing sandcastles on a beach holiday. The type of cookie-cutter existence I usually associated with influencer mums on Instagram. Surprisingly, this time I couldn’t find it within myself to push back on the idea of starting a family. Manny’s arms tightened around me, his mouth moved up to just below my ear.
“And I love you,” he said in a low voice that held so much promise, making me shiver with pleasure. “And I want to make a life with you in every way possible.” I turned around in his arms to face him. His eyes were warm and playful, and when I bit my lip, they darkened with desire as I knew they would. He bent down to kiss the side of my mouth.
“I’m not entirely opposed to the idea,” I said as his lips lightly brushed mine. He kissed me again, deeper this time.
“What do I need to do to completely persuade you?” he murmured, pressing more kisses to my neck, before returning to my mouth.
I didn’t reply but instead took his hand and led him out the kitchen. He chuckled huskily behind me.
*
After
I’m snatched out of sleep and whatever dream I was having quickly fades from memory. Manny is not here. Had he even come to bed? The bedside alarm clock shows it’s just after two a.m., I listen out for sounds that will tell me where he is, but nothing, the flat is silent. Trying to quell my anxiety, I leave our bedroom and pad silently down the corridor, noticing that the door to the guest room is ajar. We’d been getting it ready to be a nursery for the baby, but the door had remained closed since we came back from the hospital. Steeling myself I go in, and see Manny standing in front of the crib he’d proudly put together, insisting that it was what a dad-to-be did. The ankara print cushions I’d made lie scattered on the floor, along with an assortment of stuffed baby animals. I stand in the doorway watching him, his back to me and his hands gripping the edge as he stares into the crib. I wonder what’s going through his mind at this moment. Is he wondering whether our daughter would have slept the whole night through, and if not, would we bicker on whose turn it is to soothe her back to sleep? Is he trying to imagine, as I often do, what her cries would have sounded like?
The moonlight streams through the blinds illuminating him and I notice his shoulders begin to shake. A choked sob escapes him before giving way to an anguished cry and my heart clenches painfully. I walk over and wrap my arms around his waist, leaning my cheek against his back. He stiffens for a brief moment, then relaxes into my hold on him, crying quietly. I don’t speak and neither does he. What can we say? There are no more words that can comfort, none that can ease the pain. We’re now part of a landscape that has no vocabulary. All there is, is this, holding each other and hoping the other doesn’t let go. Soon his tears become wracking sobs and the weight of his grief brings us both down to the floor. He lets me cradle him in my arms and as I soothe and pet him, he holds on to me tightly.
I don’t know how long we stay on the floor. I continue to stroke Manny’s hair as he quiets and eventually he pulls away, wiping his eyes with the palm of his hand. He takes a deep shuddering breath and smiles ruefully, scratching the beard that has been steading taking shape over the last few weeks.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t … I…” he tails off as fresh tears fill his eyes.
“It’s ok, you don’t have to hide from me,” I say, recalling words he said to me not long after we started dating. “And you don’t have to be strong either.”
“Neither do you,” he replies, taking my hand and kissing my palm. I say nothing but instead lean against his chest, letting him gather me into his arms. I close my eyes, comforted by his warmth. He’s right, but for now I don’t know how else to be.
*
Before
We were sorting through Christmas decorations and arguing over baby names. Having already decided on two middle names, Dae, which was Manny’s middle name, and the other, Akua, a Ghanaian name, which could change depending on the day of week the baby was born, we were now trying to agree on a first name. I was adamant, we were absolutely not going to call our baby Emily.
“Why not? Emily is a pretty name,” Manny protested while trying unsuccessfully to untangle some Christmas lights, “I don’t know why you’re so against it… What the hell is up with these lights? Did you pack these away last year? Totally has your hallmark.”
“It’s a pretty name for a pretty white girl with blond pigtails,” I answered grumpily. I ignored the jibe about the lights because it was true, and also because I was tired and achy. As much as I loved the little one inside me, her night-time acrobatics had long ceased to be adorable. “Give me those,” I held my hand out for the Christmas lights. The sooner we were done, the sooner I could go to bed with some hot chocolate and marshmallows.
“Well what do you suggest?” Manny asked, getting up to wind some more tinsel around the tree, after handing me the lights.
“Maya? Sasha?”
“No way! My ex-girlfriend is called Sasha!” If I’d had the energy I would have laughed at Manny’s horrified expression. I’d clean forgot about that and to be honest from what I knew of their relationship, I could understand why he’d be so scandalised.
“Okay, okay, let’s pause for now. I need some hot chocolate, and maybe a sandwich. Actually, no, I think maybe I’ll just go to bed.” I struggled to my feet, waving away Manny’s attempts to help me up.
“You go ahead, I’ll bring you something in a sec,” he said tiredly. I nodded my thanks and took slow lumbering steps towards our bedroom, rubbing my back as I went. Just two more months to go.
*
After
“Hey, you’re up,” Manny comes over to where I’m sitting in the kitchen and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Did you manage to sleep a bit?”
I smile and shake my head. I didn’t sleep well at the best of times and now my erratic sleep patterns had gotten worse. “Maybe a couple of hours,” I said, taking a sip of camomile tea. He nods sympathetically. I see the worry in his eyes, and I can tell he’s holding back from telling me to go back to bed.
“I’m going to go for a run. Be back in an hour?” he says instead, filling up a water bottle.
“Sure. I’ll make breakfast. Banana and blueberry pancakes?” His face lights up in an ecstatic smile. It’s been a while since I’ve cooked breakfast for us both and pancakes are his favourite – and not only restricted to breakfast.
“Mmm, yes please,” he says, kissing me quickly before turning to leave.
“Manny?”
“Yeah?”
“What about Isabella?” I had been thinking about this for a few days now and the name felt right to me. I hoped he would agree. He nods thoughtfully running a hand through his hair.
“Yeah, yeah I like that,” he says finally.
“But do you love it?” I press and he smiles, his eyes shining with emotion.
“Yeah I do. It’s beautiful.”
*
Today
We’re in the car on our way to the cemetery to lay some fresh flowers at the grave where my mother was buried, and now Isabella. With the lockdown restrictions easing, we felt fairly comfortable enough to venture out for something other than food and exercise. I stare out the window, still trying to get used to seeing passers-by, some covered in face masks and others wearing gloves despite the summer heat, walking awkwardly as they try to avoid close proximity with strangers. Not only has our own world changed irrevocably, but the world outside our home has as well. Manny squeezes my hand as we pull into the cemetery, a small procession is just ahead of us, so he slows down so as to give the mourners space.
“I think I might just park here. Are you okay to walk the rest of the way?” he asks, looking about for a spot.
“Yeah I’m good. Do you think we need face masks?” I say, holding a couple I just retrieved from the glove compartment.
“May as well just in case,” he says, parking behind a long line of cars. I hope the cemetery isn’t too busy. “Ready?” I nod and take a deep breath.
We walk quietly hand in hand, Manny carrying a bouquet of white lilies and pink roses. After changing route a couple of times to avoid other people we arrive at the grave. The headstone will need to be replaced to include Isabella, but for now a small wooden cross, with “Baby Park” written on a plaque with her date of birth and death is all that marks her presence. Manny crouches down to arrange the flowers and kisses his fingers to touch the cross, repeating the action for the headstone. That oh-so familiar ache fills me once more, making my chest tight as tears roll down my cheeks.
I remember the fear and the anxiety I felt when I realised something was wrong. The pure devastation mixed with disbelief when the doctor told us there was no heartbeat. The guilt. The agony of delivering a baby I knew was no longer alive. The shame. Holding her in my arms praying for her eyes to open, for her to cry, to do something to prove the doctor wrong. But my prayers went unanswered. She was so tiny, so flawless, I didn’t want to believe she was dead. I didn’t want to let go of her because letting go would mean that it was real and not a horrible nightmare. I slip my arms around Manny’s waist, drawing him close and breathing him in as I cry, quietly at first, before being taken over by a torrent of tears, punctuated by a deep wail of pain. My whole body shakes as grief violently pushes through the dam that had been holding it back all this time, breaking but not completely destroying me. Manny holds me tight and kisses the top of my head, rubbing my back and whispering words of comfort. His presence is a balm and a tower of strength holding us both together, even as I know the depths of his own pain.
“I love you,” he says, his voice breaking with his own tears. “No matter what.”
“I love you too, so, so much.” I take a few hiccupy breaths as my tears slowly begin to subside. I realise now that our grief will not just simply end, no matter how much I want things to go back to the way they were before. The pain will ease eventually but this grief will always be there, shaping us into versions of our previous selves. Grief is now as much a part of us as Isabella was. And for the first time since her death I feel a small measure of peace.
We remain at the graveside in a comfortable silence, still holding onto each other, neither of us in a hurry to move from where we are. Over in the distance, a bird is singing.
As we head into hanky season, this piece feels timely. Of course, we are always heading into, or residing inside of, hanky season, so it’s always timely. Between summer allergies and winter flus, there exists an exclusive group who appreciate the eternal utility of the handkerchief. These days we are a group often maligned, but stoically devout in our belief that a petite piece of fabric can change one’s life.
At my grandmother’s funeral, as friends and family waited to enter the church, my uncle pulled out a hanky to blow his nose. My cousin was quick to jump at the easy opening to ridicule him – carrying around a snotty rag etc. – to gain an easy snicker from those in the immediate area. And my uncle wasn’t doing himself any favours. He revealed a crinkled, stale, rolled-up wad with obviously zero strategy put into how he was using it. He so shamelessly shunned hanky etiquette that I feel he should be banned from ever owning one again, lest he, like his personal handkerchief, stain the collective’s name.
A hanky should exist as a neatly folded square set flat in the pocket to avoid bulging – as for whether it’s back or hip or breast pocket, that’s personal preference. Use the hanky in segments, and afterwards, fold it back into its square, with the most recently used area slotting in as the core layer. This effectively places that segment at the back of the queue, preserving hygiene, and helping the user remember which areas have been used. Keeping a mind map is key to knowing what real estate is vacant, and what is out of commission after an exploratory mission into an itchy nostril.
Sneezes and coughs, allergies and illness, are only surface-level uses. A hanky allows you to keep your dignity during a meal, wiping marinara sauce from your mouth after you’ve exhausted your napkin supply during a messy meatball sub. On a bush walk once I rushed off to a long drop, did my business, and was saved by my hanky when no toilet paper presented itself. And on another occasion, during a searing summer’s day, I came across a blackbird doubled over on the hot footpath. I wrapped it in my hanky and carried it under the shade of a bush. Sneaking onto a nearby property, I soaked the hanky in water from a garden tap and wrung it into the bird’s mouth in a last-ditch effort to save the poor, heat-stricken thing. It reacted with abhorrence, spluttered, and died, possibly drowned. But my heart, and my hanky, were in the right place.
After the funeral procession, as our grandmother’s casket was lowered into the earth, my cousin wept. I watched him wipe his nose on a sleeve as slick as a snail orgy. He was red in the face, ashamed as he tried to hide his mourning. I gripped my clean hanky close to my thigh, and turned away – after his earlier words, he did not deserve its mercy.
I do the same thing every night.
I climb the moaning stairs and head straight for the nursery. I change my little one and sing her the sweetest songs I can think of. When I rock her, lullabies punctuated by the squeaks of my old wooden chair, I fret. I fret about the things that run in families: the tendencies and fates that flow through us, inherited as blood. I think of the darkness that seeps from one generation into the next—the curses that are passed down and played out—decade after decade. Even in the midst of these profound thoughts, there are realities that flutter just over my head: the ironic patterns that connect our lives behind our backs, and the experiences that we are completely unaware we have in common.
I lay Dolly down in her crib with utmost care and tuck her favorite blanket under her chin:
Adorable.
Rubber.
Perfect.
It brings me peace to know that the madness of my family—the loneliness, the hidden symmetry, the inaction and the violence, the painful love and the gratifying hatred—cannot live on through her.
Picture credits: Whitney Lam
She had one hand in her pocket. I could hear the clink of the keys to her Land Rover… She was looking into the bonfire. Into the flames. Her face was warm, golden, fire-lit and extraordinarily beautiful. ‘She’s going to kill you if you don’t.’ She looked at me then, Gillian did. ‘One way or another, you’ll end up dead’.
– Natascha Graham
This week on Litro Lab, we bring you a story of a woman who finds herself in a relationship that is far from ideal. Yet, she’s resistant to leave. Everyone knows that perfect couples don’t exist outside of Disney films. Real people have flaws. Don’t they?
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Reading has always been my refuge. On bright days and dark, reading has remained as essential an activity as breathing. Reading shapes my writing life. The books you read—glorious, awful, middling—all make you the writer you are. The writers who held me spellbound in my childhood inspired me to try my hand at crafting my own stories long before I stepped into the tricky terrain of adulthood. To me, reading was and always will be pure joy. The written word gives me the power to enter other worlds, to live other lives. If a day goes by without letting me pick up a book from my to-read pile I write it off as a day lost. However rushed or chaotic the workday turns out to be, a book lets me catch my breath and centre my harried self in the quiet of the night. In this promise, I placed my trust.
And then the pandemic struck. The world literally ground to a halt. We woke up to a new reality, a new abnormal: lockdowns, restricted timings for stepping out of our homes, surreal grocery store expeditions, dystopian food shortages…all our familiar rhythms ruptured. The shape of our days morphed in ways beyond our control as news of the virus’s stampede threw us off kilter. Rumours swirled in the air. Fear hovered, ominous, insistent, a fog that refused to fade.
Instinctively, I turned to books, hoping literature would help me make sense of it all. The written word would surely be my anchor. The promise of art beckoned. With misplaced confidence, I picked up a book and burrowed into the couch. In a minute, the realisation that reading—as instinctual as breathing or blinking to me—had turned into an impossible feat hit me like a gut punch. I stared at the page in front of me. Words blurred into each other. Sentences refused to make sense. Plot twists whizzed past me. Clever phrasing and vivid imagery, conflict, character, context—all lost on my pandemic-addled mind.
Psychologists say that humans find it hardest to read when the fight-or-flight response is triggered. Being alive in a time of universal anxiety scrambles your brain. Chaos depletes your focus. This made sense to me on a theoretical level. The trouble was that reading has been my antidote to upheaval ever since I can remember. To be deprived of it when I needed it the most was a cruel irony. I felt bereft.
Reading and writing are yin and yang, river and rain. Without one, the other loses its vitality. A writer who doesn’t read is an oddity like a musician who doesn’t listen to music or a painter who doesn’t see colour. A blocked reader is a blocked writer. Can’t argue with that.
I stumbled through the haze, impaired by my inability to do any real reading or writing. Week days segued into housebound weekends. The frenzy of panic the pandemic had triggered simmered down to a stream of daily dread. One Sunday evening, as I was aimlessly doom-scrolling through Twitter, a quote from a Mary Oliver poem a friend posted caught my eye:
“When it’s all over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.”
Oliver’s lines got stuck in my head. Like the tune of a song you can’t shake off, they followed me everywhere: to the shower, the kitchen, the sun-dappled balcony, the freshly sanitised neighbourhood grocery store.
Gently insistent, they nudged me towards her poems, a stunning repertoire seeped in the rhythms of the natural world. Egrets and hummingbirds and ‘lean owls’ flapped their wings, still ponds and blue green seas and mossy glades shimmered. I was made witness to serendipitous moments of connection with nature. Invited to feast on wonder, amazement, danger, epiphany, excitement…
Oliver’s poetry was soul food and brain food. I devoured it like a starving woman. The wall, the stony resistance that had sprung up between me and the written word crumbled. The page offered no resistance. Once again, I was free to string words together, to marvel at a turn of phrase, to glean meaning from meter and metaphor. With a grateful heart and an armful of books, I headed to my favourite nook after weeks spent mourning my lost reading habit.
Mary Oliver and her profound insights on the connection between humans and the natural world rescued me from despair. Her poetry showed me my place in the natural order. I was a piece in a puzzle, a sentient being connected to millions of others. Oliver’s lines gifted me much needed perspective in a moment of extreme disorientation. They let me read again, breathe again. The cadence of verse quietened the cacophony inside my head. And from that quiet place, I went back to my first love—fiction.
It’s cold, dark. The light from the back door stretches only as far as the apricot tree. The orange tree is beyond it, near the back fence. It’s not easy to know what I’m picking without the light of my phone, which tonight I forgot. Once I get three oranges, I glance back down the gentle slope toward the house. The old place looks the same as it did thirty years ago when I was a kid. The sunroom on the left, the bathroom to the right, and my parents’ bedroom in the middle.
Something shifts behind me. I turn but there’s only blackness, with a few random branches and leaves barely visible through the gloom. The dim would swallow me whole if I were to walk into it. Like I am ten again, I quickly step back toward the light where it’s safe. I won’t truly be out of trouble until I get inside, and the closer I get to that goal, the more afraid I become. I accelerate to a jog down the slope, taking care not to slip on the wet grass, which would be fatal. When I reach the back door, I’m convinced something will come from around the corner of the house to grab me, or someone lurks behind me, and has been waiting until I open the back door, so they could get inside and slaughter us all.
I know I shouldn’t feel like this – at my age of almost forty – but at night, I’ve always been terrified of my parents’ backyard. I scuttle inside and enter the living room, where my two children are watching a movie. The Neverending Story. Artax is about to die in the swamp of sadness. I’d forgotten this part, how awful it is, and doing a quick mental calculation (are they old enough to watch this?) I run over to Rosie, who’s only eight, to cover her eyes.
“Is it too scary, Dad?” Alex asks from the couch on the opposite side of the room.
“Yes.”
“Can I keep watching?”
“Maybe we’ll just skip over the creepy bits tonight, because of Rosie. What do you think?”
“Okay.”
“You’re a good kid,” I tell him.
*
The next morning, I am organising the kids, as they are about to leave. Interrupting them from Minecraft on the iPad, I ask, “Your mummy’s going to be here any minute, do you have everything you need?”
“Yes, Dad,” Rosie and Alex say in unison. I bet they don’t.
“Do you have your schoolbooks and lunch boxes?”
“Yes, Dad,” they repeat. They always leave something behind, which I then must drop over to the house Alice and I once shared.
“Alex, do you have your piano book and aerial outfit?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Rosie, what about you, do you have your unicorn? Remember last time, when you left it here?”
“Yes,” she says, going red.
“So, we’ll see each other next Saturday, right? Maybe we’ll go to roller rink or the trampoline park on Sunday?”
“Trampoline park, trampoline park,” Rosie shouts. I knew this would get her excited. Alex simply looks at his phone, which hasn’t stopped beeping all day. I’ve been trying to engage with him since yesterday when they arrived, but he seems more interested in what his friends are saying as they send message after message. He’s usually the one who tells me what’s going on at his mother’s house, and I rack my brain for something that would interest him, in the hope he will bring it up once he’s back with her.
The gravel in the driveway crunches under the weight of a car.
“Mummy! Mummy!” screams Rosie.
I walk to the window to see Bruce has driven her in his new Mercedes. It’s large and grey. Alice took our family car, a Honda, which they could have driven today, but obviously they’re making a statement.
“What a tool,” I mutter.
“What?” Alex says, glaring at me, while Rosie runs for the door.
“Nothing,” I say. “Hold on Rosie, come and give me a kiss goodbye.”
She hesitates, itching to leave, but with my arms out, I cajole her, “Come on, Munchkin, Daddy needs a hug, we won’t see each other for another week.
“You, too, Alex,” I say, as he tries to slink past. He’s thirteen, way too old for displays of family affection.
“Bye, Daddy,” Rosie says. They disentangle themselves from my arms and escape out the door.
Bruce and my ex-wife get out of the car. Of course, they do a big family hug right there. I mean, I wouldn’t mind so much except for the fact that Bruce is so successful and loves to show it off.
*
The old house is lifeless after the kids leave. My parents are holidaying in Queensland, as they always do during winter. For now, until I find something permanent, this will have to be home. I’m glad they’re not here. My mother wouldn’t be able to stop asking questions about Alice, and what’s going to happen now that Bruce is on the scene, trying to suggest I should have stayed with her, in between telling me about what all her friend’s children or my cousins are doing. It usually starts with, “You’ll never guess who’s had a baby!”
I never did work out how to avoid this. My father’s approach is to disappear into his shed, saying he has to work on a new house design.
I should be revelling in the freedom of isolation, but all I can think about are the empty rooms. Sitting in the living room watching television, the long hallway beckons, which I will have to walk down to get to bed. Past the darkened kitchen, dining room and my parent’s closed-up bedroom, there are so many cupboards, cavities under beds, crevices and dead spaces someone could hide. If I were some crazed maniac, I’d sneak into houses during the day and wait until my victims came home to come out and kill them.
The more I think about this, the more I wonder why I picked the bedroom at the far end of the house. I should have gone for the sleepout. It’s close to the living room, the back entrance and has two exits. I’m just glad it’s not windy tonight. I had the television on trying to drown out every creak, groan, and subtle shift in air temperature, but trying to be brave, I turned it down for ten, fifteen minutes before bed, cataloguing every noise, rationalising what they could be, telling myself it’s just the old floorboards, or a possum on the roof.
There’s a knock at the front door. Friends and family come to the side door where the driveway is. I’m not expecting anyone, and at nine at night it seems a weird time for someone to visit.
I open, and see a tiny woman in front of me, my age, maybe a little younger.
“Hi, I’m Cath from next door,” she says. It’s freezing tonight, but her outfit, a big puffer jacket covering her body and beanie shielding her head, seems a bit much, given she only walked forty metres to get here.
“Hi, I’m Michael.”
“So, we,” she turns around to indicate another person, and it’s only then I realise there’s someone standing near the front hedge, “we heard you’d come to stay. We’re having a community drinks thingy next Saturday afternoon, and we wondered if you and your children would like to come?”
“Sure,” I say, “my kids will be here then, so we’d love to.”
“Oh great,” she turns around again to look at the person. I am pretty sure it’s a man. I can only see a silhouette, dark clothing, a beard maybe, “we’re quite new to the neighbourhood. I mean, we’d heard a lot of stories about how close everyone is, you know, given what’s going on, so we thought we should come over.”
“Sorry, what’s going on?”
“Oh, you haven’t heard?”
“No,” I say.
“There’s a peeping Tom in the neighbourhood.”
“Shit a brick!” I say, not meaning to swear. “Is that still happening?”
“Yeah. You say, still happening?” she again turns to look at her accomplice. Now I know why he’s standing there, and she keeps turning to him. She looks at me, like I am about to say something else, but I don’t.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to, I mean, it’s just a bit disturbing.”
“Yeah, no worries,” I say. “When I was growing up, there were always stories, but you know, this area of Canberra, the older suburbs of the city, the big blocks, the old houses, the odd layout to the streets, they do have a bit of strange feel to them.”
“Yeah,” she says.
“Yeah, have you walked about at night, like coming home late from the pub, or just going for a midnight stroll, you know, like in summer? I mean, not now, it’s too bloody cold.” Why do I keep swearing?
“No,” she says, adjusting her coat like it’s some sort of shield.
“Well, just how dark it is for a start. I mean, did you notice how all the streetlamps are old, few and far between, and hardly throw out any light, like someone wanted it to be all dim and murky?”
“Right,” she says. She pulls down her beanie, and retreats half a step.
“And how all the trees, like the pines and the old eucalypts, the way they shimmer at night, I always thought it felt like they’ve been witness to stuff, you know.”
She turns around, and I can see she’s considering running back to the person near the hedge.
“Look,” I say, “if there’s anything I can do, or anything you need, just come over. Let me give you my phone number.”
Her jumpiness, the guy she has with her, and her outfit give me a shot in the arm, like what am I scared of? After she leaves, I strut around the house, loud like I’m huge and can take on anyone. Still, I check all the entrances and windows throughout the house, double and triple checking they’re locked, before retreating to my room.
My phone pings. A text message from Alice. Trust her to send it at this time, hoping to interrupt my sleep but I wish she or someone else would send more, alerting anyone outside I’m in here and still awake. They won’t come in if I’m still awake.
Alice’s text is about her birthday, which is coming up, and Bruce wants to take them all to Fiji for two weeks. Of course he does. But our court order says they’re going to need my say so to take the children out of the country, especially for that long. The problem will be telling the kids they can’t go, when an overseas trip to a tropical island would seem to them almost too good to be true.
I’ve tried to suggest a couple of times their new situation is no good, the weekends away, them staying over at his house, but Rosie and Alex just don’t get it. And after almost a year and half of Rosie and Alex visiting Bruce, it’s not like I can diss them going to move in with him at the end of the year either. They’re just so excited about it.
I mean, how do you tell your daughter that her going to live with another man, not her father, could potentially bring on early puberty for her; or that as she gets older, she will practice flirting with him. Alice didn’t get it, well, she didn’t reply to the email I sent about these things. To her, it’s all about Bruce, the man-wonder, who she started dating within six months of us splitting.
*
I wake up at three a.m. Something outside roused me, I think, but I convinced myself I needed the toilet. This happened a lot when I was a kid. I would drink too much and wake up busting, and then, not wanting to get up, would try falling back asleep with my bladder full. When I finally did get out of bed, the oil heater would be burning, throwing light and heat up and down the hall.
Tonight, as the heater lays cold, I use my phone to light the way, waiting for the tell-tale creak from someone behind me about to strike. I try to confuse them by turning on the television in the kitchen as I pass through and not flushing the toilet after I piss. My plan works. I get back to my bed unscathed, but don’t get back to sleep until six a.m. as I have a feeling they are waiting for me to fall back asleep.
I snooze until nine thirty. In the state between slumber and consciousness, I think I am back home, lying in bed beside Alice. I reach out, expecting her, warm and soft, to be beside me. I stretch, grasp, but find nothing. Alone, the bed beside me, cold and empty.
To take my mind off this and the kids after I get up, I spend most of the day in my room, cleaning out my old stuff, as my parents want to sell the house. I moved in here at thirteen, out of the sleepout because I was the oldest and my parents thought I needed a space away from my two siblings. Complete with double bed, bedside tables, a dresser and wardrobe, all my grandmother’s furniture, the room is still littered with my possessions.
Behind my school backpack in the wardrobe is a small white suitcase. Looks like something out of one of the Hitchcock movies Dad so loves. I’ve never seen it before, but it’s got his name on it: Peter McCallum. A combination locks adorns each clasp, but they’re not engaged, so I open it. Nothing inside but his old camera. He bought it the same year I met Alice. The day he got it, he raced around the house taking pictures of everything he saw, Alice included. He hovered around her, shooting her, shooing me out of the way if I got in the frame. She tried to seem flattered, but I could tell it made her feel uncomfortable, so I suggested I take a picture of her. Dad stopped and looked down his nose at me, like I was talking drivel again. “This is special equipment,” he said, “and can only be handled by people who know how to use it.”
Holding it in my hands now, I look through the lens, work the telephoto mechanism, zooming in and out. I wish the kids were here. I’m better when they are. Late at night, if they are asleep in their rooms, I can walk around the house, no problem. They’d be interested in the camera, and shifting into dad mode, I could do something my father never did, show them how to use it.
*
Alice, as usual, is late but when she finally arrives, Bruce isn’t with her. What’s more, she has things to tell me. Rosie has a stomach bug. She didn’t vomit, but was up half of Friday night with a sore tummy. Alice gives me flat lemonade and Neurofen in a Woolworths reusable shopping bag, telling me Rosie shouldn’t eat anything rich.
Something in the way she hands over the bag, like she isn’t sure how to do this, makes me think, maybe she’s still awkward around me. I mean, the knee-length skirts she always wears, along with one of her old jumpers, makes me daydream about past times, moments I had seen her remove these pieces of clothing, wriggling close, her hands and body rubbing up against me, willing, imploring me to reciprocate her desire.
I long for her to cross the threshold. I cleaned all yesterday in anticipation. Somewhere in my head I thought she might come over today without Bruce, and this would be a sign of a subconscious decision on her part, like deep down she hadn’t stopped loving me. Hope breathes into me.
She stands, unmovable, a metre or so from the door, hovering, almost like the threshold repels her, even after the kids had run in, leaving us space to chat. The longer she stands, statuesque, and the more I try to be nice, thinking how can I get her inside, the more she seems to sense this and pulls back.
She’s close enough for me to catch the scent of wool wash, which turns my mind to long days of distress and discontent between us. The jumper on those occasions took on a harsh, haughty hue, when she stood apart from me, frustrated, angry, disappointed. I wasn’t a good husband. I was worse when things got grumpy. I want to tell her how tired and old she looks. It feels like the day when she moved out, not letting me touch her, get close to her, or pull her back to me.
“So, apparently the peeping Tom who used to prowl the neighbourhood is back,” I say, hoping to engage her in conversation.
She looks at me, head tilted to one side like it might give her a better view.
“Yeah, the whole neighbourhood is talking about it.”
“Right,” she says.
“Did you ever notice anyone around, you know, like anyone skulking about or being creepy?”
“What, apart from you?”
“Excuse me?”
She giggles, like what she’s about to say is obvious. “Well, the way you did look at women, even in my presence, was pretty full on.”
“Huh?!” I say.
She loves doing this, getting under my skin. Me looking at and flirting with other women still hurts her. I wish I could get a girlfriend now. I’m sure it would piss her off to no end.
“No, I didn’t!” I want to say something else, but she turns and walks back to her car, leaving me standing there. As she drives away, I get out my phone, texting her, “Well, it wasn’t like you weren’t all over Bruce from the moment you met him. Even in front of the kids, you would froth at the mouth seeing him.”
I try to think of something else to say, wanting to reproduce one of our memorable fights, when we would heatedly text each other from adjacent rooms, staying apart for hours on end, unwilling to back down. I can’t think of anything, and watch my phone, hoping for the three little dots, the typing awareness indicator. Nothing.
*
The party next door starts at two p.m. I say to the kids we will drop in for an hour at about four, so there’s other children for Rosie and Alex to hang with. In the meantime, bathed in a sunny, crisp, cold Canberra day, we play in the garden. The kids explore, which they love to do. Every time they come over, they find something new. I’d forgotten about the incinerator at the left back corner. The covered path beside the outside laundry, the other route down to the backdoor, used to be our favourite place to go on a hot day, running through the misters my mother would put on for the ferns. I take pleasure in finding again the stumps on top of bricks Dad put in the back corners of the garden, so we could jump the fences to neighbours to the side or behind us to retrieve tennis balls hit, or footies kicked over the fence.
While the children continue to play, I go into Dad’s shed. There are a couple of things in there I must remove, like my old skateboard, ten-speed bike, and the dead lawnmower, which Mum asked me to take to the tip.
I walk over to Dad’s drafting desk. Standing up to it, I remember imagining sketching out a building, or plotting rooms in huge structures. He never liked me doing this. I open one of the drawers. Under piles of designs I find pictures. Taken from outside of houses, they frame women in windows or through sunroom doors. Most of the time dressed, but sometimes not.
I try to stop looking but can’t. Scenarios appear in my head. Maybe these are shots Dad ordered somehow, or the women allowed him to take them. Trying to rationalise it, a pic of Alice appears. In the shot, she is seated in the loungeroom, looking down, and is in the middle of dressing. She wears one of the knee-length skirts and is naked above the waist except for a red bra.
I remember that morning. We were staying in the loungeroom, because everyone had come for Christmas and it was the only spot left for us to sleep. I must have just left the room. Earlier, we had a lay in. I wanted sex, but she didn’t because she thought everyone would hear. After I got up, grumpy at being refused, I opened the curtains, which Alice told me to shut, but I’d ignored her.
I search and search, looking for others of Alice but there aren’t any.
Stumbling into the sun outside, I hear Rosie and Alex up the back of the garden, talking to someone. Rosie is standing on the old stump next to the fence, looking into the next-door neighbour’s garden. The stumps were never put there for us kids at all. I sprint to her to pull her down.
“Hi,” It’s Cath from next door.
“Oh, yeah. Hi,” I say, trying to appear normal.
“Alex was just telling me you’ll be over soon. Why not just jump the fence now?”
“Ahhhh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I say. My stomach turns.
Cath looks at me like I am stupid.
“Yeah,” I say, “I think we might give it a miss this arvo.”
“Dad!” Rosie yelled. “I really want to.” From the other side of the fence children’s laughter rings out and chatter from adults bubbles away.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Cath says. She is not wearing all her warm clothing today.
“Dad!” Rosie says again, and I look at Alex who I think will be on my side. He’s not. He’s giving me one of his sullen looks. I’m sure if we don’t go Alice will hear about it.
“Okay, okay, but only for a little bit, okay?”
“Yay!” Rosie yells.
“Great,” says Cath, “why don’t you jump the fence.”
“Ummmmm, the kids can, I’ve got stuff to bring over, so maybe, I’ll come around the front.”
“Okay,” she says, “see you in a minute.”
I walk back down toward the house, past the apricot tree. I am so angry with myself for being scared of the backyard and house, when it was only Dad out here.
Before I get to the back door, I remember the picture of Alice. I turn around and walk back into the shed. Retrieving it from Dad’s desk, I’m not sure what to do with it. It feels dirty to hold, but I can’t let him have it.
Soup for fifty in the MKZ, a vegan squat-restaurant half a kilometre from the Vondelpark. It was a recipe I’d tried before – avocado and lime – but the avocadoes I’d just bought from the Albert Cuypmarkt were hard, and the lo-salt I was adding had the effect of making it taste bloody. My reputation as a good soup-maker, earned by cooking up a meatless mulligatawny a few weeks before, was now at stake. I added things frantically, trying to balance out the flavours, but they just wouldn’t gel. Sharon, head chef of sorts, was hastily eating a cream cake (“it’s freegan”) and paying not a shred of notice.
And then there was the girl, of course there was a girl, Laura (pronounced L-OW-ra!) from Spain. She had blonde-brown curls, looser than mine, and eyes like the sky in a summer storm, occasional dark clouds and all.
She grabbed another would-be-escapee avocado and stabbed it with one of our many blunt knives. She eyed my mint-green mixture but said nothing. If this was a test of our friendship, she had passed it.
That morning we had watched the sun come up, sitting on the forbidden roof of my block of student flats, drinking warmish beer. The sky was the blue of a half-sucked Smarty. The ankles of my jeans were wet following an unsuccessful attempt to commandeer an empty houseboat on the Keizergracht, and there were two dark pink crescent thumbnail marks on my right hand from where she’d pulled me back onto the pavement. Then we slept for two hours under our jackets when daylight really struck, and cycled here via the market, where I’d insisted on buying the twenty unripe avocadoes.
One of the perks of working at MKZ was the free booze. Only able to afford beer or, at best, strong sweet port at the supermarket, we were spoiled for choice with the vodka and rum behind the bar. Technically Sharon was meant to keep watch over the stock but, having finally noticed how stressed I was about the now frothy soup, she opted to turn a blind eye to its depletion. We were opening in thirty-five minutes.
Unable to watch customers chew their soup, I went to stand at the back door. It was cool outside and my head slowly began to stop spinning. Laura came to stand by the door too. Elbow to elbow at the fire escape, we watched the sun draining back into the earth. There was a second where we might have kissed but it faded fast.
When it was finally dark and everyone had eaten their seitan curry and started moving from the bar towards the door, Laura made her way back inside and I followed. We got onto our bikes less steadily than we’d dismounted them just hours before, and made our way down towards Trut! another squat, transformed into a grotty but glorious gay club. We danced, although I hated dancing, and for a while forgot about who liked whom or why anyone would put limes in soup or whether we would ever be happier or what life would be like when we left this city and went back to our homes.
An old hippy in a hat came up to me, and said it was the best soup he’d ever eaten. I decided to believe him.
There was a song we listened to a lot in those days. I misinterpreted the lyrics, and thought they went: this is boring me, this is paradise. As I walked along the Keizergracht to a class; or up the Prinsengracht to meet a friend and dangle our legs over the edge, dangerously close to the canal, and drink copious amounts of red wine from one of the small bars; or even through the red light district, that time we had an assignment for the Gender Studies class – at these times, I recognised the city as a paradise I never wanted to be kicked out of.
I thought back to Edinburgh. Edinburgh was a slim, camp man with an air of pretension and a sharp-edged beauty, defying the clouds that threatened to blur his contours. Amsterdam was gentler, feminine, with all her waterways and the narrow buildings standing close together like girls sharing a cigarette on a night out in December.
Yes, Amsterdam was paradise, but I was never bored.
We were smoking a rare joint, stretched out on my rooftop, each with one headphone in, listening to the song on repeat. My little iPod was gathering heat in the early sun.
“Aiiiii,” she screamed. “It’s just so beautiful,” she said, “everything, so beautiful.”
I looked out across the rooftops and below, at the trams like vessels snaking through the city’s veins, and the bicycles with their spinning wheels catching the pale sun. My head was hazy with smoke and light.
“You’re beautiful, too,” I tried, the words nervous in my mouth.
“Becky,” she said. “BeckyBeckyBecky.”
“I mean…”
“Let’s change the song!”
She fiddled with the iPod. Another song went on: happier melody, more miserable lyrics.
“What does that cloud look like?” she demanded.
Caught off-guard. Rorschach response. “A hot-air balloon.”
“Whaaaat? You want to fly to the clouds. Aiiii, aiiii, aiiii.”
“Why, what do you think it looks like?”
“A pregnant woman.”
I squinted. Couldn’t see it. Realised she’d succeeded in distracting me. Resigned myself to forever holding my peace. Minutes passed, I was either stoned or sulking.
“Becky?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, okay. Okay. What do you think is so beautiful about me?”
Shit. “It’s— uhm— your, it’s your, eyes.”
“Oh come on!”
“What?”
“My eyes.” Flatly stated. “My eyes?”
“Yeah but not just…”
She leant down, hands at her face. Jesus. Had I made her cry? When her head came back up, one of her eyes was no longer sky coloured but a pale, autumn brown. She lifted her index finger, held the contact lens to the light.
“My eyes,” she said. Tiny smile. “Aiiii, Becky, Becky. So sweet, you are.”
The English-speaking world is unfamiliar with this creature in the right-wing zoo but today he has presided over far too much death and destruction to be ignored, besides watching over nearly 5 million Covid cases so far. I know, I know – this number is still as small as the genitals of an underweight cockroach in the Congo basin when compared to the phenomenal wreck caused by the tweeting twit Tump in the plutocracy of America or even the trauma inflicted by the mitron-muttering murderous Modi in godly India. But Brazil has made its mark. This beautiful land of beautiful people is also under the thumb of a right wing numbskull – a pattern that has haunted the putrid polity of this cursed planet in the past few abominable years. For the sake of abundant caution and because Noam Chomsky (admittedly, this author’s guru) says that the planet was never in graver danger, we must track all political weapons of mass destruction that poor Covid is scarcely a patch on. And while we may bemoan the formidable virus, we must be grateful to it for spotlighting the fact that democracy can create bigger assholes than dictatorship could ever dream of, and for significantly widening the divide between gold and shit for the benefit of even the politically colour-blind populace.
So this is an introduction to Covid Warrior Jair Messlas Bolsonaro. And in the early part of his introduction there are absolutely no surprises. Predictably, he is an army lemon, a fellow whose brains were snuffed out in military training to well beyond the theirs-not-to-reason-why numbing state. Not surprisingly, after retiring from monkey-service, he was in Brazil’s far-right conservative party which strangely goes by the name Social Liberal Party. But he hated the name so much that he soon snapped ties with them. Bolsonaro showed early promise as a right winger when as a soldier he spoke about money. The winning ingredients of a right-wing despot comprises soldierly witlessness spiked with deranged hyper-patriotism which is charitably called nationalism, manic money-making where petty-thief-turned-shameless-billionaire is sympathetically sold as a rag to riches story, and of course religious tribalism, which is both – a veil for criminal sinning by the ruler and the intoxicant for his asinine supporters. And Bolsonaro, while protesting about the low wages of the army, evidenced at least two of these three ingredients in 1986 when he wrote an article about low wages of army chaps. A fifteen-days’ arrest followed. Now an arrest for wrong reasons does point to a promising politician in the making. He was accused of planning to plant bombs in army units. Now by virtue of wanting to bomb places whose low wages he was protesting earlier, conclusively proved that he would one day be a right-wing stalwart that most of us would be baffled by while the rest kissed his ass. Polarization between right and wrong is what the political polarization of today is all about. It is not much deeper than that. Simply put, today, in some nations – the ones ruled by right-wing fatheads – people are of two types: the first, who like everything that is wrong and therefore ass-kiss the likes of Bolsonaro, and the second who detest wrong and wrong-doing and would like to ass-kick the likes of Bolsonaro. The reason why the former is winning is that they actually do what they would like to do and the reason why the latter is losing is because they never do what they would like to do. And so the winners actually kiss-ass devotedly but the losers are so dignified that they don’t do what they would love to do, which is to kick Bolsonaro’s ass. Physically. (Author’s note: The author confesses to liking Joe Biden’s “Shut up, man,” to Trump in the presidential debate because it is high time the liberal world steps out of its tuxedo either in underwear or naked to wrestle with the right-wing simian in the mud. The days of dignity will have to take a sabbatical if these shit-urchins have to be flushed.) Because lawfully, only lawlessness is allowed. And so a tiny minority of some 30%, united by driven ass-kissing, has hijacked democracies like the United States, United Kingdom and India, proving that in democracies, as in a septic tank, it is the spectacularly stinking shit of a sick skunk that rises to the dizzying dastardly top. The pattern is so effortlessly discernible that using a political scientist to decode this is like deploying a nuclear weapon to kill a rat. To repeat, the simple formula is: Take a mass of WRONG of very low integrity and stupendous greed, and let it feed itself to the brim with hatred. And soon what it oozes from its filthy ass will be like honey to the mouths of ass-kissing supporters.
Well, back to a subject of Bolsonaro’s glorious life and times. So after a first-degree conviction, he was acquitted by the Brazilian Supreme Military Court in 1998, like right-wing toadies usually are. The courts in all such countries have the same DNA with identical strands of impotency, and are driven by expeditiously delivering injustice while keeping justice pending till the criminal dies of natural causes that may include death at the age of 225 out of sheer boredom. In India, the court has recently ruled that those who are guilty of razing the Babri mosque are not guilty of razing the Babri mosque although they razed it, and in America, Trump is treating the Supreme Court like his ageing phallus with which he can play with at will and that it is none of anybody’s business. Coming back to the subject of Bolsonaro, well he was elected as a member of the Christian Democratic Party – like any right-wing toady who must be associated with some religious ideology (for want of a demeaning word for this particular “political” stance which should really be illegitimate in any state that isn’t theocratic) – and was then elected to the lower chamber of the Congress in 1990 and re-elected a few times. The word “lower” for such houses of parliament was meant to be a constitutional pun, one can infer in hindsight. But the moot point here is on Bolsonaro’s confounding re-election which is so reminiscent of the Gujaratis re-electing Modi so many times in their state as Chief Minister that now when the rest of India has experienced him, it cannot stop squinting hard at the Gujaratis and wondering if their bitter choice came from the need to compensate their ultra-sweet cuisine, even the savouries. Or if the hot air filled in the rump of a Gujarati pyjama gets extended to political choices where farts rule the roost. But jokes apart – though that is all we have – here is the real explanation for Bolsonaro’s re-election and it is a physiological one. See right-wing toadies are invariably re-elected a few times even outside Gujarat and that is because ass-kissing is decidedly an addiction. Studies have found that the entry mode of any addictive substance in any addiction of any type, is invariably an orifice. Example: weed from the mouth, a natural office, or drugs injected through an artificial orifice. But an orifice nonetheless. And the orifice in politics is bound to be the smelly one. The asshole. And therefore ass-kissing is quite the addiction.
Now, over the next twenty-seven years, Bolsonaro furthered his reputation as a conservative by following the tried and tested right-wing recipe that involves aggressive opposition to the usual suspects: same-sex marriage and homosexuality, abortion, affirmative action, drug liberalization, and naturally, secularism. And of course, the countries he came to like and love were the United States and Israel, default choices of furiously farting hyper-capitalists. But with India and Modi, things were kind of neutral because for a long time Modi, whose education is asymptomatic, thought Brazil was a type of bra and because Bolsonaro thought India was a poor man’s Amazon forest with snakes and where the few trees that remained, were being cut to create a station, a shed and a track for a Japanese bullet train without having created a road to reach that station simply because Modi was too old to play with a toy train but shitty enough to treat an idiotically expensive train like his toy. It was a matter of time when Bolsonaro and Modi both bumped into each other when each demanded a permanent seat for their respective countries in the Security Council of the United Nations after working hard to never deserve it and without understanding that the fundamental remit of the United Nations is world peace and the word peace, whenever uttered, plagued them with erectile dysfunction, while the word hate made them horny as hell. But back to blundering Bolsonaro, well he party-hopped a bit till he was afforded the opportunity to run for President and then won with a spectacular 55% vote, making the remainder 45% of Brazilians ferociously turn to Science for an explanation and angrily to God for an answer. That, we bloody pray to you and this is how you bloody fuck us! The research into this political calamity admeasuring a stunning 55% is on, but is futile. Dear Brazilians, it simply means that if you were one single human body, then 55% of your surface area would be taken up by your anus. But please don’t feel targeted. The author hails from a geography with an ever-growing crowd of assholes as well such that they even inhabit his WhatsApp groups of school, college, and other places he wishes he never was a part of. Yet, Science shrugs and coolly calls this evolution, and explains it thus: With increased global warming and the planet getting fucked by the humans, the only way humans can survive in these increasingly smelly circumstances is by increasing their assholery percentage to fight the menace like an infected vaccine fights a virus. Using steel to cut steel. But that obviously raises the confounding question that when climate change is behind the proliferation of right-wingers, and is therefore behind their disgraceful creation, then why do they denounce that very science which is behind climate change? The answer my dear, is found in pathology when it explains quite disarmingly that it is because right-wingers are plain shit.
Amen.
So on Bolsonaro, on getting elected, like any honourable right-wing cretin who has a pathological fear of intellect, Bolsonaro, was careful not to fill his cabinet with people more intelligent than him, but because most of them were, he safely filled it with army lemons. What he forgot however was that some army lemons, despite their lemonadic intellect, were still more intelligent than him. You can be an absolute dumbfuck and yet be like Aristotle when compared to another dumbfuck. And so many of them fell out of favour. The moral of the story, dear reader, is that even assholes have a hierarchy. The smaller assholes feel decidedly superior to the bigger assholes and so many felt it was below their anal dignity to work under this king-size anus, Bolsonaro. His Secretary of Government, and his ministers of Education and Justice were among the prominent ones who held their nose and scampered. But to be fair, in his first year, the crime rates fell. But to be fairer, in some right-wing regimes this happens because crimes by the government are simply not counted and they greatly outnumber the crimes by common man. And the criminal ones among Common Man are suddenly so wonderstruck that the lawmakers are lawbreakers now, that they are numbed into inaction for some time. But Brazil, like many countries in the developing world, is not merely developing in the present continuous tense, but has yet to become a country. So you see, you cannot blame an underperforming country for its performance because it isn’t a country yet in the first place. Ha! So on Bolsonaro, after his stunning assholery mandate of 55%, he fucked up royally in his first year in office. Exactly in the way he wanted to plant bombs in the army in which he was employed, in that very manner, he was now daggers-drawn with his party colleagues, and in all that acrimony, he left. But he didn’t leave poor Brazil alone. He cherry-picked those assholes in his party who were bigger assholes than him (believe it or not there were many) and quit to form his own party. It was now 2019 and then came his masterstroke. But to be fair, of all the right-wing blockheads ruling the world, only this man knew what the magic potion for right-wing proliferation was, and therefore of his own political longevity. Presto! Climate change. If he could accelerate climate change, then the percentage of assholes would increase and therefore, his voter base. And that’s what he did. He went after the Amazon forests and proceeded to batter the shit out of them. The deforestation was mind boggling. And given the sheer size and scale of the Amazon forests, imagine its political ripples across the world. Now if Trump is re-elected, you know who was behind his increasing voter base of assholes. That’s right. With the proliferation of asinine voters, Biden may well have to bid goodbye to his presidential dreams. And Trump will have a quiet ally to thank privately.
Covid Warrior Bolsonaro.
But where is Covid in all this?
Since the onset of Covid, where Brazil has now seen over 5 million cases and a bewildering lack of response to the crisis, Bolsonaro’s political fortunes and approval ratings have plunged as they have for most right-wing rulers. He himself had tested positive, again like some right-wing rulers. Like all right-wing rulers, he screwed up in handling the pandemic. But dear reader, just because you and I can see the embarrassment on his face doesn’t mean his doting dud voters can see it too. You see, the asshole is not only very trusting but it is physically also placed in a position where it can never see the embarrassment on its God’s face. Because it can never see the face. It is behind, on its God’s ass.
Moreover, have you ever met an asshole with brains?
Remember, Covid is the strongest message we ever got from nature.
Throw the haters out.
Or perish.
It was cola he gave her in the end. A long, glass bottle of it. And she: waiting on the lounger – legs crossed, one Achilles resting against her shin, flip-flops flat, the skin of her soles stretched smooth. Toes twitching as she curled her hair, sun-bleached nuclear white, between fingers.
‘That was a big hill,’ he said. ‘You must be thirsty.’
And she was and she drank. Tilted the bottle, drew it down her neck in smooth gulps that, on another day, on a cooler day, on a day without him, might have made her think of a dog throwing up like hers did that time he ate Bolognese for four in one sitting. Slobbered it up as violently as her bracelet had rattled up Henry’s nose, her mother holding the black handle like a lead, scowling at her: that serves you right. I told you to clean your room.
The cola made her teeth feel cloudy. A tongue over them didn’t shift it.
‘Is it good?’ he says. Watching her. He is good at watching her.
Through the fence mesh at the beach. When she followed Mum back from the pool like a duckling, hair dripping and glued to her back like sticky weed.
‘Don’t stop. See if you can do it all in one.’
She wondered why there wasn’t a bottle pushed against his lips. But that was the way. He was not thirsty.
He watches.
‘You like it?’
She’s concentrating on two things at once now.
‘Down in one. Come on. It’s only fizzy pop.’
And he leans to her then. Eyes wide in a way she had not seen before.
‘You like it, don’t you? In your mouth.’
With the pad of his index finger he helps her along. The tip at the glass bottom, tilting it.
Now: bubbles up her nose and she might choke or spit it over his sun-lotioned bowl of a belly and he would not like that. So she keeps it in, eyes watering.
He asks again, ‘Do you like it?’
She nods. Yes, she likes it. Very generous. What’s your name?
Picture credits: Beks
This week on Litro Lab, author Megan Olivier brings us a lyrical and moving short story. What happens when a young couple must make a difficult choice together? How will the final decision affect each of them? Like relentless waves crashing on a cliff, grief can slowly but surely erode the strongest of companionships…
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Rankine’s provocative collection Citizen: An American Lyric is full of poems about casual and deliberate racism. Encounters in the classroom, subways, standing in line, they are peopled with strangers given a choice but who somehow miss the connection. Strangers who see only race, refusing to see the person behind. Sometimes they aren’t strangers, but “a colleague, a friend,” Rankine says. “It becomes a moment that has to be negotiated.”
On the train the woman standing makes you understand there are no seats available. And, in fact, there is one. Is the woman getting off at the next stop? No, she would rather stand all the way to Union Station.
Rankine: I put this book together as a way of interrogating micro-aggressions in terms of day-to-day racism in the United States. Often I’m asked––Why did you write that? And I think it’s because when macro-aggressions, huge aggressions happen people often say how did that happen? As if we haven’t been building up to that moment day-to-day, every day for hundreds of years.
[…] Deryl Dedmon, with his friends, decided that they would get into their pickup truck and drive until they saw the first black person they could see and then they would get out of their pickup truck and they would beat that person to a pulp…and so that’s what they did […] Often people think that someone like Dylann Roof is an anomaly. And he is just one of many homegrown terrorists in the United States. And you wonder, on the other side of that, what about what young men in the white bodies feel? Why they feel like killing black people will empower them in some way? Like what is lacking? What is going into the space of that lie?
In the next frame the pickup truck is in motion. Its motion activates its darkness. The pickup truck is a condition of darkness in motion. It makes a dark subject. You mean a black subject. I mean a black object.
Rankine: And so one of these kids, Dedmon, got back into the pickup truck and ran it over his crawling body on the asphalt. It was all recorded on the cameras of the motel and then the kids went to a McDonalds where Dedmon said, “I ran that nigger over” and so that was recorded. Because of those two recordings he was convicted, but none of the other teenagers with him were, until recently. The federal government reopened the case and tried them.
I had this encounter with another poet around what it means to write about race and […] his response to me was that I was naive about race […] and it led me to have conversations with people. To many people I asked the question: Can you remember a moment when you thought you were going about your day and you thought you were just interacting with somebody and suddenly racism […] created a breach that you had to step over or move away from the racist? […] And so I began to collect those stories. And in collecting that I began to fine-tune the question in different ways. I also asked many of my black male friends to describe moments when they were pulled over by the police…Recently Chris Rock was tweeting every time he got pulled over by the police. But before he did that I was going from friend to friend collecting those stories. And so that really became Citizen.
And yes, you want it to stop, you want the black child pushed to the ground to be seen, to be helped to his feet and be brushed off, not brushed off by the person that did not see him, has never seen him, has perhaps never seen anyone who is not a reflection of himself.
Litro: Do you think that a willingness to face pain is an essential part of maturing as a writer and as a human being? And could you describe a moment in your own life, a painful moment, and the art that arose from it?
Rankine: Negotiating pain it’s sort of part of what it is to be human. But I think that I when I am working I am really interested in affect. The negotiation, the interrogation of emotions […] and so in that sense it is at the centre of my practice […] I think that as I move through my life there are these moments where you come up against someone’s inability to understand something you feel is basic. That is something that should just, in my estimation, be a human recognition of some breach, some problem, some outrageous…And when it’s not there I think I laugh my way through that moment, but I think that is the recognition of the pain.
I think that when I’m working I don’t actually emotionally get involved. I think that I am thinking about language. The event usually has already happened. It’s rare that one is writing simultaneously […] So, for me, though the subjects might be painful, the writing is satisfying when it works.
Citizen has been universally praised as one of the best collections of 2014. At once courageous and inventive, her poems don’t take the shape of traditional poems. – The collection was nominated for a National Book Critics Circle Award in both poetry and criticism. It won for poetry. – There are several “scripts for situations,” texts for documentary films made with John Lucas, Rankine’s husband. Others are unmistakably lyrical, though they look like prose:
A man knocked over her son in the subway. You feel your own body wince. He’s okay, but the son of a bitch kept walking. She says she grabbed the stranger’s arm and told him to apologise: I told him to look at the boy and apologise.
I wonder how many times Rankine has felt knocked over. Her poems are full of people who are knocked over, literally, figuratively. And full of people who keep on walking. And what she’s done so beautifully in Citizen is asked us to really look at our part in the situation and see what we can do.
The above conversation has been edited for clarity and brevity.
We hired him to paint our shopfront. He said it would take three to five days. We hoped it was closer to three, as the week’s takings would barely cover even that.
“You know, in Morocco,” he said the first day on his ladder, “the Muslims when they’re tiling a pattern always turn one tile the wrong way, because perfection would be an insult to Allah, who is the only one who can be perfect.”
We didn’t care about perfection. We just thought all the job needed was some scrapping away of old paint, some sanding back, a bit of undercoat on the worn sections, a quick roller of gloss. That’s what Old Alun did when our Rhys was a toddler. We just needed the job done so the real estate office could take photos.
But he kept finding things that no one would have noticed just walking past.
Not that he was trying to rip us off, mind you. Just didn’t want to do a country job, as they say around here, even though no one in the village would really notice city perfection.
He repaired wood that had rotted or broken away.
He dug out badly done filler around the windows and doorway, which was lifting because water had gotten under it.
He scraped away paint that had been brushed onto the windows but had never been removed.
He washed and cleaned the windows inside and out, “Cos you can’t have a clean paint job and dirty windows. Not good to show the prospectives.”
We always wanted to clean them windows, but couldn’t get around to it. Too much work to do keeping the shop going, what with no one left to help us.
Up in the fancy trim above the windows he found big splotches of paint that you could pop like a blister. No one could see ’em, of course, so Old Alun hadn’t bothered smoothing the paint out. Rough and ready, as they say.
No, he wasn’t trying to rip us off. He just wanted to do everything right. Didn’t want anyone to look at his job in twenty years, like he was doing now, and say “What damn fool did that?”
He was a craftsman, though he probably didn’t think of himself that way. He just did the odd job around the village. Was painting another shop front, a café with real coffee and wifi, which is what the young ones moving into the area seem to want. The café will probably take to selling groceries when we go. And our place will probably become a gallery or a gift shop. The locals would shake their heads and stop in the pub next door to natter about the newcomers and their funny ideas.
Actually, everyone in the village seemed to be walking past more than they used to. Over the years they had pointed out the crumbling plaster, the missing trim, the weathering down to bare wood, but now the job was being done they had to help.
“There’s a spot you missed.”
“You’d better be careful with that ladder.”
“Nice dog you got.” A tawny and white whippet tied up to the doorpost or in a cage in his estate car. Always looking at him with sad eyes. Never made a sound.
“What colour will it be?”
“Speckled,” he’d say, then bob his head and launch into one of his stories.
About how he turned vegan after seeing a thick film of flies on the milk being poured into a bucket by the small van that roamed the jammed Delhi streets.
About famous football players who never seemed to play the game of life as well as the one on the field – four wives, eight kids, ten houses, all gone. Our Rhys supported the local club, but couldn’t watch the big games on the hospital telly.
On the second day, the prepping still not even half done, it rained. Typical valley rain. Constant mist-drizzle. Stop. More drizzle. Then droplets the size of bees. Sudden sunshine. More drizzle. We could see the job falling further and further behind.
“Rain,” he said as he tied up his dog after a short walk, “you call this rain. In Venezuela it comes down in sheets, vroom, just like that. You wouldn’t be able to see that red car over there. Two seasons. Wet and dry. You bin?”
Our Rhys went overseas, but not to anywhere nice.
He went up the ladder and ignored the wet. We felt happier about that.
When he finished the prepping, a half-day over schedule, he did the undercoat just as slow and careful-like, long, deliberate strokes over wood and plaster. Wanted to peer at the paint through his thin, oblong glasses and make sure there were no bubbles anywhere. That the paint didn’t smudge the windows. That the colour was evenly spread. The better the undercoat, the longer the gloss would last. Didn’t even use the roller on the flat sections. Roller was a quick lash across the surface. Superficial, he said. No fool, him. Just like our Rhys.
In the kitchen the next morning, we made him his usual green tea and watched as he put his homegrown tomato and cucumber in the fridge for the sandwich he’ll make at lunch.
“People are loving the undercoat colour,” he said. “Wait till they see the gloss.”
It was the colour of Rhys’s favourite toy. And his regimental flag.
We told him we couldn’t go into town that afternoon for our haircuts.
Before we could say we were worried about costs, he said, “Snap.”
We looked at each other, then back at him.
“Snap,” he said again. After a long pause, he pointed to the front of the building. “I can’t go either. I’m working. Same shift, another day.”
He shrugged his shoulders, took up his daily paper, and loped down the corridor to the front door.
Somebody walked past and made a comment.
“Yeah,” he said, “probably a day behind. Everyone seems to care about this, but not me.”
We looked at each other again.
Not like our Rhys at all.
A Story in Three Parts
Museums, museums, museums, object lessons rigged to illustrate the theories of archaeologists, crazy attempts to co-ordinate and get into a fixed order that which has no fixed order and will not be co-ordinated.[i]
—D. H. Lawrence
When she was young a museum visit was a treat. Rows upon rows of things she didn’t understand, things she had never seen before, and things she had – but they looked different there. Combs and scissors and pots and tools, proud and protected by cases of glass, and hoisted up onto miniature plinths, exuding importance. The small labels inside the cases told her what things were, how old they were, and what they were made from. She recited facts to her father as they wandered through walls of white, text jumping out from every angle, information to be taken in, consumed. Her brother liked to visit the science museums, where they were encouraged to interact with things, but she didn’t like to interact. She liked to look, nose pressed up to glass vitrines, fogging the surface with hot, contemplative breath. Besides, things that could be interacted with weren’t real museum things – you weren’t allowed to touch those. That was a rule.
Now – less young – looking back on herself, she sees an enthusiastic child with blonde, shoulder-length hair, pink shorts, jelly sandals, a yellow t-shirt, and red sunhat. This might be an image from a photograph that she has seen of herself, or perhaps a mental image patched together from her love of bright clothes, and her mother’s inability to colour coordinate anything. Precocious. That was a word she first learned in relation to herself. Aloof was another. She learned how to spell them in case anyone asked. According to her mother, at the age of four she particularly enjoyed impressing people with her ability to spell “Mississippi”. “Em, ai, double ess, ai, double ess, ai, double pee, ai.”
The museum was a prime place to learn the facts and figures with which to impress people, reciting information to make herself look smart. And, she supposes now, that’s all education was, then, really. She had no idea, sat at her wooden desk in school how “eight-times-eight-equals-sixty-four”, but she knew that it did because they had chanted it over and over on Tuesday and Friday mornings. This flair for recital, for repetition, got her far; exams calling for the remembering of dates, facts, figures, and formulas – and who knows, those early visits to the museum might have helped as well.
*
In 1954 police raided the London home of John Nevin, a backroom assistant of the Victoria and Albert Museum. John had been an employee of the museum for twenty-four years, was well liked, and generally cheerful, despite the peculiarity of his gait and posture due to injuries sustained during the war. He was part of a team that retrieved artefacts from storage once the war was over, and returned them to their rightful place in the museum storerooms.
A museum stocktake in the summer of 1954 revealed the loss of hundreds of artefacts, and quickly the search was narrowed down to Nevin. Police were informed, and a raid was issued on his three-bedroom Chiswick council house. The officers could not have been prepared for what they found there, and discovered, upon entering the property, that almost every inch was decorated and adorned with priceless items that Nevin had stolen. Reports of the raid, which were finally released from embargo in 2009, tell of ornaments and trinkets hidden in the toilet cistern, underneath floorboards, and in the chimney breast, eaves, and vacuum cleaner bag. Nevin’s wife is reported to have used an Italian leather and tortoise-shell handbag for her shopping, and a three-hundred-year-old tapestry hung on the living-room wall. In all, over two thousand stolen items were recovered from the couple’s home.
Nevin, it transpired, had been systematically taking things from the museum since 1944. His general modus operandi was to put items down his trouser leg on his way out of work, and he had successfully taken, among other things, twenty Japanese sword guards in this manner, and had even managed to dismantle a small table and smuggle it out in parts. Though there is no evidence, it seems reasonable to suggest that Nevin did not sustain injury during the war, and that his unusual gait was, in fact, due to the artefacts he had posited in his trouser legs. On his arrest, his wife expressed her relief that whole thing was over, whereas John’s only defence was that he couldn’t help himself – “I was attracted by the beauty”.[ii]
*
I started volunteering in the social history stores of a museum in 2011, when I was twenty-four years old. Though I was interested in the objects there, the ephemera collection quickly became the area in which I invested my time. Paper documents, letters, and diaries fascinated me; a small transient piece of someone else, someone long gone that I could never meet, never know. Yet for a while I felt like I did know them, a little bit – I had been given a glimpse into their life. Museums and archives are full of these traces, not just in the object itself but in the information that surrounds them. Often a statement is taken from the person that donates something to a museum about the providence of the item; where it has come from, a little about the person to whom it belonged, and their relation to the person donating it. Stories are as important to social history as objects – people are as important as things.
On the run up to the centenary of the outbreak of World War One I pored over letters home from soldiers, ration books, and diary entries, transcribing each with the care and the attention I supposed that they deserved. I dug out the catalogue card that accompanied each item from the type of old archival drawers that one imagines when thinking of old archival drawers, and cross-referenced it, making sure it had been filled out correctly by a previous volunteer. Another small snippet of someone’s life contained in the filling out of a device used to denote a small snippet of someone’s life. And the exhibition came and went, and my name was printed on an information board in the museum, my work recognised and thanked, and I went back to diligently transcribing letters from different time periods.
A few weeks later, while walking through my local flea market, I saw a bundle of letters and postcards that I recognised as from World War One. The rain was dripping steadily from the tarpaulin covering the stall onto the postcards, distorting the fragile pencil in which they were written. I moved them to safety, and asked the market stall holder about them, did he perhaps know of their provenance? For a moment he looked as though he may have something interesting to tell me, and replied: “Not a clue, they’re ten a penny, love. The lot’s yours for a quid”.
[i] D. H. Lawrence, D. H. Lawrence and Italy: Sketches from Etruscan Palaces, Sea and Sardinia, Twilight in Italy, ed. by Simonetta De Filippis, Paul Eggert, and Mara Kalnins, London: Penguin Classics, 2007, p. 435.
[ii] Chris Hastings, “How a modest council house was furnished with thousands of Items from the V&A”, in The Telegraph, 3January 2009.
In a whisper of wind, they embark, watch their campfire’s cascading sparks reduce, clutching meagre possessions, no identification. Their own rags of courage burn fiercely into this night that becomes their significant memory, huddling on the damaged deck, fire fading to specks of disappearing light, no lifelines, no hum from a ship’s funnel or horn hooting an emigrants’ farewell over the Indian Ocean you could call melancholy, towards a chaos of fish flying through clefts between towering waves.
With no idea of compass bearings what do these thin dark-skinned expatriates expect beyond this slow throb? Peace? A drier heat? Pirates? Just the pull of waves? A sporting nation? Exile in a wise civilisation? Or some miracle, some myth of a fair go arising from the fog of dubious hope hanging over their island-hopping trek like a judgement?
Landfall behind him, a damaged tear-duct he calls his sad eye often weeps, especially when he recalls the scent of cinnamon peeled. He believes slave-wages unconnected to slavery, opportunity emblazoning his thoughts, belongings in grey plastic bags, his ideal a three-bedroom house built from cream bricks, a palace, lights precious candles, primes his English reading discarded newspapers.
In the remembering time before sleep he forgets to snuff the candles. Flames flicker through his night, burn, bend, refuse to die. The darkness of sleep, what he loves, blesses him with a dream, the sound of creaking planks, its echoes. He swims through a blossoming sea, sky streaked, festooned with fireworks.
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The Border Control officer rouses himself from boredom as he flicks his eyes from my face, to my passport, back to my face.
“Su Lin Leong,” he enunciates, lips peeling back from his teeth on the second syllable.
“Chinese name?” he guesses. I nod.
“You don’t look Chinese,” he says, squinting at me suspiciously, angling his head from this way to that, as if I am trying to trick him in some way.
*
I have grown used to this response to my face–name mismatch, the result of a Chinese father and an Irish mother. I grew up in 1980s Ireland; multiculturalism happened somewhere else. Learning to construct my own ethnic identity against the backdrop of a racially homogenous Ireland was like being given a box of jigsaw pieces, except the pieces were from two different sets, and not all of them fitted together properly. I was surrounded by people who never had to think about ethnic identity – their jigsaw puzzles had already been built and handed to them, crafted by generations.
*
I was reminded of my own difference at the start of every school day, which began with An rolla. The dusty ledger was opened, and names were read out in Gaelic translation: Caoimhe de Búrca, Eimear Ní Bhuchalla, Aoife Ní Cheallaigh, Maire Nic an tSionnaigh. The teacher intoned the throat-catching consonants, up to Clíona Uí Dhálaigh, and finally – almost apologetically – Su Lin Leong, the staccato syllables a sharp full stop.
*
A name comes with expectations, a lesson I learned at my first day at school.
“Aww, does she speak Japanese-y?” Sinéad squealed, bending down to look into my face. She was one of the older girls from sixth class, in charge of escorting me to the junior infants’ room. I recognised her from my neighbourhood.
“Ah go on, say something Japanese-y!” she said as she poked me gently in the stomach, as if I were some kind of life-sized Baby Talk doll. I stared up at her blankly with no idea of what she was talking about. I had never heard of Japan and it didn’t occur to me to respond to a request as odd as this one. I said nothing while Sinéad twirled her blonde ponytail around her fingers and looked at me expectantly. I didn’t know it then, but there will be a lifetime of Sinéads that I will disappoint in some way, without even trying.
*
Back at Border Control, my new friend studies my passport photo, lips compressed into a tight line.
“Well, maybe about the eyes,” he concedes eventually.
*
“Now, pinch your nose like this,” Chinese uncle pinched the tip of my nose as if stemming a bleed, “every night to make it go pointy.” Uncle’s glasses slipped down his own squat nose as he peered at me over the lenses. Chinese auntie clucked him away.
“At least she’s nice and plump lah, plenty of meat,” she said, massaging my forearm with gold-ringed hands. My six-year-old self was doubly confused now. Was auntie calling me fat? I searched Chinese uncle’s face for a clue to explain his strange instruction.
“To make it less Chinese-looking,” my mother later explained as I rubbed my smarting nose. “But don’t mind your uncle, he’s talking rubbish.”
*
“You speak Chinese?” Border Control asks, throwing down this question like a challenge.
“No, I’m afraid not,” I say automatically (I have been apologising for this deficit all my life).
‘Huh,’ he grunts. As he squints at my visa, he says something to his colleague over his shoulder in his native tongue, the words teeming and flowing and winding around each other.
*
“But you can understand Chinese, right?” my friend asked, in fourth class in primary school, her nose crinkled in confusion after my father dropped us off at dance class. From the back seat, she had listened to my father’s clipped rhythms and intonation and heard foreign. She had written her own conclusion to the puzzle in her mind, and assumed I was responding in English to his Chinese. My father speaks perfect English, though he favours silence over speech as a general rule. He has never lost his accent, however. He also has trouble with certain sounds, in particular the sps sound. He cannot say crisps for example. He has come to quite a clever workaround for this one, and calls all crisps Tayto. Luckily, in pre-Celtic Tiger Ireland, the brand ubiquity of Tayto means that it is practically the Irish word for crisps, and this lack of product diversity makes his life a little easier.
*
It was in the language of others that I learned to see myself as the world saw me. “So you’re half-caste then?” asked another kid at my friend’s ninth birthday party. I felt wholly myself and not half of anything, so I didn’t know what to say to her. She said it without malice, more in curiosity, searching for a label for me in her mind. Even though political correctness hadn’t been invented yet, I knew this was rude.
“No, tell them you’re Eurasian,” said my mother later when I relayed the day’s events. This was no use to me at all. I had never heard of that word, and I was pretty sure no one else I knew had either. I may as well have introduced myself as a Smurf for all the good that would do. I decided to keep the race questions to myself from then on.
*
It must have been just a year or two later, when I went to the garage with my mother to pick up my father’s car. I was at that in between age where I was considered too young to be left home alone, but old enough that errands like these were a bore. I was loitering at the garage entrance, wishing I was at home watching Zig and Zag, while my mother rummaged for her chequebook.
“Oh, it’s the car belonging to the little foreign fella,” the mechanic called across the forecourt, gesturing at his colleague to get our newly repaired car. I was embarrassed; I knew there was something wrong with that description of my father, though I didn’t understand what. It felt like when I went red overhearing my uncle tell a dirty joke, not because I understood it but because I didn’t. My mother said nothing but snapped her handbag shut aggressively.
“Cheek of him!” she said when we were alone in the car. In the back seat, I ran my hand over the upholstery, first with the pile of the fabric, then against, my hand turning the shade from light to dark to light again. If Eurasian was meant to protect me from half-caste, what protected my Dad from foreign fella?
*
Eventually, Border Control and his pal wind up their conversation. I can hear the impatience of the queue rising in tuts and sighs behind me.
“Purpose of visit and where are you staying, please?”
*
I was a teenager when we took a family trip to the East to visit the Chinese side of the family. I was finally considered old enough to be taken out alone by my cousin. She shared my father’s affection for American fast food, and she took me to the mall for KFC. At twenty-three, Sarah (the irony of her having an English name was lost on me until much later) seemed impossibly glamourous. When she drove, she wore a white sleeve that fitted snugly over her arm, elastic biting the flesh of her upper arm before flaring out to cover her hand. It was the first thing she put on when she got in the car. I was transfixed by it but tried not to appear rude.
“To stop my arm from going brown in the sun,” she explained in answer to my sneaky glances. I didn’t understand – going brown was the main goal of summer holidays in Ireland. Tan lines were proudly compared between me and my friends; watches were kept firmly in place all summer for this very purpose. A tanning baseline. Compare and contrast, as our essay instructions told us. In the back of the car, I slid down in the seat a little, newly conscious of my swimsuit-striped shoulders.
*
Back at school that September, I was idly picking at my fading tan, mostly peeling now, when a prefect came to get me from religion class. I was wanted in the Assembly Hall. Just me. Suspicious but delighted at any distraction, I followed her down the main stairs. Aiko, a Japanese student from the year above me was standing waiting, looking equally nonplussed.
“Stand there, girls,” said Mrs O’Reilly, as she arranged us in front of a cardboard cut-out of a globe, Race Awareness Week printed on a banner on top.
“Right, now smile!” she said from behind the camera. Click.
“OK, back to class girls, no dilly-dallying!”
It was all over in minutes, no explanation, no discussion, no context. I was back in front of the New Testament before my brain had caught up. I forgot about it until the end of the year, when I came across the picture in the school yearbook, underneath an article about increasing diversity in the school.
*
Border Control grants me passage with the definite thud of a passport stamp.
“Have a good trip,” he says mechanically, curiosity spent. He waves me on, still disappointed with something but I don’t know what. I join the press of nationalities heaving towards planes and destinies.
*
As an adult, I moved to London and found relief in blending in with its sweaty soup of ethnicities. But as multicultural as it is, I learned that this comes with its own set of rules. There is a new language now: Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic or BAME for short. Any form I complete asks me to tick a box if I come from a BAME background. Do I? I don’t know. I leave the box unticked.
Along with some friends, I go to see a film about race, ethnicity, and identity. In the pub afterwards, I proffer an opinion and link it in some way with my own experience. My White British friend is openly dismissive. “You’re White, come on,” he scoffs, as if I’m trying to claim membership of some exclusive club on a technicality. As if the fact that we share the same skin colour means that my experience of navigating the world of identity must be just like his. Once again, there is no space for me. Anger burns through my cheeks, anger at a lifetime’s worth of other people trying to tell me what I am: half-caste, White, a tick on a diversity box, too Chinese, not Chinese enough. Now, I’m not different enough. The irony of it thickens my tongue and renders it useless. I revel in this unexpected twist as I leave, pushing my way through the crowded bar, making a space for myself in the flow of people.
Last week, I had a meeting with a designer about setting up my website. We met at a café on a blazing Sunday noon. The sun was burning a hole in the sky; the air was molten lava, the city was dangerously close to bursting into flames. Temperatures in Delhi can shoot up to 47 degrees Celsius (—Fahrenheit). In a long and harsh summer, May is the cruellest month. Stepping outdoors at noon on a typical day in May is a feat. Medals must be handed out to those who dare to venture forth.
I took the plunge on Sunday because I really didn’t have a choice. The person I needed to meet was in town only for a day. If I didn’t sit down with him and figure out a plan for my website, I’d continue my existence as the last writer on earth without a website. Not that I minded. My writing life wouldn’t wither and die because of the lack. Words come to you whether you have an online presence or not. Website or no website, plots will be weaved, characters fleshed out, stories told. I am happy to continue my website-less existence, but other people – agents, publishers, writing fellowship administrators – seem to disapprove. A writer without a website in this day and age is a strange animal, they say. Give us an explanation for this state of affairs or forever be silent – I am warned.
I am not a hermit who lives on a mountain or in the belly of a cave. I am neither addicted to technology nor allergic to it. I use a computer at work. I do all my writing on my laptop. I waste a lot of time surfing the internet when I should be writing. I wasn’t making a statement by not having a website. I simply didn’t think it was the be all and end all of a writer’s life. Anyway, when I decided it was time to set up one, I found a designer who seemed to understand my requirements. We met at a café in my neighbourhood on the hottest day of the summer to talk things through. After complaining about the weather for ten minutes – a mandatory conversational requirement when people meet in Delhi – we got down to business.
We chalked out a plan. The look and feel of the website, the responsiveness of the design, the best way to order the content – the necessary details were discussed.
“Your bio goes on the opening page,” said the designer. “Best to write a crisp one. Start off on a light note, preferably”
My whole life flashed before my eyes. Many amusing incidents to report. Much lightheartedness in there. But how to pick one among several amusing incidents and make it the opening paragraph of a bio note? What if said incident didn’t amuse the people who browsed the site? Would I have to invent an incident to add the right touch of lightness? Being a fiction writer, was I expected to inject a dose of fiction into my bio note to amuse and entertain readers? Questions, questions….
Then I got thinking about writers’ bio notes in general. If we were to be honest, most of us could fit this description: XYZ is a cranky perfectionist. Obsessively revises everything she/he writes. Agonizes over every damn word. Is a pariah at social gatherings and family reunions because of a tendency to tune out of conversations and work out tangled plot details in her/his head. This habit drives XYZ’s friends/lovers/family crazy. XYZ is hungry for validation in the form of feedback on her/his writing. Has been known to ask people for honest criticism and then resent them for a lifetime for giving it. XYZ can quote a Shakespeare sonnet or a soliloquy from Hamlet from memory but she/he often forgets to pick up the dry cleaning. XYZ is a mix of bravado and agonizing self-doubt – a volatile combination. Approach XYZ at a party at your own risk. Never start the conversation with the question, “have I read anything you’ve written?” This triggers extreme responses in XYZ including homicidal thoughts.
Obviously this is not the sort of bio note you display in public. I am working on a more appropriate version for my site as we speak. Once I iron out the wrinkles and add the right touch of lightness, it’s going to sweep readers off their feet. I think it’s going to be the best damn piece of fiction I’ll ever write.
LOVERS ROCK is one of five films from Steve McQueen’s Small Axe anthology alongside the festival’s Opening film MANGROVE
The BFI London Film Festival in partnership with American Express is delighted to announce that LOVERS ROCK, directed by BFI Fellow Steve McQueen, has joined this year’s programme. The film will screen on Sunday 18th October across two screenings at BFI Southbank as part of the LFF’s Love strand supported by Porsche, who are joining the LFF as new sponsors this year.
An ode to the romantic reggae genre called “Lovers Rock” and to the young people who found freedom and love in its sound, LOVERS ROCKtells a fictional story of young love and music at a house party in 1980. Amarah-Jae St Aubyn makes her screen debut opposite the BAFTAs 2020 Rising Star Award recipient Micheal Ward (Blue Story). Shaniqua Okwok (Boys), Kedar Williams-Stirling (Sex Education), Ellis George (Dr Who), Alexander James-Blake (Top Boy) and Kadeem Ramsay (Blue Story) also star, as well as Francis Lovehall and Daniel Francis-Swaby who make their screen debuts. LOVERS ROCKwas co-written by Courttia Newland and Steve McQueen.
The film, alongside MANGROVE, is one of five films from Small Axe; a drama anthology which comprises five original films created by Steve McQueen for BBC One. Set from the late 1960s to the mid-1980s, the films each tell a different story involving London’s West Indian community, whose lives have been shaped by their own force of will, despite rampant racism and discrimination. MANGROVE will open the film festival on Wednesday 7th October and will play for free to audiences at BFI Southbank and in selected cinemas across the UK.
LOVERS ROCK Director, Steve McQueen said: “I’m so happy to be screening LOVERS ROCKat theLondon Film Festival, to show it here where it belongs is a privilege. I hope this film will bring back memories of parties past and look to the future of parties to come”
The 64th BFI London Film Festival in partnership with American Express is taking place from Wednesday 7th October-Sunday 18th October 2020. Over the twelve days the Festival will be its most accessible ever, presenting over 50 Virtual Premieres and a selection of highly-anticipated new feature film previews at BFI Southbank as well as in cinemas across the UK, offering audiences a unique chance to engage with the Festival in different ways.
The full programme is available at https://www.bfi.org.uk/explore-our-festivals/bfi-london-film-festival . All tickets are available to book now.
Small Axe will premiere on BBC One and iPlayer this autumn and air on Amazon Prime Video in the US.
She’d been lying awake since the crack of dawn, watching the sunrise creeping through the side of her curtains. She’d slept forty winks, on and off, and she’d been trying not to think about what time it was, to make it easier to nod off again. Her legs ached from tossing and turning. Her muscles were taut. It promised to be another one of those days that look like a permanent seven o’clock in the morning. She lay there, with the electric blanket on, her hands clasped over the duvet, thumbs twirling. She was thinking of the spot he’d told her about before he died. She’d been thinking about it ever since, every other day, and each single thing seemed a banal attempt at getting on with her life. She simply had to find out. She got up and held on to it.
Without switching the light on, she wrenched the wardrobe open and felt her way through her cold, musty clothes. She needed to put on several layers over her pyjama bottoms, for it was clear those toasty clothes – the only warm thing in the whole room that wasn’t her bed – weren’t going to come off. She found some black leggings. She put them on. They made her legs look varicose underneath. Over her pyjama top with a picture of a cat, she wrapped a plush jumper from the bottom shelf, and then her leather jacket lined with baby lamb skin hanging from the chair. From the doorknob, she picked up the fedora with the green feather. Ready to go. If she’d looked in the mirror before leaving the room, she would have laughed or screamed. When she hit the ground floor, she jumped straight into her walking boots and grabbed her keys from the mantelpiece.
*
She locked up mechanically. At the bending of the corner, she wondered whether she’d done it. (Did she lock up? She must have…) Out in the open, the town was waking up to market day, a couple of early risers setting up their stalls, making small talk, their breath steaming in each other’s direction. They tried to make eye-contact with her as she rushed past them, but she avoided their gaze. She didn’t want to talk. She sped between the lines of empty stalls, trying to take the shortest way possible out of the labyrinth. A few hundred yards down the road, the main town square was populated by a single man with a beanie hat and a can of something, who was conversing with the owner of the newsagents standing on the threshold. They didn’t even notice as she breezed through the square, past the laundrette full of eternally astonished dryers.
A dog owner startled her by good-morning her while crossing the bridge over the canal. She groaned in response. Everybody must think she needed a fix, or a coffee. But she didn’t. This was different. She had a cause. (She looked at the canal lock through the corner of her eye, where all the geese used to congregate, almost expecting them to come out and start charging against her.) She met a moment of hesitation crossing the other bridge over the railway tracks. Such a temptation. (She always thought this when crossing it.) So easy to just end things here. The railroad was a paradox. It promised eternity in each direction. She chose life once again.
Now it was time to ascend, up the straight road nearing the farm and then through the steep muddy hill. The quickest way. She knew what would happen now, and as she pictured it, it happened: a shepherd dog was crouching next to the entrance of the path leading to the farm. He looked like a mix between guardian and sphinx. She got a few inches away from him and he jumped into her hands, begging to be fussed. Yes, yes, yes, Shep, I know, yees, I know. Now, I need to get on. Good boy. Yes. Yes. Now let me get on. No. Don’t follow me. No. Stay there. Stay. He followed her all the way up the slope. She was getting dangerously close to the farm. Thankfully, it was too early and nobody was about. She went up the squidgy side of the hill that slid under her feet, a paste of pine needles, acorn caps, and mud threatening to swallow her boots. Soon enough the trees gave her cover.
Despite the strong heart pulsing in her ribcage, the moment she hit the shade of the trees, she felt safe. At the top of the hill, where the woods met with a lane, she stopped, sat on a stone stile, and surveyed her surroundings. She watched the steam coming out of her mouth melting into the crisp morning air. She rummaged in her leather jacket and found an old tobacco pouch – only a few wispy dregs and an empty packet of rizlas. She cut a piece of cardboard and rolled herself a ciggy. Miracles do happen. She had a lighter in the other pocket.
Tsk tsk
Hmmm ahhhh…
There was something comforting and yet triumphant about sitting at the top of these woods, the canopy of trees at once sheltering her and giving her a privileged kaleidoscopic view of the town below. It was a marvel how fast you could get out of the valley when you put your heart into it. As she idly smoked her cigarette, she felt educated and romantic. There was something enterprising about this particular spot. She’d never met anyone in this part of the woods, felt that this was somehow her own place. She was like one of the Lake poets, or like Bob Dylan. She had time to think such things. Roll-ups burn slowly.
*
But time cannot be staved off forever, and soon she had to lift her cold bottom from the stone steps. She crossed the road and looked at the tall field ahead, round like an apple. Her head turned to both sides. No one in sight. She must get on, find the place. She took the well-trodden path up the field – a favourite with walkers of the Pennine Way – and as she was reaching the top, she saw the monument. There it was, a needle of rock stood against the sky. She had two navigation points now: the obelisk and the pine plantation next to it, promise of her destination. She had to go in between them. She knew there was a way. She’d never taken it before, but she knew it was there, she’d find it, she would find it, she said to herself between breaths as she struggled up the steep field.
Once she went past the farm with the back garden full of hydrangeas, it was easy, flat land. The road became windier as she got closer to the Victorian folly. It turned this way and that, up the pike, with loose stones crumbling and crunching under her feet. A few stranded sheep looked at her with demonic eyes. What did she want? What did they want? They knew what she was after. Like fuck they did. Keep munching on those dry sprigs. She was getting closer to the moment of decisions. Oxygen and exercise were releasing endorphins and she felt elated. She didn’t cross the wall leading to the monument, but eyed the pine trees to the left of the crossroads.
The path into the woods was boggy, unexpected marshland dotted with stones from the crumbling wall, planted by walkers – a hikers’ hopscotch. She leaped on them with unsteady knees, feeling panicked. What would really happen if she put her feet in the bogs? Wet feet, that’s all. After a few minutes of traipsing and eeking whenever she threatened to dip into the peaty water, she arrived at the stile separating the field from the pine wood. It was not a wood, really, but a plantation: row after row of spookily arranged pine trees ready to be chopped off. They worked on her. It was quiet, eerie, another place where she felt out of sight. The path cutting into the trees suddenly looked too easy, so she circled it through mounds of dry grass that were only trodden on by deer and stray sheep.
*
She was full of trepidation, taking big strides down the path on the far side of the woods. She turned a last bend in the road and took a first look. She stopped, her mouth open. There was a reservoir in the nook of the valley. It could well have been the moon. A silent expanse of water framed by fields of ochre moorland, and to its right, the very place she was looking for. This must be it. Small, inconspicuous, yet incongruous – a little cluster of trees in the middle of this nothingness. Next to the reservoir. She was so close now. She was convinced she’d be there in no time. She could almost touch the water at the bottom of the field with her fingertips. But the landscape had a deceitful depth. The field turned out to be a maze of paths with occasional yellow-pointed logs signalling the way, small wooden bridges crossing a web of subterraneous streams trickling down. She followed the trail of sheep droppings and cow dung. There were no cattle in sight. Where did all the shit come from? She trudged down towards the water. An imposing fresh-looking wooden gate with a heavy metal latch greeted her at the bottom of the field. She locked it behind her with a clang and realised there was a deep moat surrounding the reservoir, like those around old castles, blocking access to the water. In her mind, she had pictures dipping her feet into it, delaying the end of her trip.
*
The pine trees were beckoning, alien-looking, serene, steady, like they’d been expecting her. They were the only specks of green in a landscape of brown and yellow. They were calling her. The rhythm of her strides accelerated in this last stretch. She could feel the rough bark on her hands. The small forest, however, was surrounded by thick wooden fences entangled in rusty spikes. One last hurdle. She’d had to find a side access.
She struggled through an uneven field of bogs and loose stones. She could now spot the entrance, through a wooden stile. She advanced quickly, with determined steps and shallow breaths. Then a sudden stop. The stile had a round plastic sign screwed on it – a human figure with a foot on a hill and the other on the next hill, a red bar crossing it out. Keep out? Don’t roam? Why put up a stile if you aren’t supposed to use it? She looked around. Nobody. She couldn’t hear the wind, only the approaching sound of a fly that she never waited long enough to see. She’d ignore the signpost and cross the stile. Nobody would mind. Two steps.
A dry thud.
She’d made it.
In front of her, a narrow path tore into the forest. She felt different. Her mind was clear, as if her mental torpor had been caught in a dream catcher. This is where he’d told her the place was, where it was hidden. She’d find it, and then she’d be alright, like she’d done him a favour. He’d talked about the spot so much, had wanted someone to know where it was all hidden in case something happened to him, you know, in case he went. She’d find where it was. She took one initial step, awaiting a sign, like an alarm going off.
Nothing.
Another step, then another.
Somewhere in her mind, she abandoned her body, and she saw herself from the other side of the stile, watched herself burrowing into the small heart of the forest, plunging in, her footsteps muffled by the branches that embraced her, until she eventually became the shadow of a tree.
Headlights are returning to the streets, drifting across the hall from the living-room door; two cats fight in the back-court – screeches, clatters, slinking whines subside to the bin-shed.
In the dark kitchenette, used masks laze over the edge of the microwave.
You just moved in – having spent three months stooping round the slanted box room in your parents’ house, it’s good to have space again – and there are still a couple gawping suitcases tucked around.
A pair of dark, impassive eyes watch from the windowsill. A heart-shaped photo of a golden retriever, set atop a frame shaped like a stiletto, lined with soft, leopard-print bristle.
Tiny faux-zirconias are set around the heart, crested by a plastic topaz.
You found the photo in a dusty charity shop in Dunkeld, where you picked items from the shelves and turned them over till the sleet battering the windows subsided. Before you noticed the silica jewels, the ornate metal tongue at the picture’s edge where the dog’s paws erupt into filigree flowers, you saw the price – 50p, scratched in biro on a torn post-it strip and slapped over the retriever’s eyes like a half-arsed super-injunction.
Of course you bought it.
The shopkeeper eyed you as you passed the coin across the till – almost seemed hesitant to make the sale to someone so clearly buying in bad faith, and you were.
How could anyone buy something like this without irony? If he was unprepared to part with it glibly he shouldn’t have stocked it.
You were already rehearsing the conversations it might provoke with amused guests before the rain had stopped.
There have been no guests – state-mandated solitude and everyone has found a new shared loneliness, and the conversations never moved past rehearsal.
You left them in that box room but the photograph is now a companion.
In stowing up with you, this leopard-print, stiletto enigma has become a refugee – a transplant from someone else’s life that – now that you have missed the window to mock it – you’ve got no choice but to acknowledge and – now the conversations have expired – you’re left with questions, but no capacity or context to support an answer.
You have turned over quite a few of the routes through which a leopard-print, stiletto-shaped picture frame of a golden retriever came to be and are yet to come to any conclusion which bridges the many gaps in the explanatory fabric of its existence.
If you see a tree, even if you have never seen that tree before, you know it grew; if you see a ghostly jellyfish in a deep-sea crater, you know you are in the wrong place, but it belongs; you see this – this monument to accidental pairings – and you start to wonder whether the trees outside have roots, and whether you know anything even about the things you have watched grow from nothing.
The photograph can’t have come with the frame, although you don’t want to imagine the two ever having been separate.
Scramble then for meaning in the person who brought the two together – who sought to combine their favourite things: streetgrate fashion, exotic prints, and what you can only assume was their dog. Perhaps they housed the photo here because it was the only frame they had that fit, meaning they bought this frame knowing something would one day fit it.
Digging too deep into this identity is a painful process. Although the mystery of how the photo in the frame came to be is beyond your capabilities or energy to solve, how it came to be in a charity shop is no mystery at all.
One of the things that puts many people off these places – aside from dust allergies and snobbery – is the tacit understanding that the owners of many of the items therein did not, to put it as delicately as it can be when the coarse side of death has scoured us all a little rawer, donate them consciously.
No owner would leave an item this explicitly personal to charity. Pair this with the inescapable idea that while curios such as this always attract the eye of young, irony-clad ghouls like yourself, the people who make them – with a sincerity that leaves you ashamed of your hollow reasons for picking it up to begin with – are older, and you can’t kid yourself you’ve affected anything other than a personal effect.
This makes you all the more resolved to love it, imagining adult children tired of mourning boxing up everything of no monetary or sentimental value to themselves – the sighs and necessary jokes about what a hoarder their mum was: “Oh God, look at this”; “Jesus, there are more photos of the dog here than there are of us”; “She sure loved it”; “Do you want it?”; “Christ, no. You?”; “Chuck it in the box” – and the raised eyebrows of all the tourists who browsed the shelves till the rain had stopped, the surreptitious camera snaps when they thought the shopkeeper was looking away.
If you break it open, pry the photo from the glass and turn it over, you might find a note – Archie’s 8th birthday! June 3rd, 2005 – and maybe you’ll have more insight in what this photo meant and came to mean before it reached the shop, that before the owner ever fell ill or fell asleep and didn’t wake up it was already a monument to something lost.
You won’t break it, won’t grab for any insight that belongs to someone else. This seems respectful, but your real fear if you do so – and you still might, if the headlights leave the streets again and the news relocks the doors – is that there will be nothing written on the back, or even worse that something might be printed: Golden retriever, Getty Images – © Party Frames 2004.
Then, even hypothetically, you’d be alone.
Best stick to questions.
You cannot know the dog or its owner, but you will look after it, let it sit on the windowsill in your new home, and when guests point it out – fairly, as half your possessions were bought as a joke – you hope you will remember to be generous.
I was in a bit of a pickle, because I had originally wanted Chick-fil-A, but time had become so meaningless that I forgot it was Sunday—and that’s when divine intervention in the form of a holey orange roofed institution shown through—I remembered that I had yet to try the face of God which was supposedly found in a painstakingly lab created sandwich.
Like waiting for a movie to come out on DVD, I kept my eyes on the prize, swallowed my pride, and stuffed down my monoculture FOMO until my face was warped worse than a beak mouthed Momo’s, as I crouched down on my overstuffed couch and Joe Bidened my time for the perfect moment to pounce on the social media momentum marketing campaigned spicy chicken sandwich from Popeyes, which was aggressively pandered to African-Americans, and went viral a couple months before the outbreak of the pandemic.
Some say to strike while the iron’s hot, but I’m a J. Wellington Wimpy-like late bloomer who likes to strike while the olive oiled pan is cold.
I wanted the chic status symbol that the internet breaking chicken product brought, but without breaking my back, or the piggy bank—like people were doing on the black market—as some of the sandwiches at the height of the hype were being sold for stimulus checks.
I had waited this long for the cholesterol curve spiking sandwich (which was supposedly to die for) because people were literally out there getting stabbed to death for fast food while trying to cut ahead in all-day wrap-around lines.
I was not interested in joining the rest of the sheeple that were being led to slaughter. I decided instead to take a page out of the red herring orangutan’s voter suppression book by staying in my White House.
So I figured I’d get the home-cooked pop culture community taste from the comfort of my couch (#alonebuttogether), and let some sorry DoorDash delivery guy do battle with the non-figuratively poor front line employees of the chicken wars.
Before he set out across town and into the Louisiana “food swamp,” he texted to see if there was anything he could do to make the experience more memeable.
He must have known that this was my first time.
I thought about putting on some CeeLo to set the mood. Does that make me crazy?
While he was on his way to Popeyes, a woman called from there to tell me that they had sold out of the sandwiches, but that she’d be more than happy to sell me a tender meal made with love, and encouraged me to bring my own bread to the table.
So I called her a sell-out, and said, “My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hun.”
I think she was just teasing me for foreplay purposes, because she eventually gave in and said that she had found a sandwich in the back.
I checked the contactless delivery option on the app and gave special instructions for my man to leave it outside my entrance (#popeyesgate), but he texted back, insisting on giving it to me by ungloved hand.
He must have been lonely.
When he came through, the sodium-rich sandwich delivery driver was in an Uber Black Mercedes Benz with a Buckethead face mask on, and as I came out of my quarantine cage, I started getting turned on. I could smell the fun cayenne pepper cajun sauce, and became more than hot & bothered.
I brought it in, sat down in my Sunday best, put on some Black Sabbath, took off its tinfoil hat, and when I put the buttermilk breasted think-piece of meat to my pouting mouth to take the first bite, I screamed, “Sweet Dixie Kitchen!”
Even though the overly crispy breading was like biting into the bark of a cypress tree, the 2-piece chicken sized patty’s juiciness was like that of Omar Epps’, and the brioche bun was so fluffy that I decided to save a piece of it for later to be turned into a pillow for my ninth nap of the day.
It tasted like my grandma had made it. That is, if my grandma was black.
The sweet and sassy flavors coalesced perfectly, like that of Popeye’s pale male founder and ebony female mouthpiece. A perfect Deep South Darth Vader voodoo melting pot cauldron concoction.
When the bird hit my belly, it was like my solar plexus had been suplexed by flavor, which is how I’m sure the woman who got body-slammed outside of Popeyes felt.
Although, it had enough salt in it to choke a chicken.
The sauce made my tongue tingle, and the overall mouthfeel was that of numbness, like the drumsticks of an overworked chicken war entrenched employee.
The bottom line is, as always—the bottom line—and is a line in which my buttcrack will cross if I keep eating deep fried chicken sandwiches which I send people across the town’s roads to get.
So, even though Annie the Chicken Queen’s sandwich may be king, if y’all looking for a non-homophobic, non-racist, non-capitalist, spiritually wholesome sandwich on any given Sunday—look no further than Church’s.
We decided to build the den from all that we could forage from the forest. The one that breathed down the back of our house.
With rucksacks on – a cheese sandwich and a water bottle tucked inside – we trekked up into the trees, taking the path that led us past a frayed rope swing Dad had put up and a ditch that Jenny had once slipped down. It was the first true day of summer; a swelter. Above, metres and metres high, the trees – birch, oak, alder – did little to dull the heat.
“What do we even need for a den?” I asked Jenny.
She fanned her arms out, so we picked at everything in sight. An array of thin sticks, a bundle of snapped and torn branches, various handfuls of foliage to pad the ground. We dragged them into a pile near the rope swing.
“We need more,” she said. Her skin was pulsing a beet red. My back was slick with sweat.
We scoffed our sandwiches, glugged our water and decided to head east, up where the forest bled out into an abandoned quarry. Up where fly-tippers chucked bedframes, fridges, tins of kerosene. Up where we weren’t allowed to go. It was too far from home. Easy to get lost. Or hurt.
“You think Dad is going to come look for us?” I asked.
“He won’t leave Mum,” Jenny said.
East, we went. We hadn’t thought through how we would bring back our findings, should there be any. We hadn’t really though through how to build a den.
Just before the quarry came into sight – the sparse expanse of stone before the inevitable fall of a pit – we stumbled across a sheet of bright blue tarp sticking out of a mound of rubbish; cans of lager and plastic bags. An old bike and some pallets. There was a dead fox in the mound too. Its eyes had been eaten and its body was covered in maggots.
*
Dad was curious. He waited until the end credits rolled on an old Western movie we’d only half been watching before asking—
“What are you girls doing in the forest?”
“Building a den,” we said, in perfect synchronisation. We weren’t twins, but you could be forgiven for thinking we were.
He turned to face us. His eyes were beetle black. Dad spent most days with Mum, and all days thinking about her.
“Why a den?”
There were reasons why we were building a den, not that we knew how to name them.
One was that Mum was ill – what with, we didn’t yet know – and no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t stop seeing echoes of that illness in every corner of the house; her slowly sallow body that she hid from us in too-big clothes. How Dad sometimes had to carry her up the stairs.
Another reason was that we hungered, however impatiently, for an escape. If the avalanche of her illness was coming – and it was – then at least we had shelter.
But instead of those reasons, we said we were building a den “for fun”, and believed it as strongly as we believed that the earth was round and that the sun rose from east to west.
*
The first den was haphazard at best. Over dinner Dad wanted to know how it was going. We were eight days into our project and complained of the flimsy frame and the way the pieces would never quite hold together. It had collapsed on us twice already.
“You can use some of my tools,” he said. “A hammer and some nails should do it. There’s some old fishing line to tie things together.”
Mum was propped up like a toy in the chair next to Jenny – a Barbie doll holding rigid angles. She was eating slow, pushing the carrots and peas around her plate.
“They can’t do that,” she protested, though it was weak. “They’ll hurt themselves.”
“We’ll be careful, Mum,” my sister said, tucking a strand of curly hair behind her ear. “I promise.”
*
We took up the offer of the hammer and some nails. The fishing line too.
In the spider-ridden garage we watched Dad demonstrate how to use them – “hold the nail here, hammer straight, and this is how to tie a knot.” After his lesson, we lugged everything we needed into the forest and began rebuilding. We wanted to go for something bigger, still triangular, but with enough room to stand.
Though Dad was interested in the den – he even asked if we could draw our plans out for him with felt-tip pens so he could show Mum – he never came up to see what we were working on. He said he wanted to leave us to it. We guessed the real reason was that he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Mum on her own. She’d gotten worse.
“I still wish he’d come up and see,” I said, making poor work of hammering a nail side-on into a branch and only just missing my thumb.
“What if he goes back and Mum’s dead?” Jenny replied.
*
That summer, Mum was sick during the night. The landing light would come to life and the bright white of the bulb would shine beneath our bedroom door. Together we would lie and listen as she heaved up whatever fragments of food lay in her stomach.
When she was done, and Dad had helped her from her knees, the flush of the toilet would set the pipes aching through the house. In a hushed voice she would say, “I hope I didn’t wake the girls.”
*
There was one rule for the den – now that we’d managed to properly build it – and one rule alone.
1. Only fantasy was allowed to enter.
When we found Dad crying in the spare room, we ran to the den and imagined we were two lone travellers in the very depths of the Amazon, with panama hats upon our heads and venomous snakes at our backs. When the sun was high and the sweat was seeping from Mum so profusely that she mirrored a malady mermaid, we were old friends – lost in the desert and the den was our only escape from the vicious heat.
When Dad told us that Mum may be diagnosed soon, I played the part of Bonnie, whilst Jenny did her best Clyde. We didn’t understand them well, apart from their penchant for crime. We’d seen a film once on a Saturday night – too young to be watching. I can still remember their bodies lying dead in the final scene; Faye Dunaway hanging bloody from the side of the car.
*
On the hottest day of the year – a sweltering 95F – Mum’s illness was diagnosed as cancer. Terminal. Her body was saturated with it. Apparently, they hadn’t been sure quite what it was that was making her ill until then. I couldn’t comprehend how they didn’t know. Couldn’t they just scan her to see what was wrong?
Putting a name to it made nothing easier.
*
Jenny didn’t like to talk about Mum – not in any real sense. I made the mistake of bringing her up as we were playing Go Fish. Outside the den, rain was drizzling. Inside, we were pretending to be in a disgustingly excessive casino in Vegas, betting thousands and thousands on each card.
“What do you think will happen when Mum dies?” I asked. I didn’t quite know whether I meant – does she rot when we bury her? Will we be able to stay in the house? Or – will we be allowed to laugh again? And what happens if I forget how much I love her?
“As long as were in this den, Mum isn’t going to die,” Jenny said. “So, we can’t talk about it.”
“But…”
“Fantasy only, remember.”
*
We were both Indiana Jones the day Dad called us from the forest. Whenever there was bad news – which seemed daily, and unapologetic in its existence – Dad always told us in the confines of the house. He still hadn’t come up to the den. The truth never quite reached us there.
“Girls, I need you to sit down.”
His face was the ash that collected in the bottom of the fireplace – ruins and worn remains. From his mouth the words jumbled. “We think – no, well, I think. No. Erm. The doctor visited, okay. And, well.” He held our hands in his and took a deep, steadying inhale. “Mum might pass away soon, girls. Tonight, and I. No. Yes, I need you – she needs you, to go and see her. Please. Because…”
I wasn’t sure if I knew how to believe him.
*
How do you describe the way your Mum looks before she’s about to die? Do you mention her bird-like body and the way her bones protrude so painfully you’re worried you might break her? Do you write down how she can barely keep her arms up for long enough to hold you and your sister, so your Dad has to physically help her hug you? Do you speak of the fact that she doesn’t appear to be anything like the Mum you know anymore – that she is half that, a third, a tiny percent, and that by seeing her – really seeing her – you know that dying is the best option?
Do you mention it? You don’t. It hurts too much.
*
Later than night, I woke up to find Jenny missing. I wondered if she’d gone to Mum’s room. Or to see Dad. She’d done it before – seeking out private comfort. I asked her about it in the morning. She told me she’d gone to the den.
“What were you doing?”
“Just pretending to be someone.”
“Who?”
I didn’t like the fact she’d gone off without me. She was older by two years and I could already see a future where she would grow out of me – of us – and become a person of her own.
“Mum.”
There’s an old photo of Mum on the landing. Dad had taken it a few days before he asked her to marry him. There are daisies woven into her hair and a white cotton skirt floating around her knees. Perched on her head is her cowboy hat and on her feet are her cowboy boots. The ones she always wore. The ones she’d asked to be buried in.
*
Between Jenny sneaking out and the sun rising, Mum died, passed, moved up and on to heaven.
I remember how her final words – “I love you” – melted on my tongue.
*
The funeral was long. Jenny read a poem that she’d written but could only make it halfway through before Dad had to carry her from the altar and sit her back in the pew.
Everyone wore black except Jenny, Dad and me. He wore a navy suit and a teal tie; handsome and broken, smelling of Old Spice and soap. Jenny and I wore paisley patterned dresses; the material tight and scratchy.
Other words were said about Mum from family I didn’t really know and friends that visited before she became too sick to see anyone. As I listened, I imagined a cavern opening inside me, and in it were all the anecdotes that were said and all the kind recitals that were uttered. Like water from a tap I let the cavern fill up and up until it brimmed, so that on any given day I could peer inside and pick out a tale that told me everything Mum was.
*
In the weeks after Mum died, home became a sphere of paralysis. Together we waited for it to lift – waited as though it was a rug one of us might shake out or a wounded bird that would eventually recover and fly from its perch.
Deliverance didn’t meet us.
Bruised with woe neither he nor Jenny or I knew how to alleviate, Dad cloaked himself in his grief and became lost within it. Once again, the fantasy which upheld our den became a refuge; I’d recently taken up the role of an outlaw, whilst Jenny wore the shiny badge of a Sherriff.
If we were both grieving – which we were – so acutely that at any given moment either of us could have collapsed, we didn’t show it. Not in the den. We saved all our hurt for our now haunted home.
*
Dad was on the sofa, his eyes roaming over letters addressed to Mum – a couple from the bank, some that looked like charities she supported, junk too, when I decided it might be time for him to see what we’d built. It had been two months since Mum died – longer since we’d finished the den.
I told Jenny about my plan as she shoved spoonfuls of cereal into her mouth. She had her Sherriff badge on, a seemingly permanent fixture, I, my outlaw bandana tied loose around my neck.
“Why?” she asked, with her mouth full.
I pictured Dad on the sofa, how empty he was. A pellucid figure. Withdrawn and in need of rescue. I wondered too, in that moment, what he would look like if he slowly melted into the fabric – the witch from The Wizard of Oz?
“He could play pretend for a bit too,” I said.
Jenny shrugged. We shouted for him. He appeared dishevelled in his pyjamas, his hair askew and the letters still clutched in his hands. We told him to get changed, put his shoes and meet us at the entrance to the forest in ten minutes.
“What are we doing?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” we said.
*
His eyes were wide, but his mouth stayed silent. I couldn’t tell if the words were stuck in his throat or he simply didn’t have them. Jenny didn’t wait to find out, instead she laid out the rule as though she were his teacher.
“Only fantasy can enter.” She raised her brow. “Nothing else. You can’t forget.”
I asked him to crouch down. He faltered for a moment before doing so. He couldn’t keep his gaze off the den.
“Jenny is the Sherriff and I’m the outlaw.”
I reached inside my rucksack and pulled out Mum’s cowboy hat. I’d stowed it whilst we waited for him to meet us, tucking it away gently so the sides didn’t bend out of shape. Dad had told us – implored us – to keep it safe.
Like a sword upon a shoulder, ready to swear in a new knight, I sat the hat on his head.
“So, that means you can be the cowboy.”
Jenny held back the old white bedsheet we used as an entrance.
“Ready?”
He dropped his gaze from the den to bore it into the both of us. He stared so long without any reply that I thought we’d spooked him into a stupor.
“Dad?”
I held my breath. Jenny straightened her badge. Together we waited on his answer.
“Yes,” he said, eventually, tipping the edge of the hat, “let’s get going, partner.”
“Hackney Kisses” is a series of graffitied wedding photographs. In 2010, photographer Stephen Gill stumbled upon a collection of photographs taken by an anonymous photographer in the 1950s of couples kissing each other on their wedding day in Hackney, often by their three-story wedding cake. I have taken these photographs and added sketch-graffiti to them, giving them a vibrant, surreal, and sometimes intimate feel.
Catherine McNamara introducing, her Flash Fiction Course.
I didn’t fall for flash fiction straightaway. There was an attraction, but I wasn’t sure about this fleeting, incisive form until I tried to nail it. Not so easy. Pulled off, flash fiction is an acrobatic feat, leaving an arc on the air and a gasp in the audience. Several years after my first efforts I think there is a mutual understanding between us. With dozens of flash pieces out there and a collection to be published in February 2021 – I realise this form has taught me ruthless technique and a visceral understanding of story.
How so?
I would describe myself as a short story writer. A pretty wordy short story writer, trained in the compression and intimation and the dance-with-the-reader that is the short story form. Very quickly, I realised that with flash fiction these devices would not be enough. I would need more rigour, less flair and artifice, more cogent material. Plot? Well, yes. And also no. I realised I would be going into the gritty workshop of story creation – the cogs and wires, the oil and motion. What is story anyhow? And where should both the reader and writer end up in 800 words or less?
As with everything, I decided to feel my way. Of course, many of the same rules that govern the short story, the novel, even the screenplay and the poem, come into play. An investigation of our humanity and our place in the cosmos. Even in a story that speaks of stray dogs. And yet. We are playing a different instrument here. Word count requires delivery and displacement. The reader must be yanked in by the first syllables. It is not enough to delve and display.
I read the greats, and suggest that you do too. I also confess that I initially approached my flash fiction quest as an exercise – physical and gruelling – a daily sign-up to the first paragraph. An entry point. An idea worth climbing into. A search for a seam of words leading to story gold. I developed many techniques for squeezing stories out of anything. Some of us work visually; some of us with a clock ticking; some of us write succinctly and some of us must slash away at the page. One thing in common: a surrender to voice. And in the editing phase: a fearless discarding of the obsolete or obscure. The vital extraction of story.
For the past four years as Litro Magazine’s Flash Fiction Editor, I’ve read a lot of flash fiction. All types. From the clichéd themes – lost loves, illness, dementia – to aliens having sex, visits from the Buddha, incandescent women, families and their fridges. As an editor and reader, I am happiest when my ideas are torn apart. When I fall for a piece with raining frogs or talking trees or a stringent conversation on a country lane. Anything can sing. Anything can climb above and grow wings.
This September/October I will be teaching the Litro Flash Fiction Masterclass where I will be sharing these ideas and putting you to the test.
You can sign up for the classes Here.
There is a legend in my family, that the women came from the sea. That they pulled themselves from foam, toes clinging to stones, eyes wild and dark, with magnificent hair. They fell into the arms of the men on the shore: men who sailed and fished, who had drunk so much salt water their blood ran with it, who had sea kelp wrapped round their ribs and salt in their bones. They gave up the sea for those slender, human arms, hands tough from years at oars.
When I was a child, on the days she couldn’t stand to speak to me, my mother drew me baths, added kitchen dye, and left me in the light that melted through the windows. For years, I lived in discolored skin, softly turquoise, lapis lazuli where the dye could settle–– the creases in my palms and the bottoms of my toes, my navel a refuge of the deepest hue. In the tub, absorbing soap: that was where I memorized myself. The baths became a place to take stock: first an itemization of physical changes–– skin going soft in the places that were meant to go soft–– then a time to search the folds of my mind, the deepest pockets of conciseness, seeking traces of the sea. Our bodies hold collective memories, and I hunted my mind for the wraiths of my ancestors–– the ones who gave up the water–– for the knowledge they stole from me.
When I was not in the bath, I was watching my parents. I watched the way they touched each other, his hand along the bridge of her back, her legs draped along his knees. I watched her pat vivid color on her mouth, then his lips taking it off. I watched them for signs of more than momentary enjoyment, for something that might sustain them through the volleys of accusations, the battering of melodramas. There was nothing, not in even the tenderest touch, that convinced me love was enough. My ancestors made a poor bargain, when they relinquished the ocean.
Now, in the nighttime, while my parents sleep, their land-tethered bodies resting on featherbeds, I walk the long way to the ocean alone. Cliffs leap up on both sides of the path, strangers stalk through the deeper darkness between cottages, and in the winter it is a struggle to pull myself over the dunes, but in the dark no one can see my fingers work at unthreading my mother’s necklaces, or watch me wade past the breakers to return the pearls to the salt water. If I make the requisite sacrifices, perhaps the sea will accept me. One night, when I have gathered the necessary courage, when I sink into the depths and the waves envelop me, do you think gills will grow in the skin that wants to remember them?
Read Litro’s interview with Guillermo Stitch.
Lake of Urine is original and absorbing, a mad whirly-gig romp through the lives of the Wakeling family. A post-modern fairy tale told in the absurdist tradition. There is a house in the woods, a heroine, an anti-heroine, a madman, a witch, a magical lake and a house brimming with secrets. It is daring, exuberant, stuffed with satire and literary tropes from Dickens to Barthelme, Calvino to Angela Carter, and totally exhausting.
Subtitled “a love story”, the novel is set in an ambiguous American outback, in an era where smock-wearing peasants drive horse and carts as well as cars, talk on mobiles and live in proximity to multinational corporations. What passes for “love” is unclear. The long list of encounters which comprise a large part of the novel are brutish, debauched, and devoid of any intimacy. Romance is as sparse as the string which holds the story together.
The novel follows the story of The Wakeling family, who live in “the compound” on Swan Hill. It begins in the snowy chill of winter with Seiler, the family factotum, who recounts his unrequited love for Emma Wakeling’s daughter Noranbole, and his intense dislike of her sister Urine, before embarking on his misguided vanity project to measure the depth of Swan Hill lake with a length of string; the consequences of which are both fantastic and surreal.
The second part of the novel is given over to Noranbole’s escape from the backwoods to the Big City with her fiancé Bernard. It’s a savagely satirical commentary on capitalism, consumerism, vacuous celebrity, and corporate America, where Bernard’s incomprehensible utterances (in Spanish, hybrid European, Asian and binary code) appear cogent in the land of corporate strategy, think tanks, and management speak; where conglomerates talk of radical rethinks and hammer out exponential crisis in unchartered waters. Language is nonsensical, reduced to a post-modern Mall of Babel. The more they speak, the less they say.
In the third, and most conventional part of the novel, Emma Wakeling tells the story of her eight husbands. Each husband, if not downright brutish, has more than their fair share of perversities and infidelities in these tales of Gothic backwoods courtships. Told with wit and economy, the story of Emma’s desultory marriages is deftly woven between descriptions of the rooms of the Wakeling house, all of which bear witness to private perversions, secrets, and misdeeds, recounting the story of Emma’s conception, birth, her courtships and why things in the attic go clunk.
The final part of the book returns to Swan Hill sometime hence. Spring blossoms but things are getting ugly. New etiquette and laws are needed. The overreaching arm of the state is omnipresent as Seiler revisits the scene of the crime in one last bid to measure the depth of the lake. Mysteries are solved, the jigsaw slots neatly together in true fairy-tale tradition. Magic abounds. Urine reappears. Noranbole escapes, and Seiler gets his comeuppance.
In an interview with Litro, Stitch claims Lake of Urine should not be considered as a cultural critique. He rejects the absurdist tag, preferring the term fabulism, invoking the ghosts of Aesop and Calvino. While the novel clearly contains elements of metafiction, hybridity, fantasy wrapped up in a convincing real-world setting, it lacks the depths associated with these works. Stitch is at his best subverting rather than narrating. Despite his reticence to be thought of as cultural critique, it is the dazzling pyrotechnics of language and satire that bind the book together; the quest for meaning in world which clearly has none. The characters are tissue thin, the plot lurches like a dodgem in spastic motion, in stops and starts, yet none of this seems to matter. For sheer exuberance and energy alone, the journey’s worth taking. No one emerges from the Wakeling compound unscathed.
Lake of Urine is published by Sagging Meniscus.
This week on Litro Lab, we bring you a satyrical poem from no other than resuscitated 18th-century poet Wortley Clutterbuck. Monuments were built in the past to commemorate war and other events from a shameful colonial past. But if they could talk to us these days – what would they say?
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Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto thought that his sister-wife would value cleanliness more. Their father had washed the both of them into existence from his eyes after all, he from the left, she from the right; but ah, they were already placed on opposite sides from the very beginning weren’t they, but still, that didn’t mean he should be banished just for valuing cleanliness so.
“The food she offered had been expelled from her mouth, nose and genitals,” he tried reasoning with his wife. “Her rectum, even. She deserved the sword.”
That did not garner the expected reaction. His wife had frowned, turning away in disgust, disappointment, perhaps boredom, Tsukuyomi didn’t know, but the one thing he was sure of was that she was turning away from him not at what he had just said.
It was the last time he would ever face her. Their chase would begin the next day after he was expelled from the heavenly realms, the moon forever playing catch-up with the sun.
Tsukuyomi called after his wife’s back, trying desperately to reason with her.
“It was dirty,” he said. “Filth. Expelled from mouth, genitals and rectum. Would you have placed your own mouth, divine and perfect, you who painted the world into creation, anywhere near such excretions?”
And as he chased her across the sky and his weary feet across the celestial firmament wheeled the days and nights into being, the farmer-mortals sweated under the sun and into the crops they would turn into food, thick with satisfaction at their labour; They caressed each other’s arms in the cover of night blanketed by cicada song, redolent with the stink of the day.
Tsukuyomi thought to himself:
In a different elsewhere, perhaps she would have agreed, agreed that the food excreted (and vomited and hacked up) from the goddess Uke Mochi had not been fit for their table and relented to his advice. Husband knows best, she would say while leaning against his arm and looking up at him through her lashes. What do I know of such things? We deserve a better feast.
In a different, different elsewhere perhaps he would have revelled in the filthy materiality of it, the abjectness and excess. He would not have minded putting his own mouth anywhere near mouth, genitals or rectum.
Tsukuyomi is making his wife sing, the mortals would say with smiles upon their faces, on days when the wind was crisp with the promise of rain, a downpour that would bring relief from the stickiness of the sun and wash away the accumulated dust and grit of the land, when the moon was uncannily bright and magnificent in the sky. His wife is pleased and the crops will be plentiful.
It would be taken up by the nobles in the courts who practiced the art of moon gazing, veiling their secretive smiles behind scented fans, coyly sneaking looks at each other when they weren’t looking up and speaking of the moon-reading god. Ah, no, he isn’t reading the moon today. He is scribing his heartsong in the bedroom.
Again, and again, his name would have been spoken of, from low farmhand to elevated imperial, weaving itself into the fabric of everyday life instead of being shunted into the margins of history.
A good omen and blessing, people all across the land would sigh, Tsukuyomi is making his wife sing tonight.
This week on Litro Lab, we bring you an original piece of surreal fiction. Have you always dreamed of living next to a sandy beach? What if someone told you that should be everyone’s right?
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World’s Fair, Paris, summer of 1900: we’ve arrived from two dozen countries. Nine hundred ninety-nine women with a single fever dream. In a mixture of addled French and our languages, we talk while heading down to Vieux Paris, to the Victor Hugo display. Religion and violence intertwined. A wash of jugglers and clowns and madmen: fiction made real. Esmerelda dances beside her funny white-haired goat. Quasimodo – a sheer shadow in his warped tower – gazes down. Food vendors dressed in medieval costumes sell mead and meat pies, shouting out good deal with outstretched hands. The smells leave us nauseous, a slick, hard feeling, but still we buy pies and bite in. Small packages warm us. Sour acid crumbles down our throats.
Nervous to meet? Yes, but more nervous not to. But what if we start arguing? Grow bored with one another; hateful, even? If we meet, for a few days, then scatter?
We must, as best we can, distract ourselves. Here, a moving sidewalk shoots us to the Trocadero, past skulls leering at the Dahomey hut, over the Jena Bridge. Here: exhibits chart the glories of progress: colonial riches, a sparkling (overdone) American-style Ferris wheel.
We stay for hours, gathered in small groups, chatting. Some link arms. Some stay silent; others shout, amid shimmering lights at the Palace of Electricity. This landscape’s composed entirely of flashes, threaded through with novelty.
*
The next morning, Frau Elena, the one who’d called us, takes the podium, birdlike, Eiffel Tower gleaming at her back: hands at her heart, mouth working reedily. “The year: nineteen hundred. Propitious, yes? The year we wash our hands clean. The year we’ll use to imagine.”
Clustered in a circled pack, we listen, empty-handed, and dream.
Around us, the sounds of an entire World’s Fair coalesce: flickering lights, tinny music rising up from birches, turnstiles, bowled sky. Gripping the podium, Frau Elena releases her skirts and starts speaking, head tilted, voice a bullhorn, detailing the history of this place. “Earlier this year, Parisian architects received free rein to design buildings in any style. They planned to gut the city completely, leaving only Trocadero and the Eiffel Tower untouched.
“Soon,” she continues, “complaints poured in about inadequate space. The Japanese delegation lacked room on the pavilion. The U.S. – kept from the Quai des Nations with the other first-world powers – launched an official protest.[1] We are equally if not more important: their argument. Laughable? Maybe. But in the end, their bullishness won out. As they squeezed between Austria and Turkey, all the ‘less important’ countries made room.”
Yet the pavilion needed a centerpiece. A signature. A clou. Transforming the Eiffel Tower would do it, the higher-ups said. Change the lower half into a waterfall; crown the upper with a 450-foot statue of a woman with searchlight eyes blinding everyone in her reach: a brilliant panorama, sharp-lit gaze crazing the roving tourists. Or crown the tower with clocks, sphinxes, celestial globes: everyone spouted out madhouse dreams.
“In the end,” Frau Elena says – spinning to us, triumphant, black braids unwound, long dress hiked to her calves – “the Committee chose to apply a coat of golden yellow paint to the Tower’s spike, then turned their attention to more reasonable alternatives.”
And us? Before we can move forward, we must decide to collaborate. It’s not as simple as it appears. Perhaps, she warns – reedy voice grown severe – we’ll start catfighting, quibbling before our three days are done. In such circumstances, who’d build a fresh community? Who’d want to? Not her. She’d never want to leave with such a crew.
And so: in a nervous haze, we spend three days among the lights, among Swedish castles and Turkish turrets that stir every longing we’ve ever known. Seventy-two hours; more like a hundred years. Among pleasure gondolas, fishing boats, Art Nouveau architecture, we wander, splashily clean. Our voices din among the torrent. Cakes and sticky breads linger in our throats.
Every few hours, Frau Elena comes round: small-faced, back so elegant, she could bear wings. In groups of two dozen, we head off to inspect the diesel engines, the talking films, even that magnetic audio recorder (the telegraphone, a mustached man at the front proclaims). We try to pretend we’re engaged, not struggling to decide whether we could live together, as one community, for weeks, months – years? Inspecting the first matryoshka, Russian dolls nested in dolls nested in bellies, we find the smallest, only fingernail size. Clustered together, claustrophobic, we travel to the pavilion Gates of Hell. The door’s bronze and plaster; massive. For a whole year I lived with Dante, with him alone: Rodin’s scribbled words. At the end of this year, I realized that while my drawing rendered my vision of Dante, they had become too remote from reality. So, I started all over again, working from nature, with my models.[2]
A triumph: six meters high. Beneath its portal, we loosen our lips.
“What,” we ask one another, “do you most love? What do you most want to leave?”
Soon, our laughter rings from every turnstile, every beacon. We joke with abandon, in basic French, with endless gesturing. We get along. We would get along, in hills or mountains, among the crystalline slopes of whatever forests we’d find ourselves in. The hope of it threads through our throats. Our hearts lunge forward. We’ve agreed, without even needing to speak.
Soon enough, our question changes: Where could we travel and not be seen? Beijing, Buenos Aires? Impossible, crowded spots. Some wooded valley: fairy houses, piled-up sticks? Or a Paris suburb? The Bois de Boulogne, say? Nearly a thousand women sailing about its glimmering lake? Consider its a rich history: a remnant of the ancient oak forest of Rouvray – now the forests of Montmorency, Saint-Germain-en-Laye, Chaville, and Meudon—
“A simple forest?” one woman laughs, showing horse-like teeth. “Ridiculous.”
“What’s wrong with a forest?” The chant rises up. “Leaves, mushrooms, sweet reek.”
“We need a space far more beautiful.”
We must not be found; that much is certain. If so, our society would be ended posthaste. We’d be laughed out of town; told to forget every notion we’d ever had of pure music, or of bodily purity. Pariahs, we’d be: no longer attended to, no longer the darlings of our respective stages; no longer feted, given trophies, no longer (we fear) even loved.
We back up, talk through the plan: a society of pure music, the first of its kind, untrammeled by spiritual deadness. Unruined by critique. Heart-rich, in a land meant for us. One where we’d lash together, sticks for a boat. Where we’d birth the first female sound.
“It’s been done before,” one girl says (too thin, with a downcast look).
“Not like this,” we answer, sharp-tongued. “Not so well.”
Thrilled, we start chattering, recalling operatic music: the rising tones of magma, geyser-spray, tectonic plates shifting underneath. In our ears rings the tone-poem of Jean Sibelius. We’ve seen the score: Finlandia. Only seven and a half to nine minutes long, it masqueraded (to avoid Russian censorship), under various titles: Happy feelings at the awakening of Finnish spring. A Scandinavian Choral March.
We won’t masquerade: we’ll become ourselves, better than any utopia.
Briefly, over lunch, then walks, then dinner, we review the historical attempts. Take the Oneida community in New York: seeking heaven on earth, or harmony, living as a single family. A noble enough goal, we assume. For a full day, we study their books, examine the photographs of their 93,000-square-foot home, The Mansion House.
“Take this as inspiration,” one girl shouts, enthralled.
“Don’t forget the general meetings,” another answers, sour-tongued. “Each community member criticized, their moral value considered. Faults aired. Listen to their goal: eliminate all undesirable character traits. And from their records: Mr. Noyes summed up. He said that Charles had some serious faults; that he had watched him with some care; and that he thought the young man was earnestly trying to cure himself.[3]”
“Here,” another girl, Lina, shouts, clutching a dog-eared page, “Women over forty required to act as sexual mentors for adolescent boys. Not allowed to conceive or bring trouble.”
We sigh, imagine pleasure without the decades-long aftermath. Ruddy-cheeked, bare-breasted, statuesque women, teaching lick and fist and chest out of duty, begging themselves not to fall in love. Press of lips to spine, hip to hipbone.
“But look,” a younger woman, Myra, calls, pushing back jet-black bangs, fumbling to the book’s end. “They have vineyards by the acre, raspberries, strawberries. Ten or twenty acres. Pear and apple orchards. Barns filled with sheep and pigs. Stabling for over one hundred horses and cattle. A truly natural spot, it sounds like. Perfection, I’d say.”
Still we sneer, reading over her shoulder: “In whoredom, love is paid for by the job.”[4]
Up until now, we remember, we’d always been trustworthy. The men in our lives liked us that way. They bound us, buried us, cared for us like little ferns; called us, once in a while, beautiful. The sound of beautiful became us, signaling that, temporarily, we had worth. We breathed in beauty as the Graces had, distilled it from our fingers’ motion, the cross of our legs, even the downswing of our bones. Dead – so we’d be in less than a century. All of us. Faces like fresh-plucked poppies, we could hardly believe it. For a while, men convinced us it was not so.
Until now, we’ve had only inklings of revolution. Our inspiration arose from the innovators of old: Maurice Ravel, who filled his house with tiny musical toys, convinced mechanical things contained musical souls. A small man, tending a tiny garden in a house meant for an oversized doll. Anton Bruckner, obsessed with counting: windows, statues, prayers, leaves. Before composing a piece, he counted the exact number of bars he’d need, refused to sway from that count. And that Erik Satie, demanding a piece be repeated 840 times in performance. Once attempted, the feat took over eighteen hours.
Or, our greatest love: Olivier Messiaen, who demanded that trombonists render a passage more green-orange. For him, each note birthed a color, and those colors shifted; orange to purple to navy blue. Swapped brain connections linked color and music. An obsessive transcriber of birdsong, he composed Oiseaux exotiques in 1956, involving eighteen different species from India, China, Malaysia, and the Americas. Such a collection could never exist in nature, he’d proclaimed. Only he could marry them, bring together divorced nature and sound.
We played music first because we were taught to. But once we found the love for it, we never let that love release. Music let our minds slush and fill with ocean surges, with March skies smacking continuously of snow. We loved music the way we imagined girls love cigarettes, the slim paper weight faltering. At first, we were only clever, so our teachers had said. We flinched when aggressive notes found us. They cleared, and our muscles slacked.
Over time, our technical skills improved. Music became an internal thing; a need. We tapped at the dinner table, sung notes under breath, drove mothers and sisters mad. We no longer whispered bass and treble. We proclaimed. Notes became our alphabets. In feathered fields, the weather grew dreary. Our mountains mulled frost. Still, we turned the pages of Rachmaninoff, Prokofiev, Brucker, Satie, Brahms. We honed our use of metronomes. We played.
And now, in Paris, we gather together and decide: we’ll move to a grand stretch of water, an oceanic tilt. We pull out maps and scan through every coast. Thunderous waves will become neighbors. We’ll found our society on the shores of somewhere. On shifting dunes.
*
Watergate Bay, Newquay. Cliffs and caves. Two miles of golden sand. Reliable surf from the Atlantic swells. Wheeling overhead: peregrine falcons, fulmars, gulls. Everywhere, birdsong, thrilling and strange, pooling from open beaks. We imagine that syrinx, the two-sided organ allowing vocal gymnastics, producing two pitches, unrelated, at once. That wood thrush, Hylocichla mustelina: what a genius, performing rising and falling notes simultaneously.
If you hear a bird sing, our teachers once told us, it’s probably male. In temperate zones, females tend toward shorter, simpler calls. Males produce the complex sounds we interpret as song. Young birds, fledgling, recreate their tutors’ vocalizations till they’re perfectly matched. Songbirds – catbirds, thrashers, mockingbirds – mimic otherness: cats, frogs, fire alarms.
Cornwall: Frau Elena’s birthplace, not far from Paris. A spot of birth and rebirth, of invention. A place we can breathe. If absolute music could arise from anywhere, it’s here.
All around: the hint of new music. Buzzing bee-like in elbows, stirring waists and spines. We’ve become one band, one pack. At shore’s edge, we listen to the waves’ sway and swell, flushing off Paris and men’s warnings – you’ll fall ill, catch pneumonia, starve. Not for now. We remind ourselves: we’re thriving, hungry, well.
We wake off this coast, a band of childless, motherless girls, our skin tones ranging – tawny-skinned, ceramic, skin as dark as water before stars. Dressed in loose skirts and shirts the color of autumn, we’re filled with the hope of wheat fields before they’re plowed.
We’ve arrived, the nine hundred ninety-nine, toting whatever instruments we can: flutes, violins, pianos, organs, violas: every symphonic object, every talisman. We heaved them onto the shores with mahogany thumps, metallic clangs. We remember our histories with these old companions (we touched their keys, blew into them our breath, offered our labors, the way men lifted firewood to flames). Years of hours, spent in motion even deaf men could feel. Jubilant – arms linked, faces skyward – we remind ourselves: we’re done with all that.
To invent a new music, we must first forget the old.
Waking, we imagine ourselves afloat in the Dead Sea, lighter than water, than air. Not wheat and chaff, as nature intended. Whale-bellied, dolphin-thin, straight-spined, hunched: no matter. Thrilled at the novelty, we dive headfirst into waves, hoping they’ve got what we’re missing. Uncontained, an intensity rises in us: the energy of fish bones, marrow, mud.
At shore edge, starry-eyed, we invent dances, give speeches absurd in historical reach.
“See,”a girl of nineteen shouts, jumping from a jutting rock: “Adam made from the rib of Eve, nicked from her body.”
And, “look here,” another calls – twenty-three, head held high as she mimics sheer greed – “Eve eating freely of the garden’s trees. Slaking hunger because it would otherwise have consumed her. Embracing the rumbling in her gut.”
“And here,” a third woman says, with a sallying dance, blond hair flinging, “Eve describing her first waking morning, sensing nothing inside her body but air (and God, of course). Every momentary motion, fish and fowl, upended, veins and tendons blossoming.”
Strange dreams fill us, nothing like the blurs we’d had in our family houses (small fires being set, flaming out). No: we dream of Robert Schumann, Romantic, face golden with suffering. My heart pounds sickeningly, and I turn pale: age eighteen. A year later: My symphonies would have reached Opus 100 if I had but written them down. Sometimes I am so full of music, and so overflowing with melody, that I find it simply impossible.
So full of music. We connect with his two sides: Florestan: the passionate, energetic aspect. Eusebius: the melancholy, introspective one.
Swayed, we strip. We’ll be embodied, visible. Ourselves, no poor imitations. We enter the sea. Cold waves scar. A startling feeling: we’ve hidden behind layers for months, years? The new-song urge stirs in us. Rushing out, we dress and begin.
How to find the first note? Authentic sound would resemble what? If only we had a compass, a map. On the beach, we set instruments in cases, lift them in a simultaneous rise.
“Start with the first notes you remember playing,” one girl cries, bow at the ready, and tries a careful scale: one octave, two. “The note that first rose up when you touched keys.”
In summer’s sheer humidity, her notes squawk, refuse lift-off. We all have a different notion of sound. Our pianos’ tones shifted based on altitude, sea level to Argentinian salt planes. One gave a concert in the Himalayas – mirrored music, five thousand meters high – altitude turning the notes crisp, her fingers freezing, mind refusing to recant.
“Swim first,” Frau Elena shouts. “Afterward, try again.”
Nodding, disappointed, we dive, resurface. Algae winds around ankles. Saltwater laces teeth. Breath jitters deep down. The air reeks of metallic mud. Each face pressed against the next.
We’ve listened long enough to stories of our sickness: thorns and strains, deathly hallows, that old urgency to drown, to sacrifice. No longer will our bodies anchor to bone. We’ll leave the poor musculature of tendons and flesh, turn eternal, airy, through the very fact of song.
At least that’s the promise we bind ourselves to, each to each. Refusing stale myths, recorded words, we dredge up every underhanded consonant and vowel.
Here, we trace alphabets in sand, creating tiny pockets and rivulets. Hours pass. We feel like children; not timebound, in flux. Against the backdrop of our wooden and wind instruments, against fluttering pages, we stand and dance: feet to face, hand to arm, wrist to femur, ulnar to nerve. Every overuse injury we flag and pressure, releasing strain.
Soon, our dampened scores look useless, ink-scribbled sheets. What purpose do they serve? What value, other than reminding us what we’ve left?
In one line of nine hundred ninety-nine, we stand, pages clutched to chests. Against the sea air, they crackle: delicate, out of place. For a second, the fury of past decades fills us. For too long, we’d believed notes could save us. We’d relied on notes – an empty hope – alone.
“Toss them in,” one of us shouts – the youngest, a thin, piping voice – and the rest of us follow, shivering. Pages lift, a single blinding force; starlings, taking flight. A single breath holds us, overwhelms. Among strawberry anemones, among crabs and rock pools, those pages descend, then sink. Good riddance, yet our minds whirl with nostalgia. A fold, a ripple.
Blue-green water eats those pages up. And then: the eagerness we once felt to fill stages, hold fermatas, leaves us. Our dreams grow grassy. The staffs that predict our present disappear.
[1] https://www.arthurchandler.com/paris-1900-exposition
[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Gates_of_Hell
[3] https://socialwelfare.library.vcu.edu/religious/the-oneida-community-1848-1880-a-utopian-community/
[4] https://library.syr.edu/digital/collections/h/Hand-bookOfTheOneidaCommunity/
“Are you going to eat goose meat?”
“What?”
“Are you going to eat goose meat?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t –”
“It’s the region’s traditional cuisine. You have to try some.”
This exchange concerned my upcoming visit to Ardahan, a tiny city located in the Ardahan Province of northeast Turkey. A paper I had submitted to the International Mythology Symposium, held in Ardahan each year, had been accepted. I managed to obtain funding. Woohoo, now I could proudly add Turkey to the List of Countries I’ve Traveled. In between sending my friends triumphant gifs of a dancing Fresh Prince of Belair and scouring return ticket prices on Google Flights, I was brushing up on my cultural knowledge of the region.
All I knew about Turkey was that the Trojan War had been fought there. Since I love Homer’s epic about the Trojan War more than anything else in the world, my opinion of the country was decidedly positive. But goose meat was something else.
A former colleague who had family near Ardahan Province was generously offering advice. “Also, on sunny days, you can see the phantom of Ataturk.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. In the Damal hills. His face appears.”
Well, good. I began to suspect that maybe Homer wasn’t fully equipped to prepare me for the trip.
I went home to do my own research. Lonely Planet describes Ardahan starkly: “Unexciting but likable.” I’m assured that it has a photogenic castle, initially built in the 12th century by the Seljuks, then restored by Suleiman the Magnificent. It has Kars geese unique to the region. The phantom phenomenon my friend described is the effect of shadows from hills cast across the landscape in way that resembles – unconvincingly, to my unfaithful eye – Ataturk’s profile. As I learned more about Ardahan’s history, legends, and cuisine, it began to coalesce into an actually existing location.
See, not all places exist. Especially not the obvious ones. The Notre Dame and Big Ben are instantaneously recognizable, but this has made them so seen, so photographed, so handled, that their reality has worn off. Real places are rarely iconic. Real places are unfamiliar. Real places aren’t aimed at tourists and so they don’t put you at ease, they put you into question. As you awkwardly navigate streets and cultural norms, you’re the foreigner, the stranger, the weird one. Haven’t heard of goose meat? What’s wrong with you?
The truth is that travel is uncomfortable and damned inconvenient. It isn’t until you stand at an 11th arrondissement bakery counter, stumbling over the words for a tarte aux pommes while the well-dressed gentleman behind you glares his impatience, or jostle past angry Remainers protesting near the Palace of Westminster, your collar and umbrella raised against a drizzle that frizzes your hair, that you’ve really seen anything of either Paris or London.
So, in the past few years, I have sought for wherever is less familiar – Granada instead of Barcelona, Vicenza instead of Florence, Ardahan instead of Istanbul. As I prepared for the trip, I reflected undemocratically: let them crowd into the Hagia Sophia with their selfie sticks. I’m going to eat geese in Ardahan!
Enter Covid-19.
My smug plans were interrupted by a health crisis that did not distinguish between sophisticated cultural observers (like me, duh) and ordinary selfie takers. As the pandemic grew, I told perverse jokes to myself: what do Tom Hanks, Boris Johnson, and your Great Aunt Maude have in common? We were all in this together, so we were all screwed.
As my colleagues and I watched conferences and seminars get postponed or cancelled, we became increasingly anxious about our research allowances. Sure, nobody becomes an academic for the money, but we do sometimes get to travel to cool places for free. Now, our usually buzzy office was empty. We lugged our laptops home, constructing towers of books on kitchen tables and hosting depressing Zoom meetings. Finally, the fatal email landed in my inbox: am I still going to Ardahan? If not, sadly, the funders will be obliged to withdraw their support. Please notify us as soon as possible, best wishes, thank you very much.
Suddenly, in a dizzy surge of travel restrictions, border closures, toilet paper shortages, and hysterical headlines (NEW STUDY PROVES EVERYONE WILL DIE), I found myself fleeing a tense but calm Britain for a pathologically unprepared America to reunite with my family before the UK went into lockdown.
Along with thousands of other flights, mine was cancelled the night before my departure. No explanation. I smoked a pack of cigarettes while listening to the soundtrack that Virgin Atlantic mercilessly inflicts on its callers. After eight hours of unpardonable stuff like “Move Your Feet” by Junior Senior and automated reassurances that my call is very important so will I please continue to hold, a gruff lady informed me that the flight is cancelled because the flight is cancelled and I can expect a refund in 90 days, best wishes, thank you very much.
I emptied my savings account and landed in JFK 48 hours later with a different airline. While government officials in blue uniforms and plastic helmets swarmed the plane to take temperatures and bark questions at the stricken passengers, a single selfish fear looped through my mind: I’m not going anywhere for a long, long, long time.
I spent the next few weeks feeling sorry for myself. The world’s travel enthusiasts were doing the same thing. They seemed so guilty, so very sorry to be performing the noble but grim duty of staying home. Instagram was flooded with photos from trips of yesteryear accompanied by lengthy captions explaining that a year ago today they were in Bali and they’re actually supposed to be in Shanghai or Havana right now, but the stupid pandemic ruined everything :(
I agreed. Stupid pandemic.
My husband remarked, “I bet that woman from Cannaregio can cross the bridge now.”
He was referring to an elderly woman we met on our last trip to Venice. In patient, measured English, she had explained that she hated tourists because they stopped to take photos along the two bridges between the produce market and her home. The posing, selfie snapping mass of people jammed the bridge and made it impossible for her to push her wheeled basket of groceries across. While I listened to her story, I had clucked sympathetically and condemned those inconsiderate tourists. I certainly didn’t regard myself as one of them. I wasn’t a tourist chasing Instagrammability. I was a traveler in pursuit of culture and authenticity.
Then I read that Venetians are pleased as punch about the Covid-induced absence of foreign crowds. Like creatures no longer hunted, locals have gradually returned to spaces they typically avoided and reoccupied their homes. They sat drinking coffee in St. Mark’s square again. They rode their boats along the canals. I recalled reading two years ago that Barcelona’s citizens considered tourism their biggest problem, since cheap flights and Airbnb were steadily pricing them out of their neighborhoods.
There is a disquieting irony in selecting Granada over Barcelona when Barcelona does not want me. A question surfaced: was Ardahan better off without me, too?
Of course, Ardahan isn’t crushed by an endless stream of visitors and its inhabitants can get to the grocery store without being shoved aside by aspiring models. The question is more abstract. If Ardahan does not think of me while I think of it, it’s because my week-long vacation would bring it nothing of real value. Traveling forges a relationship between traveler and place, and relationships are built on reciprocity. What could I offer the city in exchange for its geese and its castles? Sure, there’s the cash. After all, choosing Ardahan over the more popular Istanbul is really a sort of exploitation motivated by my desire to feel special, so I may as well pay up and be exploited in turn.
“But you were going to a conference,” my husband pointed out reasonably. “The conference wasn’t in Istanbul.”
I wave this away as accurate but incidental because I sense an insight. A superficial one, but still. So long as I’m saving with Ryanair and Airbnb, so long as I’m thinking in terms of what cool snaps I can take and how travel benefits me, I’m not establishing a reciprocal relationship with a place, but simply being a consumer. I’m taking treasures and giving mere dollars. I had exoticized and objectified Ardahan in order to consume it. And Ardahan deserves better than that.
In moments of deep unfulfillment, Pessoa comes to mind:
At such an hour, it would be best never to arrive at the human reality for which our life is destined. To be left hanging weightlessly between the mist and the morning, hovering above real life, not in one’s spirit, but in one’s spiritualized body, that, more than anything, would satisfy our longing to find a refuge, even if we have no reason to seek such a refuge.
The me-shaped hole in Ardahan is a marker for humility and learning. It sounds obvious but feels nuanced: because I’m not there, I’m here.
As I sit in my own home instead of cheerfully traipsing through someone else’s, whatever uniqueness I may possess seems less important than the comfort of knowing that everyone else is sitting at home, too. It’s no longer a lament but a consolation that we’re all screwed together. Maybe someday, I can fly to Turkey bearing reverential offerings instead of just a wallet and smartphone camera. For now, I find refuge in patience. For now, it’s best not to arrive.
Though the bridge is high, its roadway and pavement are so substantial that many of those who trudge across it are unaware of the railway lines beneath their feet. Amidst this evening’s homeward rush two figures are motionless, one seated on the outer edge of the bridge’s parapet, legs dangling over the sheer drop, the other standing beside him, leaning against the still-warm stone. It is clear that they do not know each other. The first man is hunched forward, staring downwards into nothingness, unaware that the attention of the second is fixed on him, his limbs tensed in preparation for any sudden movement.
Of those who make their way past these two men, some do not see them at all, and others see but look away – fix their eyes on the ground before them, or on the comforting familiarity of their smartphones. A few cannot pretend that they have noticed nothing, but react with anger – disgust even. Because the seated man is obviously a jumper, or soon will be, sending his ragdoll body to plummet onto the rails below as they look on. And whilst they are aware that such things occur – have heard the station announcements of a “person on the tracks” – they are not prepared for it to happen up close like this. Because, like it or not, a part of them is now forever seated there with the man. Can feel the hard edge of stone under their thighs and sense the enormity of the void.
A few more are drawn towards the scene by a more sympathetic impulse, but do not actually approach. Someone is there already, they tell their consciences, so no point crowding in. One of these calls 999, not slowing her pace as she passes, but doing her bit. The police will take some time to arrive though, because traffic is heavy, and they have been advised not to use their sirens in these circumstances.
One of those who passes has a particular reason not to be able to look away. The seated man slightly resembles her long-dead younger brother, but it is the other man her heart goes out to – that she wishes she could somehow save. Because she knows, and he does not, how his silent companionship there beside the seated man has already drawn him in, and will etch this moment into his mind forever. How, when the other does finally push himself off the parapet’s edge a part of him will make that death-leap too, so that all his life will be divided into the before and the after of this moment.
*
The seated man is called Peter, and though it is a long time since he has lived at home it is his mother that the police will call, because she is the “nearest relative” for the purposes of the Mental Health Act. Peter’s mother will feel no surprise, just that hopeless emptiness that she has come to know so well. The WPC will explain the circumstances – where Peter chose to go, how a passing stranger stopped to talk to him, and how another called 999. How people are pretty decent really, when you come down to it. And as Peter’s mother listens, memories will flood back of Peter as a little boy, high up in yet another tree, carving his initials into the bark. Everyone thought him fearless, but she knew different. It was the fear itself that drew him, even then – trying to face it down and knowing that he never could.
And in the dark hours of the sleepless night that will follow, the thought that will haunt Peter’s mother is this: if she had been there when Peter climbed onto that parapet, what would she have done? If it had been her he turned his empty eyes to, daring her to hold him back from the edge. Daring her not to.
It all got too much for Peter’s mother long ago. It is terrible what his illness has done to him, but what about what it is still doing to her? She hates him for it, and hates herself for feeling that way. They say a mother’s love is a limitless thing, but Peter found his mother’s limits long ago.
*
The other man is called Pavel, though Peter will never learn that. Pavel’s wife is at this moment sitting in their shabby studio flat waiting for him. Or waiting at least for some relief from the baby who will not settle, from the window that will not close properly against the autumn’s cold, from the strain of eking out Pavel’s meagre wages to the end of the month.
When Pavel does arrive home, she will ask what delayed him and he will say “Nothing.” It has become his favourite word of late. Every conversation between them this is how it ends: “Nothing.”
“So, what happened at work today, Pavel?”
“Nothing.”
“What are you thinking about right now?”
“Nothing.”
Just once that evening he will mention the man on the bridge, but she will be too busy then to listen. There will be the washing up to do, the baby to get off to bed, tomorrow’s packed lunches to prepare.
And then the sofa and the shared can of cut-price lager.
It will not be until they are both in bed that she will remind him of it, as they lie there, neither touching nor not touching, sharing a silence that has recently become harder and harder to break.
“So, the man on the bridge,” Pavel’s wife will say. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” he will answer, and roll to face the wall.
*
Peter and Pavel were at the high point of the bridge in a silence that separated them from the bustle all around. Their coming together like this was pure chance, and at first they were unaware of each other. Peter, lost in the turmoil of his unmedicated brain, had been poised on the parapet’s edge for some minutes when Pavel stopped to gaze out over the railway far below.
It was the mathematical certainty of those infinitely receding lines that had drawn Pavel – that and the ever-present possibility of an express train roaring past beneath his feet – and it was a few moments before he registered the wire-taut tension that emanated from the man seated on the parapet beside him, or the way the man’s legs dangled unsupported over the brink, as the hunch of his body drew his head forward to gaze directly down at the railway tracks. Pavel felt the other man’s profound despair as a tangible force and knew that he must offer him comfort, but for a while no words of comfort would come. In the silence the tension grew, and then to his own surprise he heard himself speaking.
“Do you know where they are heading?” he asked. “The trains on this line?” But there was no response. The words meant nothing to Peter – came from nowhere. All that was real to him was the parallel polished steel of the rails far below.
“I like them,” Pavel added, “the express trains especially. They race off so fast that in a few seconds they look like toys, but I wish I knew where they are going.”
At that, Peter turned to him and for the first time Pavel saw the haunted emptiness in his eyes and took an involuntary half step back. Peter wanted to say, “Go away. Leave me here alone,” but the words failed to form in his throat.
“There was a railway line near my village. In Poland,” Pavel said. He was speaking only because silence had become intolerable to him, but as he did so the memory flooded back – of the roar those trains made while he and his friends dared each other to stand closer, then closer still, until the solid force of the train’s passing nearly knocked them onto their backsides.
“Who cares where the trains are going?” Peter said.
There was silence again, and close as he was to him, Pavel felt he would never reach this man – knew that when he chose to jump, nothing would stop him. “Have you been here long?” he asked, and immediately heard the absurdity in the question and wished he could take it back.
Peter stared out into the distance and for a few moments there was silence between them.
“I have been in this country seven years,” Pavel said, “but it feels like all my life, sometimes. This place I like though. Because of the trains.”
“Will you shut up about the trains,” Peter said, his voice alien and harsh in his own ears.
Pavel could think of nothing to say, or nothing that he could put into English words for this man, and he continued to gaze out along the receding lines of the railway tracks. “I just like it here,” he said eventually, and Peter turned his gaze away.
Then Pavel heard a scuffing of Peter’s heels against the outside face of the parapet. He turned and saw Peter’s forearms tense, and fear rose in his throat. “Why don’t we go and find a café?” he said in a rush, and Peter’s voice when he answered carried a cold and final challenge.
“Don’t try and stop me,” Peter said. “I will do it you know,” and to that Pavel could think of no response, so silence returned, as impervious commuters hurried past.
Then Pavel reached into his pockets with both hands and, turning them inside out, he faced Peter directly. “Too late in the month anyway,” he said. “Even for a cup of tea. I’m skint,” and at that a wry smile crossed Peter’s face. Pavel pretended to shake his empty pockets, then patted himself all over, a look of comic disappointment on his face, and to his own surprise Peter gave a little snort of amusement. The strangeness of the sound in his ears released something in Peter and soon he was overwhelmed by inexplicable laughter, so that after a while Pavel joined in too, nervously at first, but drawn into the shared awareness of the absurdity of their situation. Their laughter built, until suddenly Peter jerked upright, his hands gripping the parapet edge and he said, “Shit. Nearly lost my balance there,” and that was it for both of them, and their great guffaws carried out across the crowded pavement.
After a while the laughter of the two men subsided and the silence that followed it had a different quality, as if together they had passed some threshold that neither had known was there. For a while then they just chatted – about Pavel’s baby daughter, about the rural villages they both grew up in, about the way the setting sun was lighting up the clouds from below and seemed to transform the railway tracks into endless lines of fire. And slowly the silences between words lengthened, as if everything that could be said had already been said.
And just for a moment Pavel wondered what it would be like to sit up there beside the other man – to sense the awful promise of the precipitous drop beneath his dangling feet. He imagined himself climbing up, awkwardly bashing knees on brick before being ignominiously hauled onto the parapet’s stone. Could almost feel the convivial warmth of the other man’s shoulder against his as they sat in silence, side by side. He was a thirteen-year-old boy again, sitting beside his fifteen-year-old brother on the highest accessible ledge of the cliffs near their village, staring down at the deep mineral green of the sea below. He could feel the hard edge of stone under his thighs, the sun-warmed roughness of it against his palms, the moment of exhilarated terror before he pushed off. The ecstasy of the jump itself. The endless rush of the wind in his ears.
*
Eventually two police cars arrived together, sirens off but blue lights flashing, and their occupants stepped reluctantly out onto the pavement, huddling together to decide who should approach first.
“They’re here for me, aren’t they?” Peter said, and Pavel nodded.
“I didn’t phone for them,” he said.
“I know,” Peter said. “It’s OK,” and as the WPC approached, he swung his legs over to the safe side of the parapet. Leant a heavy hand on Pavel’s shoulder as he slipped down onto the pavement.
*
Peter’s psychiatrist will later encourage him to think of this as a turning point, but even when his medication has restored some frail balance to his troubled thoughts Peter will not be so sure. For the doctor it will be the symbolism that matters – the aching void, the bridge, the friendly stranger – but for Peter the bridge will never be a symbol. It will always be a real thing, with a parapet that he can swing his legs over until they dangle free. It will always have a drop beneath it, high enough to smash him beyond repair. It will always overlook rails that shine dully in the evening sun, and stretch forever outwards into a future Peter will never be able to imagine.
But if the bridge will always be a real thing, so too will the few minutes of conversation he had there with the man whose name he will never know. The man who taught him the Polish phrase, tęsknota da zomen, and explained to him that it means a yearning for the place you have left behind.
“Homesickness, you mean,” he will remember saying, though understanding even then that the English word does not capture the depth of what the man is describing.
*
For Pavel too, that conversation will always live in his memory as a tangible thing, though he would be hard put to it to explain why. He will remember nothing specific of what the Englishman said to him, and when he gets home that evening the flat will still be as small, his conversation with his wife as stilted, the evening as long as they have always been. He will never be sure why he went over to the parapet in the first place – maybe it was to catch a glimpse of an express train racing through, or maybe simply to delay his arrival home. It is not that he hates his wife, or even that he has stopped loving her, let alone stopped loving his baby daughter. It is just that something in his life has ended and he does not know for sure what it is.
Some days, as Pavel is making his long and weary journey home he wonders if the Universe would notice if he ceased to be. But on that particular evening, during the few moments he spent with the Englishman high on the bridge, he felt as alive as he has felt for many years. Two express trains passed below, and Pavel barely even looked down. He just stood there, with the Englishman beside him, each staring out at the slowly changing colours in the late evening clouds.
The trees were our gods where I grew up. At the bottom of our garden there were no heavens, no judgment from above, just a dark canopy of high and mischievous lime and beech. They were the primeval narrator of spring, summer, autumn and winter. They were our theatre and our audience in a place where no one watched you, not God, not even your parents, no one except the trees.
It was customary for the trees to throw things down to earth for their amusement, just to see what we would do with them. Sometimes it would be a broken, blue speckled blackbird egg, other times it would be a large moss-covered branch, sometimes it would be a newly hatched chick, killed the moment it hit the ground. A dead fledgling jay was thrown once, whose electric blue feathers I coveted until my parents told me it was time to bury it. It was attracting flies and the maggots would be swift to follow.
There weren’t pet breeders like there are today – whose waiting lists, in the UK, have gone up on average from 100 to 400 since lockdown. Sure, you could get a pedigree Labrador or Golden Retriever if you were chichi. But more often than not, where I grew up, surrounded by farms and beyond that, moors, you got a sheepdog, a horse (if you were lucky), a cat (if you weren’t), or a mongrel being given away for free from a litter of unwanted pups. I wouldn’t get my mongrel for another year or two. So, during a petless summer holiday the gods threw me a bone.
The trees threw down a baby raven.
The high lime and beech boughs were thick with rook nests. At least, we thought they were rook’s nests, which was why, initially, we thought this fallen raven chick was a rook. Whatever it was, we knew to leave it alone. If we touched it its parents would smell us on it and might not take it back. Animals know the smell of humans and dread it. So I watched from the old glass in our front door. I watched from the window of our bathroom. I looked on from any window I could see the drive to check on the chick’s progress, or lack of it. And while I watched I wondered how its parents would even get it back up into the roost if they were to take it back? The chick couldn’t fly. Only flap and hobble about helplessly. But patiently, we waited. We watched it hop up and down the drive, as the trees watched us, waiting to see what we would do.
“Ignore it,” the gods rattled. “Turn your back on it. Let nature fix this with its heavy hand.”
Humouring the trees, we had to leave it for a night or two, at least give its parents a chance to come and retrieve it. The next morning when I looked out, the chick had gone. Staring down the empty drive that lead out on to the open road I prayed to the dark canopy that it hadn’t hopped out into the winding country lanes. A chick wouldn’t last a second out there; it would join the sweet smell of decay that haunts summer verges in the country.
I went out searching the garden, which back then had a decrepit, ivy-covered ammunition hut where the old boys of the village had sat and polished their rifles and played cards and drunk homebrewed cider in WW2. (Due to pretty extreme financial difficulties we were forced to sell the house a few years later. Among many refurbishments carried out to make the house less eccentric, such as repainting it cream from the dusty red like the iron-rich clay it was built on – my mother inspired to paint it that colour by a Jimi Hendrix song – the people who bought it from us knocked the old ammunition hut down, for which I hope the ground hexed them). There was a rustling from behind the ammunition hut. I went around the other side, preparing myself for the disappointment of a squirrel, or a blackbird, but there it was, the little raven chick. Its hopeless hobbling was becoming unbearable to watch. And it saw me, watching. We stood watching each other for a few moments. And in those moments I became determined to look after it.
After sprinting back to the house, I put forward my case: we’d been waiting all day and all night and its parents still hadn’t come. They were probably just looking down on the chick from their roost. The trees creaking in their ears, “Leave your child. Leave it down there. Let the foxes fix this mistake.”
Of course, my parents knew this was the easier option, to leave the chick for the foxes. But my dad is the sort of man who will avoid a bumblebee while driving if it’s safe to do so. And my mother’s much the same. So, it was agreed. We would wait until dusk, and if its parents still hadn’t come to the rescue, if the trees persuaded them to abandon their chick to the earth for entertainment, I was allowed to take it in.
We still had an old rabbit hutch from a very scratchy, aggressive and sickly rabbit that I had loved unconditionally and with complete disregard for my own safety. He’d died a few years before (an event that I’m sure was, if not a cause for jubilation for my parents, a cause for quiet celebration). So I prepared the hutch for the chick, I covered it in dried leaves, bits of twig, dried grass, moss, my own hair, everything I could find to make the it feel comfortable and at home.
Dusk came down thick in the West Country, especially in the summer: lilac then blue then black. The chick was still shuffling about on the drive, looking pitiful. There was no sign of its parents and it was wailing now too, only increasing the likelihood a fox would come – the neighbour’s cats were too fat and lazy. It was wild beneath the impression of “English countryside”, and the cats knew they were no match for what lived out there. For whatever bit the heads off all my pet mice leaving only their bodies. The cats stayed where they were princes, on their porches playing with mice and flies. But foxes, stoats, ferrets, and big fucking rats too, they would have the chick in a pounce.
I picked it up – pre-pandemic, I had no fear of diseases from animals. I had no fear of diseases. I’d caught a lot of chickens in my time and birds and bats frequently flew into our house, and it was always my job to catch them because I could do it so it didn’t hurt their wings. So catching a raven chick was not a big deal. You just have to make sure you grab the wings so it doesn’t hurt itself. Whisper, “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe.” Whisper louder than the trees that tell it to fear you. They still pant and blink but you can feel them calming with your reassurances.
Placing it carefully in the hutch, making sure it looked as comfortable as possible, I filled a little tray of water. It also needed to eat, so I went and looked under logs and rocks and stones and pots and collected a feast of bugs for my new raven chick. I put a slug on the edge of the open hutch, which after a moment’s inspection it ate. Then it was easy: I put my hand in the shape of a beak, and passed it another slug. After a couple of days, my parents pointed out this was not a sustainable means of feeding the chick. Who, thinking it was a rook, I had imaginatively named Rookie. We investigate: what do rooks eat? Pretty much anything, we discover. They like meat.
The trees smile. Good, very good. Take him in. Give him your heart to eat.
We were a largely vegetarian household, save for the monthly Sunday chicken. But the next time we went to the supermarket we were buying mince. I had to feed Rookie regularly and my parents were right, it was a struggle to find enough bugs, and birdseed certainly wasn’t enough to sustain it. I had no disgust in picking up a slug, no guilt as I would now in catching a bug, a beetle and feeding it to it with my hand-beak. But I did have to relent and supplement this with a little mince, which was the only thing that did make me grimace when I fed him.
Soon the chick and I had a bond. And after a few weeks, he was starting to get the hang of flying. He would fly from my arm and on to the ground. And then, the most magic bit was, he flew back again. He was getting big, and I knew that before long, if all went well, one day he would just fly away. But he didn’t. He flew to the ground and came back. It was a humbling feeling to have that bird’s trust and I wouldn’t have done anything to break it. I cared for him with all my heart while trees watched on and laughed.
“Maybe he will never leave you.”
Rookie had started pecking around on the ground, looking for his own food, but still relied on my slugs and the occasional bit of minced meat. He was able to fly further and further. Soon I found Rookie could fly from my arm all the way to the other side of the garden. But he would still come back to me, with my arm outstretched for it.
To get Rookie out of the hutch I just held out my wrist and on he hopped. My dad, who had been watching this from the kitchen window one afternoon, came out filming Rookie flying away and back again, away and back again: everyone was quite surprised at the bond we had created. Everyone was surprised except me. I grew up an only child in a village where there weren’t many children, not many I spent much time with. My time was spent with animals. With toads and frogs and butterflies and bats and birds. I was an animal. The woods next-door weren’t ours, but they were only a ditch-jump away and nothing was going to stop me spending my days in there and treating them as if they were my own. I climbed the trees that watched me. I ate all manner of poisonous things – one of my favourites were baby acorns in the farmer’s field next-door. I only found out in my twenties that they’re poisonous. I drank the nectar from honeysuckle.
I didn’t feel the separation.
But then I felt the break.
That day was the same as every other day, as those days always are. Another sunny day in the eternity of summer holidays. I was proud of how far Rookie could fly now, encouraged that he wasn’t totally reliant on me for food any more. Relived that if there were a daytime fox or a chancing cat or a fucking big rat he could lift himself above the earth from which he had fallen and cackle at his would-be killer. Most of all I was honoured that he kept coming back to me. If I held my arm out long enough he would fly back to it. I knew not to pet him too much, so I’d just let him sit there as I held out my arm, mimicking the trees that had thrown him down. I was a god for a time.
You can feel when a bird’s about to take off. Rookie would push down a little on my skin with his feet, then raise his wings, and then he would push harder and pull down his wings and then he would leave me with just one beat. As always, I watched as he flew over towards the edge of our garden that rolled into the hill and down to the neighbour’s epic field, the pond there, the willows, the ducks. I watched as he didn’t stop at our hedge. I watched as he flew up and over it. I watched as he flew out over the field. I watched until I couldn’t make Rookie out in the bright sunlight anymore.
I stood there with my arm out waiting for his return. I stood like a tree waiting for him to come back to me, as the gods chuckled in the breeze. “This feeling of abandonment,” they whispered, “this is our gift to you. Embrace it. It will come again and next time, you will not be a stranger to it.”
The writer Percivel Everett had a similar experience to mine when a baby crow fell from a nest on his ranch outside Los Angeles. Everett took the crow in, named it “Jim Crow”, and raised it for a couple of years. “I kept wanting him to fly away and have a crow’s life, and he finally did when I wasn’t there,” he told Creative Capitol. “Crows are really monogamous. He wouldn’t let my dogs come near me, or anyone come near me. He would just scream at them if they did. As much as I loved him, I would never have another crow for a relationship – it was too intense.”
Maybe I was lucky to have such an independent raven. Mozart’s pet starling stayed with him until its death on June 4th 1787, and Mozart was devastated by it, so devastated he held a funeral ceremony. “He arranged a funeral procession, in which everyone who could sing had to join in, heavily veiled – made a sort of requiem, epitaph in verse,” writes the contemporary historian von Nissan.
Here rests a bird called Starling,
A foolish little Darling.
He was still in his prime
When he ran out of time,
And my sweet little friend
Came to a bitter end,
Creating a terrible smart
Deep in my heart.
Gentle Reader! Shed a tear,
For he was dear,
Sometimes a bit too jolly
And, at times, quite folly,
But nevermore
A bore.
I bet he is now up on high
Praising my friendship to the sky,
Which I render
Without tender;
For when he took his sudden leave,
Which brought to me such grief,
He was not thinking of the man
Who writes and rhymes as no one can.
—Mozart’s funeral poem for his starling
There are reports that Virgil, in what can only be described as either a test of the limits of human compassion or suspension of disbelief, reportedly adopted a housefly. When the fly died, he forked out an exorbitant amount ($2.6 million in today’s money) for its funeral and burial.
I suppose I was lucky to be left this way rather than another.
The origin of Life is chaos, but sometimes Life finds ways of making you believe there is an intelligent organization to it, or at the very least synchronicity, meaningful coincidence. As I write this piece I take a break and go for a run (a new, post-lockdown activity). Turning it over in my mind, I think about Rookie and how, in spite of the risks of doing a bad job, I did a good job by him. I think, I would do the same again, if I had to.
I turn the corner on the road leading home and notice that there’s a black shape ahead, sprawled out on the dusty lane, gleaming in the midday sun. I’m very short-sighted and it takes me a while to work out what it is: it’s a fledgling raven. Its wings are splayed out either side, and it’s not moving. What’s immediately evident from its position is that it’s in pain. I leave the track and run slowly on the grass verge beside it. I stop when I’m close and stare in disbelief. It’s panting and I’m concerned about the heat. There’s a woods on the other side of the lane and I wish it would hop in there, where the trees will shade it. But it stays in the hot sun, preening one of its outstretched wings repeatedly. I look up at the oak trees. This raven, this new raven, was it thrown or did it jump?
“Is it hurt?” a large old man calls over to me as he bounds his big legs down the hill.
“I think so. It looks like its wing.”
“Looks like he’s a bit knocked out, doesn’t it? Oh!” he exclaims, “I hate to see any animal suffering.”
“So do I… I hope it’s just a bit stunned, I don’t know, but I wish it would go in the woods where there’s some shade.”
I barely take my eyes off the raven as I speak to the man, watching it panting. From up the top of the hill, two joggers are running straight towards it. They don’t decide to go in single file so as not to scare it, they just keep running in tandem towards it until the fledgling is forced to hop out the way. It doesn’t go for the woods but on to the grass a few feet away from me.
“It’s funny,” I mutter, almost to myself, “I’m just writing about a raven I looked after once…”
“Is it a raven?”
“It’s a rook or a raven – I can’t tell from here and I don’t want to get too close.”
“Why don’t you pick it up and take it into the woods?”
“It’s best not to touch it. I could try and shoo it towards the woods but I don’t want to scare it.”
“I’d think it’s better to pick it up and take it over.”
I shake my head.
“Maybe we should call the ranger,” the old man says.
I stand watching the bird, willing it to fly, but it just stays there in the midday sun, one wing splayed out, preening it.
“Have you got a phone? Can you call the ranger?” I ask. “I thought it might be stunned but … it looks like something’s wrong with that wing it keeps preening.”
The old man immediately gets on the phone, and gets through so quickly he must have the rangers’ number in his address book. “Hello? Yes, hello. There’s a raven in great distress, I’m wondering if you can do something about it? Can you call the RSPB?”
With some difficulty he describes our location and is then put on hold while I stand guard against predator, sadist or another careless jogger. To get to the raven, they have to come through me. We watch over the fledgling for several minutes, waiting. It hobbles about a little, but mostly tends to its wing. I stare at the bird and question whether, if it came down to it, I had it in me to look after a raven again. I do, but to my disappointment, the difference is I no longer want to.
After about fifteen minutes, without warning and with the old man still on the line, the fledgling takes a few clumsy flaps and flies up into an oak tree just above our heads. The old man calls up to the raven, “Oh my goodness! Are you alright up there, darling?”
Thank fuck, I think, waving my goodbyes as the old man shouts happily down the line, “He’s okay! He’s alright! He’s flown up into the tree! … Are you there?”
That same night, the copse of trees opposite our flat that acts as a roost for a hundred-odd ravens suddenly comes alive. I don’t usually pay them any mind. But something’s spooked the birds and their black bodies – huge above us under their full wingspan, almost buzzard size – cackle and caw and bark and scream and wheel around and above our building for half an hour or so. It’s an awesome spectacle, and as I watch the ravens fly from the trees and over the buildings and back again, I think of all the abandonments that followed my first.
“Look at them all,” the gods chant above the racket. “They never left you.”
Hallelujah.
This week on Litro Lab, we access the anxious thoughts of a man while he walks through a rainy city. This is an experimental piece that blends music and words. It will take you on a rollercoaster journey alongside a character that many of us may find hilarious, but also relatable.
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There were mainly magnets on our fridge. Or photos of Neil and me smiling. I liked the magnet that went Everything is Figureoutable because it was different from the rest.
It was full of colour inside our fridge, like a play when the lights come on. Sauces and chutneys and jars of floaty pickled things, pinky-white ham and Dairylea. Shifting shapes. The Warburtons bread in the top left corner, the pull-out bottom where the green stuff hid. Dad’s Tupperware boxes. One for sarnies, one for reheatables. Neil’s Mega Muscle juice.
Sometimes ice crept onto the back of the fridge and Mum had to scrape it off. It made our knives bendy. And in the fridge-door, one of the egg-holes was cracked so Mum told us to watch out when we opened and closed it because there was a sixth egg wobbling there. We never broke it though. We broke other things.
Dad’s footie friends called Mum the Spaghetti Queen for a while and so she started to keep spaghetti sauce in an orange bowl on the middle shelf and wear dresses where you could see her tits.
I remember using that orange bowl to do my jelly experiment. I popped Churchill into hot yellow jelly water and watched him swim about a bit, then I put him in the fridge. When Mum opened the fridge she laughed her head off.
We buried Churchill out the back and I knew Mum was trying not to laugh when we said the Lord’s Prayer. I buried a magnet with Churchill that said Neither Lost Nor Found.
When I turned ten, Mum made this fruitcake birthday cake and it stayed on the top shelf forever. She said it was because it was shelf-stable, not like us lot.
Arid ground – granulated in texture – was the arena, the test track outside the school building in Kampala. Thomas Musinguzi had acquired components from Gabriel’s landfill. He’d visited the site early one morning the week before – outwitting flies, vultures and traders in detritus to get to the prime scrap wire. The subsequent five evenings, after he’d collected the materials, were spent building. He didn’t wait for the paltry electrical supply, that flickered, gave false hope before vanishing. No, he put faith in wax and matches to illuminate space. His fingers fiddled with electrical wire, using pliers to bend it into shapes. Thinner electrical wire, cut with snips, was used to tie thicker wire shapes together. Thomas was guided by his own sketched plans and a faded magazine containing super wire designs from Kenya.
When completed the wire structure looked fragile, shaky – similar to the borderline nourished frame of its creator. In reality both had inner solidity and strength.
Thomas, with his back to the school building, pulled the string levers controlling the wiry puppet. It moved awkwardly across the dry surface. Light dust plumes appeared after every step the toy structure took. A crowd of Thomas’ school friends gathered behind him, he noticed them, happy they were excited and interested. But there was someone missing from his life who he’d happily replace the whole crowd with: Shimit Thakkar.
Shimit was in Kenya, he had always been there, however Idi Amin had driven his cousin Urjit Thakkar out of Uganda. The cousin was the connector. He had lived next door to Thomas and boasted about Shimit’s famous wire toys – so good they regularly featured in the Kenyan magazine Creation. Thomas was shown magazine cuttings of Shimit’s work by Urjit, which he’d received from uncles visiting from Kenya. Thomas took inspiration from the cuttings and started to create his own wire toys. After he’d created a wire toy he was proud of he would go to the library and pay for the use of the camera to take photos of his craftsmanship. Once the film was developed he would ask Urjit to give photos to the latest visiting relative from Kenya, with the clear instruction to put in the hands of Shimit. Shimit was impressed with his pupil and started writing directly to Thomas.
Maybe now that Idi Amin was no longer in power, a lost friendship could be rekindled. Thomas remembered his last exchange with Shimit:
Dear Thomas
If only your president was as welcoming as you are, in these letters, the world would be a better place. But let us focus on the beauty of our inventions. Please find enclosed a magazine cutting of my latest drawings.
My cousin Urjit said he will also write to you shortly, he misses being there with you. He misses his country, which Idi Amin continues to deny him.
Your friend
Shimit Thakkar
Dear Shimit
Thank you for the drawings. As always they will be of great reference as I endeavour with my own wire creations. I am however a little disappointed that you criticise my president. I ‘am a patriot and do not share your troubled opinion of my dear president.
Best wishes
Thomas Musinguzi
Thomas didn’t have the courage to write again, the silence from Shimit, and also Urjit, told him everything he needed to know. His ink on paper had cut deep. Thomas had, however, left his political opinions in the 70s. He had turned fifteen in the new decade and politics was now confusing, moving at a pace he couldn’t keep up with – too many interim leaders and then the presidential commission. Too much for a boy, not yet out of school, to know what to think. Now everyone was telling him Idi Amin was a mistake. A friendship through letters broken by a mistake.
Thomas focused on moving the puppet, trying to get it to imitate human movement as much as possible. The crowd clapped and cheered as it gingerly moved along the earth. Thomas was smiling, sweating and hiding regret inside.
In March 2020, the world drew to a halt. An unprecedented stasis. Many grasped for metaphors. Weathered trenches, invisible enemies, barricades of N-95 masks. But analogies keep falling short. Instead, let’s start with an image.
Image no. 1:
Day after day, my Grandmother, P, emails me photos of the tree blossoming outside her bedroom window in Long Island. She is 89 and too scared to go outside to take the photo from street view. She, like many of us, fears becoming the positive space in public health models of catastrophe. So instead P remains locked behind tall glass windows, taking pictures of the neighbor’s backyard, and stitching angles of branches together in Photoshop. Each doctored image resembles a photograph of a cherry-blossom tree in a snow globe. Pale pink flowers enclosed within an atmosphere of glass.
Then, in the United States, being locked indoors meant live on one side of the biopolitical coin of life and death. Incessantly checking the news, “working from home,” distracting from grief: we find coping mechanisms that shut away a pandemic. For the privileged, shelter in place might be the most mundane articulation of biopolitical care. Shut away from an increasingly lethal world – made to live – as so many others are left otherwise: the essential workers, the incarcerated, the houseless, the elderly, the refuse of a gig economy. But unless you were losing kin, it was difficult to sense a state of emergency.
And yet were told that the air is more lethal than usual. A virus was filling the atmosphere with sharp shards of glass that will, depending on your life chances, lacerate the alveolus wall, scar the respiratory track tissue, and block oxygen from entering the blood flow. It seemed the whole world has become an atmosphere of glass. If you listened closely you might hear someone gasping, repeatedly, for air.[i] But for those of us at home, the noise was usually blocked out by the newly thickened particles.
This silence was misleading. Outside war proceeded noisily apace. Every nation claimed to be battling the same combatant. “We must defeat an invisible enemy,” men in suits announced to millions clutching their screens, “we are stockpiling ammunition.” Such proclamations were unsurprising: biopolitics has always been a war, if not an outright massacre. And it is not the first-time disease has served as its battlefield. Rather than decrying such comparisons, we might try taking metaphors for their word.[ii] What follows makes a case for apprehending disease as war. And in so doing, urges for modes of representation that can more carefully account for this violence.
Image no. 2:
When P is not languishing with her camera pointed out the window, she calls her sister, my Great Aunt S, in Los Angeles. S cannot leave her room in the nursing home she lives in because upwards of 20 residents have died from COVID-19 in recent weeks. Instead she nests amidst knock-off Louis Vuitton handbags, faded black and white portraits, Persian carpets, hair, and clothing. P and S talk for hours on end – together they tally the dead. A ritual kind of mathematics the sisters, having confronted mass death 75-years prior, are practiced in. Phyllis distills their daily accounting in her emails to me, as if to remind me that springtime’s life impulse is fertilized with the ashes of the dead.
Biopolitics is a lethally anonymous form of care, in so far as such “care” only cares for life as if it were not the singularity of human life at all (Stevenson 2014). The life biopolitics makes live is the stuff of abstraction: points that stretch or flatten population curves. History shows that staying alive is quite different than living. Liberal regimes of governance have long fought wars in the name of preserving life. The frontlines of colonial public health functioned, also, as the expanding imperial or settler colonial frontier. Climate, land, and native were discursively collapsed into a single diseased and inhospitable substance only the White Man’s alchemy could transform (Comaroff 1993, 307). Contemporary warfare remains as humanitarian as ever. Medical metaphors subtend counterinsurgency doctrine: a drone’s surgical strike likened to a tripartite medical procedure aiming to save a diseased body without leaving too much collateral damage (Gregory 2008) A few miles away from the moveable trailers housing drone operators in the American Southwest, the semantic structure of disease abets the continuation war – by other means (Garcia 2014).
If biopolitical care is a form of war, then disease often figures as its most lethal battleground. To be made to live is to exist, not as an individual life, but as a specimen encased in glass: an anonymous archive of government efficiency. You may struggle endlessly to breathe, but noise cannot travel through solid atmosphere. In such hostile environments, war metaphors simply exacerbate the lethal obfuscation of the biopolitical state. The dead enumerated as the collateral damage of unending battle rather than the singularity of a life. So rather mobilizing the same discursive formations, we might attend to biopolitics’ causalities differently.
Image no. 3:
My father calls me from the other side of the country to tell me that S is in the hospital. Something about too many sleeping pills and falling off her bed breaking her hip. He says “She’s stable, she’s breathing.” I ask more questions. “It sounds like she tried to kill herself,” he offers, “she was out of it the past few months.” The words sound hollowed out by their own inadequacy. In the silence that follows, I picture S finally giving herself over to thousands of images of death collected over a lifetime. A surrender as simple as taking a handful of pills. P does not answer the phone when I call her. Nor does she send me pictures of the cherry blossom tree outside of her window.
How might one represent biopolitical war reparatively?[iii] Image as method offers an immediacy that cuts through numerical abstraction. Like turning the pages of a photo-album, gazing carefully at each picture, sitting with the lacerating emphasis of a detail, getting lost in time. Rather than discursive certainties, images offer the possibility of taking you hostage, captured by the minor elements that sabotage accurate stories.
In times of warfare – epidemics, pandemics, and other forms of slow, intractable violences – writing that takes image as its method challenges the lethal forms of care dictated by the biopolitical state. Picture and text offer up precipitates of experience; an imagistic register delivers life in its singularity.[iv] “Every photograph,” Roland Barthes (1981) once observed, “is a certificate of a presence” (87). The image as method is a refusal to reduce living to a matter of enumeration, a refusal to traffic in the same language as the biopolitical state. To write of biopolitics’ causalities with images is thus to preserve the irreducibility of a life: it scrapes away at accretions of anonymity. It is, above all else, a kind of care (Stevenson 2014).
The image as method thus offers as much a biopolitical as an onto-epistemological provocation. Life and death are not simply matters of adding or subtracting to population registries, not simply lines peaking as public health crises or flattened into ordinary crises. Images of biopolitics’ causalities enliven social forms.[v] Images, Walter Benjamin once wrote, “are that wherein what has been comes together in a flash with the now to form a constellation.” In other words,” he wagered, “image is dialectics at a standstill” (1969, 462). Writing that takes image as its method presents scenes which explode the dictations of metaphors. The past interrupts the present to posit a different possible future. To write of biopolitics with images is to write worlds into being.
Image no. 4:
A few days later, P sends me a photo of Aunt S. A nurse in the hospital sent it over iMessage since no one can get inside to pay her a visit. S’s impossibly platinum blonde is hair faded into grey, her usually painted lips a pale purple, and her eyes roll back into the darkness of her cranium. This time there is no tally of the dead beneath the image. The caption simply reads: “S is Doing okay. In for Hip Surgery. A little out of it.” The edge of the nurse’s finger, a smudge of pale-pink cherry blossoms slightly mars the composition.
Biopolitics justifies war by monopolizing metaphors. Life and death are stripped down to a matter of calculation: immense violence obfuscated as collateral damage or rationalized as the price of a future well-being. Such abstractions kidnap perception, enclosing our senses in atmospheres of glass. Our capacity to apprehend the scope and scale of life sacrificed, let alone offer up a form of care, is stifled. Today our social worlds are suffocating for want of breath.
An image, I have argued, collapses the space between original and referent so that there is no room for analogies let alone abstraction. “In photography,” Roland Barthes writes, “the presence of the thing is never metaphoric” (1981, 78). You are confronted with the plenitude of a subject or a scene that refuses to be made into something else. The image holds the viewer in its irreducibility, demanding they keep looking.[vi] Attention indexes not only a form of intimacy but also a dependency between observer and observed. To be held by such images is to be held by life itself.[vii]
Today, as death is all around us, metaphors of war threaten to efface the lives slipping by outside. To present the images of these scenes of loss is to refuse to think of those already taken from this world, as well as those forced to put their wellbeing on the line, as anonymous points in a population curve. Enumeration is no form of care, let alone mourning. Instead, we might allow ourselves to be held by certain images. Gripped by the intensity, and singularity, of life itself.
Image no. 5:
The last time I saw Aunt S we flipped through the photo albums stored in my Grandparent’s basement before Passover Seder. A ritual handling of those faded images that function as a requiem to past lives. After one gin martini, everyone gets tired of the ceremony. “Put those away” my Grandfather muttered, “what’s the use of looking at those anyway.” Today, however, the only way to tend to the dead or dying is to care for their images. We witness ourselves paying homage to the deceased on glass screens – wakes, shivas, and funerals broadcast live on facetime, zoom, shiva.net, and viewneral.com. Amidst a saturation of images, it becomes ever more imperative to sit with particular ones, getting lost in the details, which also contain the fullness of a life lived.
*
Works Cited:
Anderson, Warwick. Colonial Pathologies: American Tropical Medicine, Race, Hygiene in the American Phillipines. Durham and London: Duke University Press. 2006.
Benjamin, Ruha. “Catching our Breath: Critical Race STS and the Carceral Imagination. Engaging Science, Technology, and Society 2 (2016), 145-156.
Benjamin, Walter. Illuminations: Essays and Reflections. London: Penguin Books, 1969.
Foucault, Michelle. The History of Sexuality. London:Routledge Press, 1978.
Barthes, Roland. Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography. New York: Hill and Wang, 1981.
Comaroff, Jean. “The Diseased Heart of Africa: Medicine, Colonialism, and the Black Body”. In S. Lindenbaum & M. Lock (Eds.), Knowledge, Power, and Practice: The Anthropology of Medicine and Everyday Life. (pp. 305–329). Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993.
Garcia, Angela. The Pastoral Clinic: Addiction and Dispossession Along the Rio Grande. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010.
Gregory, Derek. “‘Rush to the Intimate’ US Counterinsurgency and the Cultural Turn.” Radical Philosophy. 2008.
Lakoff, George and Mark Johnson. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980.
Mbembé, Achille. & Meintjes, L. “Necropolitics.” Public Culture 15(1), 11-40. 2003.
Pandian, Anand. A Possible Anthropology: Methods for Uneasy Times. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2019
Prakash, Gyan. Science and the Imagination of Modern India. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999.
Rabinow, Paul et al. Designs for an Anthropology of the Contemporary. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2008.
Sharpe, Christina. In The Wake: On Blackness and Being. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2016.
_____________. “Anti-Black Weather vs. Black MicroClimates. Interview by Leopold Lambert. The Funambulist. No. 14November-December 2007.
Stevenson, Lisa. Life Beside Itself: Imagining Care in the Canadian Artic. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2017.
Tsing, Anna. “Unruly Edges: Mushrooms as Companion Species.” Environmental Humanities, Volume 1. 2012.
[i] The intimacies between long-standing forms of structural violence and the contemporary pandemic might be apprehended through the rubric of breath. Indeed, Christina Sharpe (2016; 2017) frames the afterlife of slavery as a condition that withholds breath from those Black communities who live in its wake. Sharpe (2017) frames Eric Garner’s famous last words “I Can’t Breathe” as an eventful manifestation of the quotidian experiences of unbreathability, “where really the ability to fully live in a Black body is continually curtailed, foreclosed, so that you can’t breathe” (52). Ruha Benjamin (2014) echoes this assertion, reminding that breathing is always an epistemic and political problem as racism and capitalism suffocate Black life (147). Beyond the visible forms of police brutality that take the lives of those like Eric Garner, there are the invisible, slow, and structural violences. Violences that manifest in the preventable deaths by asthma that take the lives of thousands of Black Americans each year, and today, a higher COVID-19 death rate among Black communities.
[ii] Lakoff and Johnson (1989) famously describe how metaphors function, not simply as poetic flourishes in everyday language, but structure how subjects perceive reality. To decry using military metaphors to stand in for COVID-19 risks overlooking how warfare has and continues to quite literally structure how disease and is perceived and treated.
[iii] Stevenson (2014) attends to the effects of past and present biopolitical regimes of public health among Inuit communities in the Canadian artic, using images as a method that refuses “discursive certainties,” foregrounding instead those scenes when “facts falter and when things (and selves) become, even just slightly unhinged.” In so doing she show how Inuit communities resist the dictations of the biopolitical state, caring for the living and the dead in a way that preserves the singularity of an individual life. If hers is an ethnography of care, it is also exemplary of how ethnographic representation can sustain forms care and community otherwise effaced by biopolitical rubrics of life and death.
[iv] Stevenson 2014, 184, 11
[v] Confronted with the existential quandary of representing the intense suffering she observes among heroin addicts in Northern New Mexico, Angela Garcia (2016) grasps onto images (34). Citing Ludwig Wittgenstein, Garcia provides a mode of “seeing life itself” by documenting the scenes of death she encounters (2010, 155). Garcia quite literally sets these scenes – Scene 1, Scene 2, Scene 3 – as if inserting a still shot from a movie into the text. Enlivening each scene of death with imagistic detail, the singularity of the life at stake in each case is fully apprehended, as are the kinds of intimacies and socialites sutured in the wake of loss. Neither glossed as statistic nor ventriloquized as ethnographic sign, made to stand in for something else, the death she documents is also a form of life (181).
[vi] Barthes describes photographs as having the capacity to take “hold” of him, as the force of the image – what he calls its third meaning – eludes intelligibility (52). Stevenson characterizes this “hold” as that which remains after the symbolic and informational registers of an image have been exhausted: “that which makes you look and then look back again” (213).
[vii] Here I draw from Stevenson (2014) and Garcia (2010), who both cite Ludwig Wittgenstein, in their call to “see life itself” through ethnographic representation (Garcia 155, Stevenson 212). For both, images communicate the intensity of life as such – instilling ethnographic description with a generative capacity.
Our journey would be recorded. We could see the headlines already: “Transport for London freezes bicycle hiring after moon-worshippers break lockdown rules.” We had no recourse to anonymity. No stolen keys, no fake documents, no Villanelle kickass moves, just really cool outfits that rarely anyone saw any more. Citymapper tells me that the ride from Haggerston to Barbican takes 12 minutes at 2:17am. There is no traffic. No, this is not like any other night when you can say that and it means something specific. “There is no traffic” would have meant that you were not stuck in the rain with people of different shapes and sizes huddled under a poorly sheltered bus stop. That you were not waiting, impatiently looking beyond the interminable rows of cars for your bus number, too anxious to notice the dozens of window wipers moving left and right to the slow rhythm of engines, the fumes, the handbrake noises, all carriage click-clacking between neutral and first gear in a very dysfunctional parade, breaking and clutching, on repeat. Cyclists whizzing between the lanes, through the fumes with their masks, zigzagging, avoiding the motorbikes, the pedestrians who clumsily run across the street when the traffic lights are about to turn green, the aubergine that rolled out of the street market stand and onto the road, right there by the pavement of the bus stop with fourteen other bodies completely indifferent to what is otherwise a synaesthetic experience that all the technique and trickery of Dziga Vertov could not fully capture.
No traffic used to mean that the journey from A to B didn’t make you bite your nails, scratch your face and rub your eyes, look at your phone incessantly for alternative routes, light another cigarette, because the bus arrives every time you decide to light a cigarette, even in the rain. Now it means just that: no traffic. No cars. No bicycles. No humans. Sometimes, no noise, save for a couple of double-decker buses every few minutes looking like rusty gigantic souvenir magnets floating around from a London we once knew. The clinical LED lights on the top deck glared outwards like radiation from some forgotten passenger carriage in a sci-fi film. There was nothing in them, nothing but the ghosts of late-night debauchery, memories of drunken trips, lost keys and phones and those text messages that you should never have sent. We waved at the bus drivers and they flashed their headlights back at us. It’s the first time in my life that I have greeted a bus driver while walking down the street.
We were startled by some movement and rustling that came out of a bush. A scruffy ginger cat. A cat is always a good sign, ginger’s even better. We leaned over and gave him what he needed, all five fingers sinking into his back, fur in electric delight, he laid on the floor and opened his belly to us by the gate of one of those Edwardian houses sardined together. Giggling at the spring needs of this pussy we noticed a sign attached to the gate of a house that read:
PLEASE DO NOT STROKE THE CATS! IT CAN LIVE ON YOUR HANDS & THEIR FUR! THANK YOU.
That very morning we had come across the British Veterinary Association’s post that “There is no evidence that animals can pass the disease to humans.” What counts as animal in this case? We thought about writing the BVA message on a piece of paper and attaching it next to the sign for the owner to confront. We thought about all the information we’d been reading about bats and civet cats and pangolins. We thought that we should compose a series of statements about animals and string them across the rail with all their contradictions on display and perhaps hang a bird feeder somewhere nearby too for the cat to entertain itself since it cannot be stroked.
“There is very good evidence to think animals are the reservoir and the way the disease gets started.”
“COVID-19 is a zoonosis, a human disease of animal origin.”
“There are no known zoonotic (harmful to humans) coronaviruses found in UK bats.”
“It is humans that transmit COVID-19 to other humans, not bats.”
“SARS-CoV-2 (2) has been found in a single species of bat (Rhinolophus affinis) in China.”
“Chickens, pigs and ducks are not likely to catch the virus.”
“Dogs are not really susceptible to the infection.”
We banked this idea in the ever-expanding list of lockdown activities that will later compose yet another archive of immaterialized projects. A list in the present that somehow carries a future within itself, even if the word “project” has lost all its professional gravity, unable to attract the type of interest that once made people attentive to such keywords in the hopes that they would plug into their own utilitarian desires. Right now, we had more important business to attend to. At 2:17 am, beside the park with metal props longing to be touched, every single one of the bicycles was docked, waiting for us to conduct our “essential” travel to Barbican. We inserted the bike key and with an Atari-like beep an unlocking sound was made that was so magnified it was like the “Access Granted” scene in Charlie’s Angels (2000). I lowered the seat, hoisted my skirt up and sat on it, my panty-less cunt and thighs making contact with the gel-like cushioning protruding out of my crotch. I recalled the email from Transport for London that morning:
“We’re cleaning the service daily with anti-viral fluid, including the screen, payment device, docking point numbers and bike handlebars. Although the cleaning fluid kills viruses and bacteria on application and retains effectiveness at killing any viruses it contacts for up to 30 days, we’d recommend you wash your hands before and after hiring a bike.”
I didn’t wash my hands before gripping the handlebars. I imagined the mysterious anti-viral fluid conducting a microscopic Ju-Jitsu on my flesh. I wondered if there was someone in a room full of monitors waiting for the precise moment when a red button somewhere on a console starts to flash as an indication of unusual lockdown activity. Aren’t we always monitored? Or is that just what they want us to believe? That’s what they told us when the CCTV went up around our estate – “For Residents’ Safety.” They wanted us to feel special, that we were being cared for. That the CCTV is for us law-abiding residents and not the rabble of students and teachers, keyworkers and bankers, grandparents and children, junkies and dealers, Europeans and Africans, artists and figuring-it-out people or people who will never figure it out, that make up the 102 flats on a hectare of land in Dalston. The cameras made our next-door dealer’s life even more creative, while we discovered new deposits of fear that we thought our adolescence had long since defeated. That same fear is ever-so-present now. It bears a bitter-sweet familiarity. Like buying alcohol when you were too young according to either law or convention.
I don’t know exactly what rules we were breaking, but doing this, cycling, bareback, no masks, no gloves, fists around the bars, flesh rubbing up and down the saddle, so late at night, bore the mark of adolescent transgressions. The silence, the amplified noise of pedalling, noticing the tall buildings around us (when did that happen) with most of their lights still on, being able to breathe without holding your breath through smog – damn this breathless city and the years it took from me. Look at all this space, this openness, this energy circulating uninterrupted. I felt the wetness between my legs moistening the saddle and I laughed out loud thinking about the next person’s butt rubbing against this exact same spot absorbing my pleasure. I hoped they too would notice how handsome London is but that they wouldn’t fall into the trap. Tonight, London feels like an abusive lover that you bump into years later and you remember exactly what it was that made you fall in love with them in the first place. The sparkle in their mysterious smile and their confident posture that you would slowly come to hate when other people remarked how wonderful and charming they are. People who had no idea what it was like indoors, what it was like to feel weak, sometimes worthless, occasionally crazy, but always unfree.
This lover seems to be waiting, giving you the silent treatment, when in fact, they are calculating their next move. It’s not the first time that they have begged you to take them back, and after many break-ups, you know that each time it just gets worse. London will not change. They will become more terrifying in their manipulative strategies to isolate you, to cram you into ever tighter spaces and make up excuses about why this is necessary, to ensure your economic dependence on them and then tell you that your debt is due to you not working hard enough even when you are already working 60 hours a week. They will use every means possible – evictions, redevelopments, gentrification, rent hikes – to push your friends out until they are too far away to visit you, or they will ensure your days and nights are so preoccupied with survival that you don’t have time to visit anyone. Abuse happens gradually, small cuts here and there, barely noticeable at first, until a massive EXIT strategy is presented as a logical action to solidify your already fractured relationship. You can’t believe what’s happening and while you’re trying to make sense of it all, your friends have already left.
We arrived at Barbican, slamming the bikes into their locking docks with a combination of mischief and exhilaration. Tonight we can see clearly. Now that all the seductive traits of London’s artifice are no longer able to ensnare us, now that we finally have a little time and a lot of outdoor space, our shoulders have straightened out, our once-shallow breaths fill up all of our lungs, pressing against the cage of our torso, feeling once again that we have a torso, that we have a body, a sensual palpitating moist composition of bacteria and fluids circulating in perfect harmony and potential danger. What is there to risk any more when this city has left us with so little? It took a global pandemic to get us to tune into the small pleasures of existence, breathing, immersing our hands in the soil, sitting in the park when we are not allowed to sit down, cycling at 2:17 am to Smithfield market for an “essential” crate of strawberries so that we can make jam for the first time. Yes, it’s exactly what the final break-up feels like, you know, when a few weeks have passed and there is a moment when you start to feel the tiny particles of an unknown but exciting future swirling inside you once again. You imagine yourself, months later, waking up in another place, still adjusting to being single or in a happy relationship, occasionally looking over your shoulder (out of habit rather than fear), wondering how you once had ended up so unrecognizable to yourself. You start to notice that there are aspects of yourself that are becoming familiar to you again and that you perhaps even like. Cycling, or making jam, will remind you of who you are in that way that you like. On some rare occasions the fear you had once known, will be awakened by completely random and unrelated events – like a sad peanut bowl on a table or a black coat hanging off a chair – but it will be hard to discern if it is fear or excitement when it is all mixed up with the many other thrills you experienced on empty streets and forgotten cities. You will not have much, but at least, you will be free. Sometimes, you will even forget to wear panties. The last thing you will remember from those days, would be the large billboards that read, “Please believe these days will pass.”
This week on Litro Lab, Janis Harper writes an honest letter to her guru. After years of retreats and meditation, she is trying to make sense of a few shocking experiences. By asking questions to Guruji, she ends up finding some answers and coming to terms with her own spiritual awakening.
You can listen to the podcast on the player below, or subscribe to “Litro Lab” on Spotify or iTunes.
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As Kaliyah stepped out through the back door and locked it behind her, a tail of memory brushed the back of her neck. The feeling was light, itchy, and so fragile she was afraid that, if she reached back for it, the memory would break into a thousand pieces.
She didn’t move. She stood in the alley, behind the house, white-knuckling the bag with the severed hand. She took a deep breath of the rotten air that clung to the condemned house on O Street. Not the house. It was their house. Her crew had seized it more than six weeks ago, which meant they’d won it, fair and holy square. But she felt a tug of unease at the idea of leaving the others: Could she trust Octavio and Marta alone, with the new girl?
Fuck. Kaliyah looked down at the yellowish plastic bag and regretted believing the new girl’s story: Bring this hand to Gates General, she’d said, and there will be a huge reward. The girl was telling a truth, Kaliyah believed. At least … as far as she knew it.
And … they did need money.
Kaliyah’s knees wobbled – right, left – before she said fuck it and turned toward the street. The memory brushed her neck a second time. She stopped until her mind loosened its grip on anxiety and let her reach back to hold the memory’s delicate edge. There, she found eleventh grade. Dr. Hassan was at the front of the classroom, hunched over, both hands pressed against his stomach. The room smelled faintly of vomit. He’d been high most days. Drunk the rest. Other kids sat in the back and talked, but Kaliyah would tell them to stay the fuck quiet. She’d loved Dr. Hassan’s “true crime” stories from tenth-century Baghdad, which he read off his phone in the gravelly voice of nightmares.
Kaliyah smiled at the memory, trying to hold its lacy edge as she turned to walk toward the bus stop.
AQ was worse today, and she tugged up her collar, holding it between her teeth so she could breathe through her jacket. As she walked, she tried to remember the name of one of Dr. Hassan’s old stories. He was a good man. She wished she could ask him, now, what he thought about this severed-hand business.
The memory shifted, and she heard the edge of Dr. Hassan’s voice reading them a story … abouta severed hand. Kaliyah scrolled through her phone as she walked. The story she found, al-Tanukhi’s “The Girl of al-Ramlah,” didn’t seem like the one she remembered. The screen wobbled as Kaliyah read the first few lines, and this new story threatened to overwrite the one in her memory. She stopped, unsure. If she read this new story, she might lose the older one forever.
But this story was in front of her. She read:
*
A Baghdadi man was standing at his mother’s grave in Ramlah, Syria. The grave, at the center of town, wasn’t far from the home of his mother’s third husband.
Naturally, the man was unhappy. He’d been estranged from his mother for decades, and he wasn’t sure why he’d come all this way. As the curtain of night fell, he stood at her gravesite. Before he could walk away, he needed to end some unfinished conversation. When the stars had brightened and the town went quiet, the man was still there, uncertain how to resolve what lay between them. His knees fluttered with exhaustion; the journey from Baghdad had been long and difficult. The only reason he was still awake was that he feared what might be slinking through the graveyard. Eventually, the man’s body grew too heavy for his knees to bear, and he sank down into the damp grass near his mother’s final bed. He sat, gripping his heavy sword, struggling to stay alert as he remembered his mother’s soft, beetling laughter.
He startled awake to find a shadow at his mother’s grave, humming softly as it dug up the soil. Was this a dream? Or was this a djinn taken animal form? A wolf, mad with disease, unafraid of humans? The creature stopped digging and rested on its haunches, panting.
By now, the man knew he wasn’t dreaming. His body shook with icy heat. With great difficulty, he stood – one leg, and then the other – and lifted his sword above his head. He stumbled toward the beast that dug in his mother’s grave and brought the sword down with all his strength. The beast gave a strange, howling yelp before it scrambled away, first on all fours, and then it rose, terrifyingly, onto two legs. It fled the graveyard.
Sleep was now cleared from the Baghdadi’s eyes. Overhead, clouds slid away, allowing moonlight to brighten his mother’s grave. Part of her shroud had been dug up, and a bit of old flesh. The man looked away. A long time passed before he knelt before his mother’s resting place, eyes closed as he pushed the dirt back over her corpse. It felt like burying his own body. His hand touched flesh, and he screamed.
The man covered his mouth as he heard his scream echo through the sleeping city. He looked down at the hand. It was soft, young. Its back was decorated with henna, and its pearly fingernails had been trimmed and buffed to perfect half-moons. The man was shaking badly now, thinking this must be … his mother’s? The creature had dug it up because … his mother had been growing younger? Instead of being past seventy, had she become younger than him?
Yes, he thought bitterly. She was just the sort of mother who would do that.
The Baghdadi man put the hand in his lap and kept his sword at the ready. Eventually, he must have slept, because when an old woman startled him awake, the world was light. The Baghdadi scrambled to his feet, and the hand dropped to the ground. The old woman looked at it. Then she looked at him, then back at the severed hand.
“What have you done?” she asked, her voice full of pity.
The man was so bereft and confused, he let the old woman grip his arm. She told him she was taking him straight to the town’s judge, its qadi. “It’s the only thing to do,” she told him, dropping the severed hand into a sack. He agreed.
The Baghdadi man was expecting a doddering old whitebeard to come out of the qadi’s house. Instead, after the old woman knocked, a jumpy young man hurried outside in long, clean, neatly pressed robes. This qadi took an immediate interest in the hand in the sack. As the Baghdadi told his story, the qadi’s eyes brightened even more.
“Interesting, interesting, interesting!” the qadi said, rubbing at the sparse hairs on his chin. “We’ll solve this mystery yet!”
*
A bus squealed into place on the platform. Kaliyah started to jump on, without looking, but then caught a glimpse of the notice: Next stop: Yoth and W. 7th. She looked down at her phone, confused. “They changed the routes,” a woman said, from behind her in line. “Where you going?”
Kaliyah glanced down at her wrinkly plastic bag as she backed away from the platform. She sniffed at the air, wondering if the woman could smell it. “Hospital,” Aliyah said, tersely. “Gates Gen.”
“Ohh.” The woman’s face changed, hardening into sympathy and annoyance. “You okay?”
Kaliyah gave a terse nod. She thought about making up some sad tale so the woman would feel obliged to help her. The woman already seemed braced for it, and Kaliyah almost felt angry enough to oblige. But no. She didn’t have the stomach for it.
“The 7C will be here in three minutes,” a man’s voice said. Kaliyah turned around, tightening her grip on the bag. She softened as she saw the rough, sweet-faced gentleman who reminded her, somehow, of Dr. Hassan.
Aliyah gave a polite nod before she looked back at her phone:
*
Five days later, the Baghdadi man was summoned from his lodgings, where the qadi had asked him to wait, as the case moved forward. When the Baghdadi arrived at the qadi’s office, he found the young man pacing with great excitement. “Come with me!” the qadi nearly shouted. “Let’s go let’s go let’s go!”
The two of them set off through town, the Baghdadi stumbling and half-jogging to keep up. A servant walked swiftly behind them, bearing a small wooden chest.
“What is it?” the Baghdadi asked, breathless.
The qadi grinned and shook his head, half-skipping along the road. “God willing, you’ll see! All will be revealed! Everything is as God wills it!”
Soon, they arrived at the gate of one of the richest houses in the city. What’s this, the Baghdadi tried to say, but the words went to dust in his throat. He thought about his elderly mother living in this strange city, along with a younger husband. Had his mother been involved in some dreadful magic? Did it involve the people who lived in this house?
A servant emerged, and the qadi bellowed and bullied until they were escorted into a diwan full of settees and pillows and luxurious wall-hangings. The qadi wouldn’t sit. Instead, he strolled around the room, hands behind his back, lips moving as though he were rehearsing a speech. The servant sat on the edge of a settee. The Baghdadi didn’t know what to do, and so remained standing.
Finally, a pot-bellied, turbaned, outraged-looking merchant burst in, bellowing, “What is it this time? Have you lost your mind, little Qadi? Have you come to shame my family?”
The qadi stopped pacing and snatched the chest from the servant, who looked startled and – for one brief moment – entirely lost. “Look upon this!” the qadi shouted back, as he opened the box with a flourish. The turbaned old man inched forward. He peered into the box, frowning.
“What’s that?” the pot-bellied man asked, his nose wrinkling. “Why are you showing me this? Have you forgotten who I am? Your father—”
“Yes, yes,” the qadi said. “My father, my father. In any case, this hand … this lovely, soft, perfumed hand … well! Bring me your only daughter, my Lord! With haste, if you please.”
The old man’s face reddened. “You dare bring this shame upon us, little Qadi? My daughter will not be fetched for men who are neither family nor husband.”
“Yes, yes,” the qadi said, dancing from foot to foot. “Go look yourself, then. Is your daughter perhaps missing a … hand?”
The man blanched. He looked into the box a second time before he left the room.
*
“This is the one,” the rough-and-sweet man said, gesturing toward an approaching bus. “Sorry about the hospital.”
The man nodded at Kaliyah’s bag, and she flinched, pulling it closer. Had he guessed what was inside? She shook herself. Of course not.
Kaliyah stepped on after the sympathetic-annoyed woman, who gave an apologetic look before she threw herself into a seat near the front, sighing as if she hadn’t taken the weight off her knees in a hundred years. Kaliyah found an empty seat near the back. She didn’t know what to do with the hand. She set the bag in her lap. She squeezed it, a little, just to make sure it was still a hand in there – that it hadn’t magically transformed into a sparrow, or a sandwich, or a lump of coal.
What kind of trap could she be walking into? Kaliyah’s whole life had been a series of traps: her stepfather’s arms; her dad’s sticky money; her mother’s angry neediness. Even justbeing good atthings was a trap, since it meant everyone pressured you to do things you hated. Only Dr. Hassan had told her to ignore the traps. Follow, he said, your own intuition.
After graduation, she didn’t apply to go abroad, like the other “smart” girls. Instead, she found a small group and built them up. They’d taken over a condemned house on O St. They’d built a tiny art-anarchic space. It was perfect, except for the lack of food or money. So, she’d thought, taking a man’s hand to the hospital could be an easy win. Or, she thought, she could be headed for a swarm of police.
Kaliyah looked at her phone. There was a message from Octavio: the new girl wanted to know, “Is the hand feeling okay?” Aliyah rolled her eyes and whispered “Never better” into the phone. She went back to the story:
*
When the door opened a second time, two women stepped in, followed by the turbaned, potbellied merchant, who seemed to have shrunk by several centimeters.
“Well, my good lady?” the qadi said, his voice squeaking with excitement. “Will you tell the truth, God protect us?”
The older woman looked at the qadi, her gaze flat and tired. “I will tell what I know, Qadi. Five nights ago, my daughter stumbled into my room in poor health, collapsing at the foot of my bed. When I examined her, I found blood spurting out of her arm in great, pulsing waves. I wanted to scream, but my daughter ordered me to remain quiet. She told me to put pressure on the wound, or she would surely die.
“I went to the door and called my maidservant, who came to help us bind the wound. Once the bleeding had stopped, and my daughter was resting, the maidservant and I got down on hands and knees to clean my daughter’s blood. Then we went outside and splashed water all around, so the wolves would not come looking for our wounds.”
The woman paused, breathing hard as she avoided her husband’s gaze. After a moment, she went on: “My husband knew nothing of this. In the morning, I told him that our daughter had developed sores on her beautiful left hand. The next day, I told my husband the sores were worsening. On the third day, my husband visited our daughter in her rooms. She moaned a great deal and kept her stump hidden. On the fourth, I told him I’d sent for a physician, who might need to amputate.”
The woman lifted her chin. “I did all this for my daughter’s dignity.”
The old merchant snorted, but he said nothing.
“Excellent, excellent!” The qadi was nodding, bending his knees and straightening up, as though getting ready for a run. “However, we might have guessed all that. What we really want to know is: Why was your daughter digging in a grave?”
Just then, the proud young woman stepped forward. Her face was pale, as though she had lost a great deal of red blood. But her features were sharp. Defiant. “Mother doesn’t know about that. For years now, the maidservant has covered for me on nights when I snuck out to the graveyard.
“Yes. During the day, I was an ordinary girl. I would chatter and sing and recite poetry like any other fool. I would listen to gossip, smile, be pleasant. But my ears were always open for news of who had been wrapped in a shroud, carried out to the graveyard, and lowered into a hole.
“When there was a fresh corpse, I would be overcome by shivers of excitement. A few nights after a new burial, I would strap on an iron claw, binding it to my right hand. Then I would creep into the graveyard on all fours, so that any passerby might think I was a dog, or a djinn, or a wolf. I would dig up the grave, yank out the shroud, and hurry home with my treasure. By now, I have a collection of more than three hundred.”
The qadi’s brow furrowed. “But what on earth do you need with all those shrouds?”
The young woman’s features stood out even more. “I have not yet decided, Qadi. But digging them up was a thrill like no other.” And then the young woman was silent.
The old merchant moaned from the shame of it all. “Oh God,” he said, hands pressed to his burning cheeks. “Oh God.” Just then, he looked up at the man from Baghdad. “And who exactly is this? Why have you brought a stranger to witness my mortification?”
“Ah yes!” the qadi said, clapping his hands together and nearly leaping into the air. “This excellent, wonderful, perfectly good man is the one who cut off your daughter’s hand!” The qadi’s arm swept out, as if to present the man from Baghdad, who flinched.
“Another stranger has seen my daughter’s shame.” The man moaned, and tears slipped out of his rheumy old eyes. “She’s ruined … we are all ruined.”
The proud young woman rolled her eyes, her eyelids fluttering.
“And yet I have a solution!” the young qadi said, swishing his robes with glee. “Mr. Baghdadi, would you like to marry this lovely young woman, who is from an excellent family, and who could settle you, financially, for life?”
The man from Baghdad opened his mouth, but he could say nothing.
“What do you think?” The qadi turned to the turbaned old man, who agreed. He turned back to the man from Baghdad, who gave a slow, stunned nod.
*
“This seat taken?” a sweaty boy asked, pointing at the one beside Kaliyah. The yellow plastic bag had slipped partway off her lap, onto the seat. Kaliyah frowned and quickly bundled the plastic-wrapped hand back onto her legs, fluffing out the edges to disguise its shape. She stared out the window as the sour-smelling White boy squeezed in beside her.
“Where you going?” the boy asked. “You got pretty eyes, you know?”
Kaliyah grimaced. She stared down at her phone, but she couldn’t concentrate on the story as the boy rambled on about some new job he’d gotten, chef’s assistant, it paid well, yeah, and he was a good cook, too. “You want to pass me your num-ber?” He gave a hiccupy laugh. Kaliyah kept staring down at her phone, as if she were engrossed in her story.
“You speak English?” the boy asked, and Kaliyah struggled not to react. The boy had a black hole in his chest, and she felt herself being drawn into it. But she pressed her feet down and refused. Dr. Hassan had always told her: Don’t get sucked into other people’s black holes. You’ve got to be you.
*
The man from Baghdad adored his proud, clever wife, but she did not feel the same about him. When he looked at her, he saw the will of God. It was God who had brought him the news of his mother’s death, and God who had made him hurry to her grave beneath the star-bright sky. It was God who had joined him to this beautiful creature, in her beautiful home, with luxuries he could never have believed.
But when the clever woman looked at the Baghdadi, she didn’t see stars, or the moon, or the will of God. She saw a man who had sliced off her hand.
He tried to be kind to his clever wife, even though the things she wanted were outrageous. She wanted to dress up as a man and go out at night, to coffeeshops and literary diwans. She wanted to read the works of Ibn al-Hajjaj and to write her own naughty verse. She wanted to steal small, inconsequential objects from the rich and the dead. Still, she was his fate. And she was very clever. So he agreed to all of her odd requests.
Until one night the Baghdadi man woke, confused, to find a blade pressed to his throat. When he blinked the sleepy confusion out of his eyes, he found his wife straddling his chest, a razor in her fist, her expression blank. When he tried to move his arms and legs, he found they were bound.
“I’ll kill you,” she said, in that matter-of-fact voice he so loved.
The Baghdadi man shivered, wondering if this was some new sort of foreplay. He gave her a small, uncertain smile. “All right, my love.”
“Either divorce me, or I’ll kill you.”
“I love you,” he said, trying to sit up.
She dug the razor into his neck.
*
Kaliyah looked up and found the sweaty White boy perched beside her, reading over her shoulder. The bus squeaked to an unexpected stop, and Kaliyah looked up to see two police stepping on. “Routine inspection,” one said. “Everyone off.”
The boy looked at Kaliyah, and she understood his expression of hate and desire. She’d seen the same look practically tattooed on her stepfather’s face. She waited for the White boy to get off first. Then it was just her and the severed hand. Should she walk past the officers, brazenly carrying pound of human flesh? Or should she leave it here, covered in her DNA? The officers were looking from seat to seat, doing a sweep for bombs. “Miss!” one of them called to her. “Everyone off!” Kaliyah pressed the bag down under the seat and got up. She walked past the officers with her head high. She would get off and run away. She’d go north, like everyone said Dr. Hassan had done, after he’d been fired. Maybe she’d even find him up there.
But when she got off the bus, there was no exit. Two more bored-looking, helmeted officers stood there, pointing everyone toward a cordon. “If you make a move, we make a move,” one of the officers said. “Got it?”
Kaliyah stood in the middle of the group, inventing her lines.
–Yes, Officer, I found the bag on the seat when I got on.
–Yes, I put it on the floor because it isn’t mine.
–No, I had nothing to do with any severed hand. How ridiculous!
“I didn’t get to the end.”
It was the sweaty White boy talking. It took Kaliyah a moment to realize he meant the end of her story. She grimaced.
“I won’t bother you,” he said. “I just want to see if she kills him.”
Kaliyah stood there in the cold. She remembered the end – the Baghdadi agreed to a divorce, wrote out the paper, and fled al-Ramlah forever. Or at least that’s what happened in the version Dr. Hassan had read them. It was one of the last stories he’d read before they fired him. Most people thought he’d been fired for being high on the job. But Kaliyah knew it was because, during the parent-teacher meetings, he’d punched Kaliyah’s stepfather in the face.
“So does she kill him?” the White boy asked. Kaliyah didn’t react. What she wanted to know was: What happened to the woman’s damned hand? Had they given it back to her? Had she buried it in the wooden box? And did she ever do anything with those three hundred shrouds?
“All clear,” the first officer said, stepping off the bus. “Everyone back on.” The second officer also stepped off, and people shoved and stepped on each other as they hurried to get back to their seats. Someone else would sit in Kaliyah’s seat now. They’d find the hand.
“At least tell me what the story’s called, bitch,” the sweaty White boy whined. “So I can find it.”
Kaliyah was uncertain. There was a man in the hospital, waiting to have his hand reattached. Maybe he was a good man. Maybe he was as sweet as Dr. Hassan. She took a step sideways, waiting to see if anyone shouted for the police. “Aren’t you getting back on?” the White boy asked. Kaliyah didn’t answer, and the White boy leapt on before the bus doors closed. A sickening shame snaked through her body – yes, of course, she should’ve taken that hand. As the bus drove off, a deep, embarrassed regret swam through her. It swallowed her story, digesting it, making it new.
To wash away the blood of bulls and heretics, a trio of Hispano-Bretones draw six tons of bronze from the Casa de Campo. The drayman’s bow legs curl around the bay’s barrel chest as he urges the team forward with both shouts of “¡Arre!” and a battered straw sombrero that he waves over their shoulders. The other drayman drives them on with a long whip, cracking it between the horses’ ears. They snort and stamp, and the ropes snap taut as they take the strain of Phillip the Pious’ statue. Tethered to a sled of pine trunks from the Valle de la Fuenfría, it ploughs deep furrows through the fields on its way to the city.
The statue was brought from the countryside nearly two centuries ago to bring distinction to the Plaza Mayor, and far off in the centre of the plaza, he cuts a reverential figure through the gloom. His bastón de mando is as upright as his back, his eyes are set squarely over his horse’s ears to the Puerta de la Calle Zaragoza, and his face is muffled to the chill of the Madrid morning by the starched folds of a bronze ruff, that serpentines up and down, around his neck.
Lines of verdigris run along the well-defined flanks of his muscular horse, etched by tears. Though bullfighting and the Inquisition’s tortures and immolations are no longer a part of the plaza’s sideshow, they’ve been replaced by rock concerts, royal weddings, a Minion, Chucky, clowns, and charlatans, who ply their trade around the equestrian bronze.
I’d escaped the icy chill of the plaza, in the Cevecería Plaza Mayor. Through the bar’s windows, wet with condensation, the elements of the radiant heaters burn with an incandescent orange glow; magnified by the beads of moisture they appear to burn even more intensely. But they’re fixed so high, it’s clear that only the ceiling will benefit. They barely warm the top of my head, my coffee is tepid, and my toast cold, so I sit uncomfortably in an overcoat, scarf, and one glove on my left hand, and try to warm the white fingertips of my right hand, around the cup of coffee; the blood stubbornly refusing to return from where it came.
Madrid is at the centre of the Spanish Meseta, which covers nearly half of Iberia; the vast plateau is lined with a handful of sierras. During the coldest season, icy winds blow from their snow-capped peaks, and channelled between the Sierra Guadarrama and Montes de Toledo, chill the capital city. Winter. Madrid is the coldest place in Spain, and today nobody argues otherwise. For six months the people of Madrid protest how hot it is… “¡Uff que calor!” and for the remainder of the year, how unbearably cold it is; but Madrid is neither a river of ice nor an arid desert, and they’re simply taking pride in their own resilience, enduring the extremes of a very particular climate.
A few delivery vans arrive in the plaza. Visible through drips that trickle through the condensation, their drivers wrapped in woollen scarfs, puffy jackets, and tip-less gloves, work with haste in the glacial frost. They blow repeatedly, warming numbed finger or easing the discomfort of breathing chilled air. Their exhalations rise like steam puffed from the funnel of a locomotive as they go backwards and forwards across the plaza with their porter’s trollies, stacked with sacks, boxes, crates, and kegs.
Clouded by a frosty haze the colourful splendour of Habsburg Spain is flat and grey. But there’s still a couple of hours till the sun breaks over the Puerta de la Calle Zaragoza, burns off the frost, and casts shadow and colour over everything. And with the sun edging higher, Phillip the Pious faces the first street entertainer, suspecting that the comical Peruvian is not here for sightseeing. He’s pushing a wooden cart across the plaza, carrying a headless bullfighter and flamenco dancer. There’s little chance he’ll arrive unnoticed, as the wheel’s forged iron rims soundlike a pair of coarse granite millstones that grind away as they scrape over the basalt paving.
He senses a reproach from the statue, as he places both figures against its plinth, and prepares the camera for portraits. To avoid the awkwardness of the moment he squawks at Phillip the Pious like a black capped parrot, twisting the bullfighter’s hat so it resembles a beak, and flapping his elbows like wings. He might have equally roosted on the statue’s head and dumped his load with a lack of civility that would have shamed the diabolos. For now, there’s no one to appreciate his buffoonery, but he won’t have to wait long.
The first chain of hire bicycles and Segways arrive, their riders looking awkward in streamlined fluorescent helmets, not yet accustomed to their own conspicuousness. The polycarbonate shell, a whirlwind of vivid yellow convolutions, is a chic fascinator that sits a little above their heads and is fastened with a broad black chinstrap. As they leave, they’re joined together like a self-conscious centipede sensing their individuality is best sacrificed for collective comfort. And as a Minion, Chucky, Rubble and a strange psychedelic goat upstage their departure, the Peruvian sensing their unease lets out a few more squawks to send them on their way.
The goat has a glittery pelt, honks, clacks its mouth like a pelican, bleats like a sheep, and rings a brass bell on a chain hung between its horns. Improbably, a dapper African is the most sartorially unadventurous character in the plaza. In a black kufi decorated with gold braid, turquoise dashiki, and red Nike trainers, he flourishes above his head not spears, but selfie sticks.
He hassles a priest in full black cassock, from the Puerta de la Calle de Toledo; first one side, then the other, skipping around his back like a Zulu warrior dancing an Imdlamu. But it should be evident even to the African that the priest is in no need of a selfie stick, it’s not his job to be self-conceited, to the contrary. He walks without deviation to the Casa de la Panadería on the opposite side of the plaza, as though the African isn’t there, his path as straight as the tensioned wire of a tightrope walker, his steps as true, and his concentration equally focused.
Rucksacks packed with sound systems play reggaetón, hanging from the backs of babbling teenagers crossing the plaza,lost in their own babel. Posterity demands children are photographed by the Minion, Chucky, or Rubble, though they avoid the psychedelic goat, and a girl is drawn by a cartoon artist. Her boyfriend looks on as he draws his regular set of features; aquiline nose, bulging eyes, and horse’s teeth that burst from her mouth; features that, though he has an intimate knowledge of her face he’d previously been unaware of.
And with the sun now at the zenith, the frosty haze might have been an atmospheric chimera that never really happened, as El Alquimista de Sonido, opens the brass clasps of a glossy red cello case in a corner towards the Puerta del Sol. He takes out a full octave of hotel bell pushes and Velcro’s them to his shoulders, hips, knees, and buttocks. He slaps around like a Bavarian in lederhosen, dancing the Schuhplattler; the last chord of the Strauss waltz played with an exaggerated slap to both knees.
Otherwise he attaches seven antique automobile horns around his body, each tuned to a note. The range complemented by five cow bells rung by those from the crowd. He now has twelve distinct notes to choose from. He’s a conductor masquerading as a white-faced clown, though lacking a baton and five competent musicians. He wears a ragged tuxedo, his own tousled hair under a tiny top hat squashed like a pancake, and pins over his heart a fulsome red rose that complements his long red nose and extravagantly elongated clown shoes. Pointing, he cajoles his inept chamber orchestra to provide him with the right notes at the correct moment, whilst he pinches the rubber hooters, or squeezes them in his armpits like a clucking chicken, and together they play Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.
With only one to hand it’s not possible for them to play the wrong note, but his campanologists are sometimes a little late, a little early, ring at the wrong moment entirely, miss his cue, or tinkle the cow bell ineffectually. He stops, tilts his head, puts hands on hips, crosses his arms, and looks at the offender without the necessity to say “¡Joder! Even a cow can do it.” He glances towards the crowd who cackle away, as though the clown had opened a tin of canned laughter, and eventually the Four Seasons are played to a perfection, that lacking flute, oboe, violin, viola da gamba, cello and spinet, seven automobile horns and five unsuspecting tourists with a cow bell will allow.
He plays the crowd as deftly as he plays his improvised instruments, encouraging them to squeeze his horn, or ring his bell, turning them on or off like a switch. He alternates between self-deprecation and mockery; the crowd his auguste eager to make fools of themselves. He controls the unpredictable, taking advantage of the youngster with a sticky lolly who unaware toddles across his stage, or those who rudely shout across his performance, whilst chiding patrons of the expensive restaurants around him, who are cawing like an unkindness of ravens. The plaza approaching lunchtime is a bizarre big top with a ragbag circus of clowns, and no ringmaster.
Leaving through the Puerta de Ciudad Rodrigo with the sun on my back and my overcoat over my arm, a young girl probes Fat Spider-Man as to the authenticity of his fatness. “You’re fat?” she says, with a finely balanced mixture of accusation and doubt. Amused by his belly that rolls around within his red and blue onesie, she pokes her tiny finger into his gut. It’s true, there’s a certain unevenness to its rotundity.
Evidently his career would be over, should by any unforeseen circumstance he lose weight. The very foundation of his livelihood dependent on overeating and the necessity to drink a lot of beer. So like a professional athlete – but equally to the contrary – should he inadequately prepare himself and therefore lose weight, he might be tempted to push some padding under his nylon spandex.
He chooses to avoid the issue, ignores the young girl’s claim, and replies in a Texan drawl, “Madrid welcomes you!” and adds, should the girl doubt that a superhero would, “Spider-Man loves you!” at the same time passing her mother his social media accounts printed on a business card.
My p < 0.2 x 10-9.
My flipping p is less than naught point two times 10 to the minus effing nine! My p. My p.
I hope you’re thinking what you should be thinking? You should be thinking O M frigging G. You should be thinking W T actual F? You should be thinking what a tremendously exciting way to begin a story. You should be thinking no wonder you, as in I, seem to be celebrating by polishing off the best part of a bottle of whisky. You should be thinking this is surely what you, as in I, have been waiting for.
I should be thinking this is what I’ve been waiting for.
Why aren’t I thinking this is what I’ve been waiting for?
I’ve been waiting for something. Waiting is all I seem to do. I was waiting here for Maria. Of course, Maria doesn’t know I was waiting for her, but I was. Maria’s working late again in her big shiny phallic building overlooking the river. Can you call it “working late” if she always works at this time? Whatever, she’s working in her huge glass penis in her pencil-skirt suit. The suit looks great and she says it fits perfectly, but she can’t sit or bend comfortably in it, so that doesn’t seem an optimal fit to me. I thought one of the benefits of being a lesbian is we don’t have to wear uncomfortable clothes? Apparently not.
Anyway, she’s working to a late hour, so I pretend I’m working late too. I’m in my tiny office in my two-storey building in Camberwell with a view of the mental hospital from one window, and a car park from the other. The car park’s empty because as much as we all bitch and moan about how stressful academia is, no one actually works late here. Compared to Maria I’m already pretty comfortable in my lab-monkey uniform of baggy jeans and a hoody, but I take things further now by kicking off my trainers and popping my feet up on the desk. I think the occasion calls for it.
So I pretend to work late sometimes to impress Maria. Or not to impress her really, but rather to avoid de-impressing her. Depressing her? I also lie about when I get to work. She rushes out of the flat so early every morning that she has no idea when I leave. No one’s clocking me in, so I often text her to say I’ve arrived while I’m still in bed. Sometimes I sit around in my pyjamas watching terrible morning TV for hours before I wander up the hill to work. Then after everyone else has left, I text Maria to tell her how hectic my day has been because I’m also very important. I tell her I simply must work late again tonight *sad emoji*. When actually I’m just playing Sims, killing time until she heads home.
Tonight I was feeling a bit of Sims overload, which I’m sure you’ll appreciate is extremely difficult to achieve. So I thought maybe I should actually do some work. All good lies are based on a grain of truth, after all. Plus I figured getting a bit extra done might give me a sliver of a chance of becoming what Maria wants me to be, compared to the absolute zero chance I was cultivating otherwise.
But what does Maria want me to be? Well, she doesn’t necessarily want me to be anything in particular. She simply wants me to fulfil my – feel free to note the resentful airquotes here – “potential”. When we met in a grotty gay bar years ago I was starting my PhD. And when you’re starting your PhD you could absolutely totally possibly one day be a great Nobel-prize-winning professor, because all great Nobel-prize-winning professors were at some point starting their PhD. But then I graduated with only one published article in a sub-par journal. And now I’m in my tenth (tenth!) year as a post-doctoral researcher, going from one temporary contract to the next. And sure, I won a grant once, but that feels like ages ago now, and I’m not sure many great Nobel-prize-winning professors have been in dead-end post-doc jobs ten years after graduating from their PhD. Meanwhile, Maria’s moved into financial consulting and she keeps getting promoted and she’s stopped wearing jeans even at the weekend. Maria’s become a somebody. She deserves a girlfriend who is a somebody. Instead she has somebody, as in me, who’s moving further and further towards nobody territory.
So I decided to try actually doing some work while “working late”. As the cluster wasn’t being used, I figured I could run some analyses. But I’ve already investigated everything we’d planned for this project twice over. Despite the lazy picture I’ve painted, I do work quite hard really – in office hours at least. It just hasn’t yielded anything anyone would give a damn about. My predecessors grabbed all the low-hanging fruit, identifying large sets of tiny genetic effects that when added together can influence height, weight, anxiety, and depression. Even these findings weren’t the strongest. In the ocean of hundreds, thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands of tiny genetic effects which stack up and interact with each other and the environment to determine risk for something as complex as, say, dyslexia, they were only a tiny puddle influencing a tiny portion of that risk. Not as sexy as the Daily Mail would have you believe. But at least they found something, and it was enough to open doors to permanent lecturer jobs. Since I came along we’ve detected a big fat nothing. We couldn’t locate any combination of genetic variants that predisposes the thousands of people in our sample to antisocial behaviour. Ditto for eating disorders. Ditto for learning disabilities. Yes we know genes are important, but no, I haven’t found any important ones. Not even just ever so slightly important ones. Soz.
What was left? My boss has been studying these kids annually since they were born, and now they’re all twenty-nine. There’s always data left to mine, but the traits are becoming increasingly obscure. I considered looking for genes influencing aversion to trying new foods? Not especially hot. Plus I remembered we looked at that last year. Hand size? I didn’t even know we had that. Weird. Then I noticed an unannotated column I must have missed before. It was labelled “Hom”, with entries from ages sixteen and eighteen only. I had to dig out the original questionnaire from the storeroom, but it turned out the mysterious data corresponded to a question about gayness. The kids were asked to rate themselves in terms of homosexuality – 1 being absolutely no homosexual feelings, 10 being flaming homo feelings they had either acted upon or planned to one day. Bit of a controversial question someone slipped in there. Looking back through the files I see it was a PhD student who left years ago, probably before the data came in. Maybe that’s why I’d never heard about it.
I was pretty sure no one in the group would’ve looked at it before, so without thinking I plugged it into my analysis code and started it running on the cluster. It’s a hell of a lot of data – thousands of people’s entire genomes – so I didn’t expect the analysis to stop chugging for at least a day. After a few more hours of messaging Maria about how snowed under I was (while playing Minesweeper and watching Gilmore Girls), I checked to see if any bugs had been encountered. To my surprise the empty cluster had been extra speedy and the analysis was done. Tired and bored, and with absolutely no expectations, I pulled up the output file. And, well, you know what I saw there:
p < 0.2 x 10-9
I don’t know how much you know about statistical analysis? But basically, when it comes to p, size matters, and less is more. Big is pointless. Big is failure. Big is insignificant. Small means you’ve got something real. My p was bloody tiny, and the real thing I had was a combination of genetic markers that together account for 6% of the variation in self-reported homosexuality across the sample. 6% may not sound a lot, but believe me it’s whopping. The best any predecessor in this mediocre group has achieved is 1.9%, and that was for mathematical ability – no one’s favourite trait. Homosexuality is far more glamorous. People will be all over this. I’ll finally get to use that media training we’ve all been forced to have.
After checking there hadn’t been a mistake, I popped the champagne of course. Well, one of those individual-serving prosecco bottles I had hanging around in a drawer actually, but same same. Then I remembered some red wine I’d been given last Christmas and never taken home and I poured myself a glass or three of that. Then I remembered the unclaimed bottle of whisky left in the kitchen cupboard after our last summer party and I started on that. Big time. And so now here I am. Drunk and staring at my screen.
p < 0.2 x 10-9
That is a career-making p. That is a Science or Nature paper p. That is the p of a somebody. No wonder I’m so drunk and jubilant.
Jubilation feels like this, right? Like, an inability to think clearly accompanied by a burning sensation in the pit of one’s stomach? I guess the whisky might explain both of those symptoms. But shouldn’t there be, like, smiling? In my (vast) experience, alcohol usually brings about a bit of smiling on its own. In conjunction with this monumentally tiny p, surely I should’ve been guaranteed to crack a smile or two? But the reflection in my computer screen tells me I haven’t. Why not?
“Maybe it’s because,” comes a voice from behind me, making me jump, my heartbeat suddenly pounding so loudly in my ears I almost miss the end of his sentence, “you’re not sure you should’ve been poking your greedy little fingers in that particular hole in the first place.”
I spin around in my chair, making my whisky-soaked brain groan, but there’s no one there.
“He’s behind you,” the same voice coos, and I turn to see a suited, bearded man leaning against my desk, grinning. Feeling terrified and asking who the hell he is and how he got in seem like very sensible reactions. But I don’t do these things, because somehow I know exactly who he is. Sure, the beard is a little more trimmed and hipster than I’ve ever seen pictured, and the suit more exquisitely tailored, not to mention a good deal tighter around the crotch. Also, I don’t recall ever reading accounts of him sounding quite so, well, camp. But there’s no mistaking this guy when you see him.
“Yes, yes, that’s me dearie, Charles Darwin. Charlie to my friends. Charmed I’m sure,” he says as if reading my mind, leaning off the table for long enough to perform a sarcastic curtsey. “Perhaps you’re feeling so rotten because of the cheap swill you’re downing, darling? That poison should either be mixed or binned, preferably the latter. But perhaps you’re feeling rough as old houses because you don’t know what to do with your teeny tiny p?”
“What to do with it?” I reply, confused.
“Do you ride that little p for all it’s worth? Or do you steer well clear? I felt the same when I made my own little discovery … perhaps you’ve heard of it?” I move to answer and he gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “That was a joke sweetie, of course you have. Oh yes, I was in quite the quandary – although on a larger scale, you understand – when I made my findings. Do I keep shtum or tell the world? I was terribly worried about the impact it might have on Christianity, you see, and the wife” – he smiles and arches his left eyebrow at the word – “was quite the godbotherer, so that didn’t help matters.”
He’s right of course. My face is refusing to smile because maybe this isn’t a smiling matter. What will the world, especially a world of Trump and Brexit, do with this knowledge? Do I want to risk finding out? Or is it better to throw this analysis out and pretend it never happened? I recall that as a fitting Christmas gift, last year my boss paid for everyone in the team to have their genomes run through a commercial genotyping service. I learned my genes endow me with twice the average risk of developing heart disease. The risk is still pretty low, yet I, someone who has always detested sports and physical activity, was moved to take up running. What will someone with an increased “risk” of being queer be moved to do? Take up football? Give up football? And more importantly, what will a parent do with an “at risk” child? Would my parents have tried even harder to wrestle me into dresses if they’d known I carried the risk genes? Would they have forced me to show more interest in dolls? Would they have even let me exist in the first place, given the option?
“My thoughts precisely,” Darwin says, responding to worries I’m certain I never shared aloud. “And of course there are all those terrible consequences your struggling mind can’t even begin to fathom. In my case, so concerned was I with the religion problem, that I quite underestimated some of the other horrid things people might do once they got their grubby little mitts on my theory. I can’t be entirely blamed of course, but I might have seen all that nasty cleansing of the gene pool business coming if I’d given it a little more thought. Galton always was a frightful scamp. You don’t happen to have a homophobic cousin do you…?”
I vaguely recall Galton fathered eugenics after reading his cousin Darwin’s survival of the fittest theory. That must have sucked, to inadvertently fuel that. I take a swig of whisky, nearly missing my mouth, and consider that I do indeed have a few Trump-sympathising homophobes in the family, but surely Gary doesn’t have the intellect or influence of Galton? Claire on the other hand is not to be underestimated…
My homophobe top-trumps reverie is interrupted by an accented cry of “Ignore him!”, and a thick fist crashing on my desk. I look up to meet a piercing stare I recognise. She’s a little squarer than I’ve ever seen her represented, and I don’t remember such short hair, and has she always worn dungarees and smoked cigars? Even so, it’s plain who this handsome figure is.
“Yes it’s me, Marie Curie.” She grabs my hand to deliver a bone-crushing handshake. “And why not smoke cigars, eh? Should I be afraid of the cancer?” She slaps her knee and lets out a deep roaring laugh. “Anyway, enough fun. I’m here to be serious. Don’t listen to this nonsense,” she orders, “he is simply, how do you say, chicken? If you live in fear you do nothing. You must act now. You never know when time is up. Knowledge is the goal of your work, no? Well you have scored my friend. Knowledge is always worth the price. Take it from me.”
Knowledge is the ultimate goal, right? Gaining a deeper understanding is always a good idea, isn’t it? That’s why we’re looking for this stuff in the first place. To learn. To understand. To help. I mean, finding a firm genetic link to homosexuality should really be a good thing. It should even be a great thing. Yes … a truly great thing. It will finally shut all those bloody “it’s a choice” people up. Even though, sometimes, for some people, it is totally a choice, well, sort of, and that’s absolutely fine too. But this would prove when some people, people like me, say it’s not a choice, we’re not lying.
“Oh yaasss Gaga, everything will be fine once you prove you were born this way?” Darwin grins, gesturing in a way that can only be described as vogueing. “Is that why we look for the genes that make people autistic and dyslexic and depressed? So we can say it’s okay honey, they were born this way, let them be?”
Autistic and dyslexic and depressed? No. I guess we look … why do we look? We look so we can find “targets” in the body so we can develop drugs that help? Is that true? Is that why we’re doing it? Maybe for depression … but for the others? Drugs? I guess so. Targeted interventions. To help.
“Congratulations, darling!” Darwin slow claps in between dance moves. “Your finding may pave the way for a new kind of targeted intervention – a chemical conversion therapy!”
Oh god, I feel sick.
“This is possible of course,” Curie chimes in, and then barks “Cease silly dancing while I’m talking!” at Darwin. He stops until Curie turns back to me, but then proceeds to vogue especially exaggeratedly but silently behind her. Curie, clearly aware, chooses to rise above it, although the labrys tattoo on her neck pulses from the effort. “Yes, bad may come from your finding. Bad as well as good can come from any knowledge. But by running from the bad you are also cancelling the good.”
I ponder this and attempt to take another swig of whisky, only to find I’ve finished the lot. I let the bottle fall to the floor as I sigh loudly. Progress comes with risks. Sometimes trailblazers like Curie take the damage so future generations can benefit. But I won’t be the one to take the damage this could cause, or not the only one. This could be so much bigger than me, and impact people who never asked me to look for this stupid genetic link in the first place. Those people would surely want me to bury this result right now, before it causes any harm.
“It’s all relative, I suppose,” comes a gruff German voice from the corner of the room. I look up to see a muscled and thickly moustachioed figure leaning against the wall, dressed entirely in black leather, with tufts of chest hair protruding from his vest. I’m no longer surprised by the incongruous outfit and manner – this is obviously Einstein. “Call me Big Al,” he says as he removes his aviator sunglasses. “My friends here make good arguments.” Curie nods proudly, Darwin giggles shyly as he eyes up Einstein’s biceps. “Sometimes you must trust in the bigger picture. You must trust that the balance of progress will eventually fall on the side of good, even if you’re no longer around to see the balance tip, or to feel the benefit.”
I understand what he’s saying, I should have faith that good will eventually win out, but surely this particular leap of faith is too big?
“But for better or worse,” Einstein continues, “the fact remains that this truth exists. Maybe it exists at different times for different observers, but it exists. In the future it will exist for another observer. But today it exists for you. The world will need help understanding this truth. And the best person to explain it is you.”
Am I the best person to explain it? I’m not so sure. What gives me the right? What gives anyone the right? I guess even if I’m not the best though, I’m certainly not the worst. After all, a part of this is my personal truth, not just my science. I suppose maybe I can try to own it? Facts never exist in a vacuum. Maybe I can not only release the finding, I can also add my very gay voice to it…
“Exactly kid, you can be part of the conversation, like I was. The Americans listened to me when I said they needed to beat the Germans to the atom bomb. They listened because I had authority. You need to be someone with authority.”
Damn right I do! I stand up and reach for another glug of whisky, then remember the bottle is finished and on the floor. I kick it out of mock frustration. My aim’s a little off, so instead of sending it across the room as intended, I clip the edge and it does a little spin in front of me. Looking at it makes me feel dizzy, so I sit down again. Where was I? Yes. Damn right I do! I can shape things. Just like these tired gay stereotypes my subconscious is attributing to ghosts of scientists past, this data is dangerous, but it’s better in my gay hands than in others. Sure, I’m no Einstein – “No you certainly are not,” Darwin quips as he leans back to view Einstein from a slightly different angle – but if I found this then I’m the authority and I’ll decide how it gets used, and I’ll ensure it’s only ever used for good!
“Now that’s a bit of a leap,” Einstein interrupts my triumphant thoughts. “Why are people always misunderstanding me when I believe I’m making myself perfectly clear? You can work to be part of the conversation, that’s true. But you will never have the final say. People with power will always listen to their own hearts, and if you happen to agree with them you will be credited. If not, oh well, you will be ignored. I was ignored over Japan, and nuclear weapons still proliferate.”
I pop my head between my knees, which has the twofold effect of calming my nausea and helping me think. I remember reading Einstein was a pacifist really, and totally against the Nagasaki and Hiroshima bombings. They ignored bloody Einstein? Big Al? If he couldn’t prevent carnage, disaster, death, what hope do I possibly have? It must have been awful feeling partly responsible for all of that, not being able to stop it…
I concentrate on my breathing. Deeply. In, out, in, out.
…but at least he tried, right? He did something. He stood up and was counted. It didn’t always work out the way he wanted, but he still did all he could. He shared his truth, and people heard what he thought. All these years later and even I’ve heard what he thought. And it’s influenced me. Surely that has to matter? Plus the truth is out there, or something, is that what he said?
“The truth exists,” Einstein repeats, a little snippily.
Yes thanks, the truth exists. All of these truths always exist. I happen to have uncovered a bit of queer truth. Even if I hide this for now, in time others will uncover the same bit and more. I can’t stop people using it the wrong way. I can’t stop all harm. But I can at least try. I can do more than just have faith that good will eventually balance out bad. Only a tiny bit more, but more nonetheless. I can use my voice, a queer voice, and I can make it a voice that counts, that influences, that matters. I can make it the voice of a somebody.
With my head still between my knees, I wait for another dead-scientist-turned-oversimplified-queer-apparition to contradict me. But no one does. I look up and the room is empty. I hiccup, and realise the fact I’m on my own again must mean my decision is made. Maybe I never really had a choice. I finally smile, but only slightly.
I call Maria and tell her my p < 0.2 x 10-9. She asks if I’m drunk, and says she doesn’t understand what this p business means. I tell her yes, dangerously so, and that she soon will. I’m going to be the gay somebody who tells everyone exactly what it means.
She tells me to drink some water, she’ll see me at home, and that I’ll always be her gay somebody.
Day something in lockdown. I was doing a play, I got ill, the play stopped, I watched The Godfather 3, I got more ill, I watched When Harry Met Sally, we ate bulk-bought long-life food, I couldn’t taste it, she couldn’t imagine that, she got ill, she couldn’t taste the food either, and that she couldn’t believe. A month or so later, the time flies by in packs of seven, a day ends as instantaneously as we welcome a new one, it’s gone fast but a lot’s happened.
Can I just put it out on the street? Is that legal?
My girlfriend is a Drama student, she’s a poor drama student, we both were (I’m not a student any more, but I was, and I was poor), but she still is, a drama student, and she’s still poor.
We live in a one-bedroom attic flat. It’s cheap, relatively close to her school and subsequently complete with all the accoutrements you’d expect from such a lavishly tailored residence: broken appliances, damp, and best of all, mice! Only an experienced master builder in the deepest depths of creative sleep could dream up a more idealistic utopia for us to coexist for weeks on end. But we press on.
She receives the email from school: “Classes will be taught remotely”. Time for an action plan. We divvy up the space and decide she will take the bedroom and I, the joint living room/kitchen area. It’s a fair deal and there are smiles all round.
I had a small purse saved from a recent theatre job, and they kindly agree to keep supporting the actors until what was meant to be the end of the run (this was before the Furlough announcement in Rishi Sunak’s Decalogue) – I was relieved.
I wonder If I can recycle it somewhere? There’s gotta be a microwave recycling place somewhere right?
Drama. Home. I know what you’re thinking, I was too. Drama? Remote learning? Just when you thought an educational body couldn’t be more naive about the class divide within its institution, they pull me back in.
I turn off the movie.
I suppress the internal fury and we do some remote interior location scouting.
“Yeah, I’m sure we could set this up to look like a train station? We can make this work!” – nine grand a year really being put to the test as I feign unquestioned positivity.
“Really? What about the wardrobe in the corner?”
“Well, we can move it over he— … oh it’s built in. Well how about this wall?”
“There’s more light over there.”
“Yes, but there’s less wardrobe over here.”
“This is so unfair, no one else has this problem, they all have bags of space, Tilly’s gone to the country with her mum and d—”
“Stop, stop – there’s no point comparing yourself to Tilly.” (There is. There’s always a point in that. Fuck Tilly.)
“It’s not fair, I can’t do it.”
“Okay… Okay, fine – so we’ll send an email saying we reject it as a form of training.”
“No – I can’t!”
“Why not? I can help you write it?”
“Because, then in third year … the casting in the plays it’s … I can’t. Look, it’s fine, it’s fine! I’m being silly, I’ll just do it, I’ll stop moaning and just do it, it’s fine. Thank you for helping, I love you.”
I should perhaps unpack some of the Chekhovian subtext here. Let us begin with a brief character backstory: every poor drama student faces unfair disadvantages throughout their training. Maybe that’s too vague, let us dig deeper and relate it directly to the extract above. In the scenario, our protagonist “Young student” wrestles with the feeling of wanting to complain, while weighing up the possible consequences of doing so. The fear of school faculty seeing her as “hard work”, “a complainer”, or “a difficult one” if she speaks out, subsequently informs her choice.
Once “Young student” has made her decision, she will then find herself in the familiar scenario of being further down the ladder, struggling and stressing to catch up, silently defying the multitude of class-based disadvantages, just to be level with her fellow privileged or “normal” students, who in this case, have an abundance of learning space in the country.
If I want to donate the microwave, do I have to get one of those green “TEST PASSED” stickers?
I retreat back to my assigned territory. My gym, my office, my six by nine. I am now a content lodger who quietly exists in her inadequate domicile theatre.
The sky is black and I still haven’t eaten. It’s probably too late to cook now. Suddenly I’m watching clips of the 2012 Olympic games – boxing, running, cycling.
I glance at my watch, the hour hand begins another lap – the smooth rider making his way around the metric velodrome cruising incessantly toward the number ten. He’s trained for this, I haven’t, I can’t fight it, I’m a pawn in his game of time. I sigh. Curtains down on yet another day. Oh well.
Starring off into the distance, my eyes float aimlessly for a while before landing on the empty space between the bottom of the door and the floorboards. A few minutes is all they need, some time away from the screen… I take in the muffled sound of an evening play-reading going on in the makeshift studio. I can’t make out the story or the words but it comforts me. I’ve slept in the wings before on a job and it takes me back, emulating those brief moments of respite in technical rehearsal where an actor simply gets to exist in their place of worship, curled up in a corner taking in the mantra of the experienced prophets treading the boards, I smile contentedly.
Still starring at the gap in the doorframe I take some deep breaths… In … out … in … out … in… mouse… Mouse? …oh shit, MOUSE!
Wielding a pole, I spring up onto an armchair where I stand – alert. The aerial view of the room giving me a false sense of advantage over the elusive rodent.
“What’s going on!?” she cries from the theatre, breaking character mid-play. Shocking. Paying audience, shocking.
“Shhh! It’s the mouse, babe! Stay in there!”
“WHAT!?”
“SHHHH I said it’s the mouse!”
I step from chair to sofa to cabinet.
I wade through furniture, clawing back each piece from the wall into the growing pile in the centre of my cell.
Only one piece left to move, nowhere left to hide, I prepare to strike – “Babe! I need your help!”
She runs to my aid, we talk through the movement, it has to be fluid – “We have to work together, needs to be like clockwork, one move, like a synchronised dive okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay… On three, as you move, I strike – okay?”
“Yes, I understand yes!”
“Okay, let’s go.”
“What about the blood?”
“Never mind the blood, mice don’t have blood.”
“Really?”
“Well they probably do, but probably not enough to splat.”
“Eugh, I can’t deal with a splat right now, it’s too late to clean up a splat.”
“Babe, I don’t want a mouse in the bed.”
“Can they get in the bed!?”
“Of course they can get in the bed!” Another nine grand well spent.
“We have to kill it then, we can’t have it in the bed.”
“On three – one, two…”
It all happens so fast, the movement, so fast, the discussed routine executed to perfection – precise, so fast, brilliant.
But alas – no mouse.
So, there’s a place in Leyton that does microwave-recycling, actually does all appliances, quite expensive however, I have to pay, to give it to them. Well that’s not happening.
For the next two weeks, in our tiny mouse-ridden damp house, with inadequate space and noisy neighbours, I watch my girlfriend work against all the odds just to keep up with the class. With infectious positivity she smiles, she chats, she laughs, she carries on. She Zooms, she house-parties, she has classes on weekdays and works on her personal project at the weekend. She defies the odds and cooperates with the guidelines of an institution that didn’t think to consider how class and living situation might affect the practicality of what they were asking. She writes fantastic scenes, battles the elements to film them and manages to submit all her work before the deadline. Success!
INT. BEDROOM – SCHOOL ZOOM MEETING – MORNING
TEACHER
I think your living circumstances have affected the quality of your work.
“Did he really say that?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.”
Do my mum and dad need a Microwave? No. Do her mum and dad need one? Maybe, actually.
As we begin to dip into the reserves of our optimism, the time has come to leave this house. Germs outside. Germs inside. Everything a germ, it seems. Can’t afford to live here any more. No help from the landlord. Despite hearing many tales of generosity whispered around town, it seems in our case their need for profit outweighs our need for charity. I can’t say I’m shocked, but I expected more. Times like these really do expose the core.
We are lucky enough to have some options. She can stay with her mum and dad, where I’m also welcome to reside – or I can head over to my parents. We can decide that later.
We’re going to have to throw a lot of our belongings in the bin – clothes, books, plays etc. They can’t come with us, there isn’t space. We make two piles. Keep – throw. It’s a relatively painless process, they’re just things. We have each other.
We start packing everything into boxes and plan the best way to move things out. Multiple trips over two weeks seems like the best option. Last thing to go will be the bed, roll it up in a tarpaulin, something like that.
Then that will be it.
We’ll be moved out.
Onto the next chapter.
It is around this point, as I peer into the seemingly empty storage cupboard checking for some forgotten relic, that my cumbersome friend takes centre stage to guilt me with his electromagnetic soliloquy.
“Why won’t he take me? Does thou know how well I work? To cook, to heat, to work – oh to still work and not be wanted! What curse is this to be capable of such spectacle that would have convinced the pilgrims of divinity and yet to be worth nothing? For one’s wizardry to become drab.”
Ignoring his cries, I shimmy him out and onto the floor. Bending down I scoop him up into my arms, his fate sealed, and we begin the long decent to the ground floor. There is a bus stop adjacent to our house, that’s where I’ll leave him – the least I can do is provide some shelter on these unforgiving streets if only to elongate his chances of being adopted by someone in need.
“Didn’t your brother buy you that microwave?”
“Erm… Yes. Yes, he did.”
“And you’re throwing it away?”
“Yes?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t sound sure, oh… Coming!”
The virtual call of some fellow player ends our exchange.
But now, I have my brother in my arms. Stood on the stairs, it’s my brother in my arms, on the street beneath the bus shelter, my only brother sat in the cold spiky rain. He’s only small, we can take him with us, can’t we?
The ward lights are dimmed.
I listen over and over to Shostakovich’s Fourth, that wild hairy unkempt teenager of a symphony – the problem child – the one he had to withdraw
after the debacle of Lady Macbeth, because he knew it was eclectic and it was formalist and it would have incurred the wrath and there would have been a knock at night, the silent car and the Gulag, the White Sea Canal, or a bullet in the basement of the Lubyanka, because all of Meyerhold, Karms, Zhilyaev, Sollertinsky, Mayakovsky, Mandelstam, had been, or were to be, tortured, shot, suicided or ground into death.
There is pain. I call the nurse. She attaches sensors. Reads the trace. “All fine,” she says. I and the night.
I listen over and over to Shostakovich’s Fourth, which lay hidden – the wild genius of it – for twenty-five years, until well after Uncle Joe’s death (and what a fucking holiday that should be) – the Great Leader and Teacher.
I listen over and over to Shostakovich’s Fourth: the huge, wild, disparate aggregation of it, the young composer assembling chunks, like bric-a-brac, jamming it together, some lyrical, some tender, some vulgar, some jaunty, impish, playful, some terrifying, some utterly, utterly, despairingly sad, the whole wild bag of it, a piece I’ve known for decades and sometimes loved, and sometimes railed against and was frustrated by, and now I think I get it, I think I get it, it coheres, it persuades and this is the soundtrack to the twentieth century.
The twentieth century: my century. My century. (I am a guest in the twenty-first.)
‘Do you know Tukhachevsky?’
I said ‘Yes.’
‘And what did you discuss?’
‘Mostly music.’
‘Not politics?’
‘No, we never talked politics.’
‘Dmitri Dmitryevich, this is very serious. You must remember.’
Shostakovich is frozen in dread. Dread of the endless bright hours of morning.
He has a bag prepared.
At the very end, the very end, a lone, weak, muted trumpet, shallow breath,
and again, at the very, very end, the very, very end, the fragile, frail, forlorn celesta, and everything that was: civilization, creativity, courage, love….. all has expired.
© Graham Buchan 2020
Dear Suckers,
Don mind the title I have given all you fuckers. It is a promotion as you can cee from the spelling. Talking of spelling, I am going to rite this letter in Chinees English. Note how I spelt “Chinees”. It is thuh correct spelling. How can you hav a language where thuh pronunciation does not matches thuh spelling. I will not allow it. Cee, when we say Zhao Enlai in Chinees, it is spelt as Zhao Enlai only. In Chinees. Now just as we Chinees are correcting everything else you suckers hav ruined in yor oan cuntrees so badly, we will correct yor language also. It is our Soshil Responsibility. So say thank you! Gud boys! Okay, now I have a simpill plan to maik this miner change in yor language happen very fast. I will ask Chinees investors to soon bye out all English dictionaries and chainj them. But this letter is not about yor stupid language. It is about clarifying fue points becaus otherwize you suckers are spredding misinformation about China simplee becaus I don speeks English, and China do not own Time Magazine, BBC, The Wall Street Journal, New York Times, and I forget the names of Indian media but then so duz everybody else in the wurld because they are as significant to the wurld as Hinduism. But as for western media bias, that will also change when Chinees investors bye them out. Meanwhyle, of cors we hav Global Times butt awnestly, that is still onlee as Global as that panicky minority religion – Hinduism. So untill this skued media bizniss is solvd, I hav kindly consented to my Central Committee to rite this open letter to you suckers, butt in correct English – Chinees English. I am sorry for maiking you wait for this red letter but I was very busy with a fue things. One, I was bizee in development work including maiking islands in South China Sea, roads in Ladakh and Arunachal Pradesh and on the Himachal Pradesh border. Now not many of yoo will no the naims of thees places but that is becaus they are in India and not just becaus you trader type of capitalists are generally illiterate. And two, I was bizee exporting protective geer of Covid 19 after exporting Covid 19 itself to you suckers. And you suckers has all been taikin the geer shaimlesslee and after that you has been biching about banning China to pleese yor that stupid part of yor peepal whose voats have maid you fuckers the main suckers of yor respectiv cuntrees. And now when we maik the vaccine, like all our othur products, it will be the cheepist and best and yor peepal will buy it. Because yoo cee you capitalists are not evin gud in Marketing. Now taik the exampil of OnePlus Chinees smartphone. And I am not evin talking about Oppo. So OnePlus phone understands yor citizens better than yor oan phone companies includings both Apple and Google Nexus (how stupid to call a phone by such a negative name “nexus” Are you illterate? Or is nexus a virchew in Capitalism?). It is called Conzumer Insight. And so it is not just about charging fare price, though you capitalist idiots will kill yorself but cannot stop cheeting custumers with stupid prices. So, OnePlus has so many secret features and anyone who duz illegal or secret things like many young peepal and old politicians in yor cuntrees, will luv OnePlus. Yoo three suckers should also try this phone. All three of yoo can store yor gurlfriend’s pictures without anyone getting to know. And for yoo Modi especially – this phone has wide angil lens so it can shoot your very wide gurlfrends also. I will gift yoo one phone in exchange for PLA taiking control of yor Himachal Pradesh state. This is over and abov our othur deal. Wink Wink! (Pssst! How is PayTm, yor demonetiztion launch vehical doing?) And yoo three must know that I knows thru MSS (Ministry of State Security), the Chinees Intelligence agency who all yor women are. Wants me to reveel? Butt that is not the point.
The point is that one thing you will have to accept. China has never had idiots as head of state lyke your cuntrees – America, England and India. So there must be sumthing rite about how we maik leeders in China. But cumming back to the point (I cannot spend so much time in that toilet which you call democracy which produces shits lyke you), the thurd reason why I was unabel to rite this open latter was becaus I was bizee in a program called AFTEP. It is the “App For Territory Exchange Program” that Modi and I hav verballee signed. So I taik some Indian territory and in exchange he bans a few Chinees apps to pleez his stupid voaters. That is what I like about Modi – how he looses and looses and still pretends to be hard. He is like loose motion sold as constipation to his stupid voaters. Anywhey. Let mee cum to the point. I have been thretning to cum for two long, I confess. Butt anywhey. Cee this open letter is about clarifying the Chinees point of view to all you suckers and yor misinformed peepals. I have been tolerating yor stupid taik on China after this Covid 19 pandemic for two long and there is an English provurb that has inspired mee to rite this letter. It says: The penis mighteer than the sword. So faar you all hav been ceeing the sword and mite of China. Now cee my penis. Here I cum. I will cum into each of you suckers won by won.
Now lissin you, Trump. I have studied you after checking on you on Baidu. You are ignorant about Baidu also you typical right winger? So, lyke you has Google in Amerika, same way we has Baidu in China. It is like Google onlee except that it is bigger. To maik it biggest however, I have a simpill plan. Chinees investors will bye out Google. Butt that is not the point here. The point iss that on Baidu, I found this stuff on you. And it maiks me wonder what rite at all you hav to talk about me and China you joaker. Let me putt this comparisun for the wurld to know. Furst, I will compair you and mee – t.i. (not e.i. because e.i. cannot bee short form of “that is”. Short form of “that is” has to bee “t.i.”) you, Trump and me Xi Jinping. Aftur I has compaired yoo and mee I will compair yor cuntree and my nashun, t.i. Amerika and China. Lett peepal then diside for themselves. Aftur I finish with you, I will compair myself with that fello who cannot evin stand strait. Boris Johnsun and his Britain. Actually he iss the reeson why I am riting this open letter in such a hurree. Becaus by the time I finish he may no longer be PM. Yoo cee in Britain the PM changes the day he has a whorse voice and cannot shout back in parliament. So funnee! This joak is called Democracy I am toald. And in India, PM changes for similar reesun with miner variashun. There the man who lies loudly becums next PM. And the won who gets Chinees software expurts to manipulayt the Electronic Voating Macheens stays PM. Democracy! Ha! How funnee! Butt Amerika is funniest. The won who looses becums President! I no yoo Amerikans are week in Mathematics but this is craazee isn’t it? But the funniest thing is that all you three suckers hav the cheeks to criticize Chinees systum. Cee, Chinees systum is best. Here whoever is harder becums the ruler. We hav erections not elections. Let me explane moar befoar I cum inside Trump. Actually why waist time. I shud cum inside all three of yoo together onlee.
So let me introdeuce myself. I am General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China and also the Chairman of Central Military Commission (both since 2012) and President of the People’s Republic of China (since 2013). I am what is called the “Paramount leader” to maik cleer that no nonsence will be tolerated. Chinees systum has simpill ways of communicating that no nonsence will be tolerated. We don’t misuse Courts to do this, or use street goons in underwhere to do this. Nor do we treet Parliament like Wuhan fish market to do this. Nor do we tweet stupid tweets in all caps and exclamation marks to do this by insisting so many times that “I have all the authority” that it becums cleer yoo have no authority in yor stupid systum which claims to be a democracy but is not and claims to give you authority but does not. Yor donkey systum onlee gives yoo instability and mentallee unstable leeders like yoo three chimpanzees. Be honest. I am faar better than yoo three. Don taik my word for it, just cee yor performance. Post Covid and pre Covid. By the way what is this nonsence about “testing per million”. In China we test evrybuddy! I was shokked that the peepals in yor stupid democracy aar tolerating testing per million. Testing shud be free. Evrybuddy shud be tested. In just fue days China put up a full hospital. You wer not evin abel to copy us! And when we locked down Wuhan, you learned the meaning of lockdown from us. But how stupidly yoo three suckers implemented it. Wurst was yoo, Modi. Yoo locked down lyke you were shutting yor toilet. If you were in China (impossible, we don have donkeys like yoo) yoo would hav been locked up for yor stupid lockdown. And you Trump, yoo were so funnee thruout! Haw Haw Haw!
Giv me a minitt, I has to laugh!
Ahhhhh!
And yoo Johnsun, the virus evin got into yor ass. You call it arse in UK rite? When yoo travil to Amerika, what do Amerikans understand with the announcement: That ass Johnsun has arrived. Which ass they see you as? The ass with ears or the ass with a hole? Anywhey, we will taik care of all this when Chinees investors bye out all English dictionaries. Lett me cum back to the point. So tell mee Johnsun, how a leeder who cannot saiv his oan ass can saiv his peepals. I swear by the dragon, in China we hav never ever had such clowns leeding the cuntree. And the best paart is that you are elected! Haw Haw Haw! But yoo three will go soon. And here in China, I am President without any term limits. So I am not insecure lyke yoo three. I don hav to bullshit my peepals to survive. I don hav to lie. But yoo three are liars fighting a survival battle daily. You Trump will be kicked out in November. Johnson, in yor case you can be kicked out the day you cannot outshout members of yor own party in parliament. Yoo don even need opposishun to dethrown yoo. Any of yor colleegs will do to yoo what yoo did to that emptee cupboard Theresa May. And yoo Modi, yoo hav feer of loosing power. The day yoo looses power yoo will be hanged. Yor crimes are more than any criminal I know. But there is won more way all three of yoo can loose power which yoo suckers forgets. If China taiks Ladakh Modi even yor twenty percent underwhere supporters will be forced to set yor pajama on fire even without election. And Trump, as regards yoo, the “Chinees virus” as yoo call Covid 19, has alreddy finished yoo. Same to yoo, Johnson. Onlee Modi needs PLA to screw him becaus in his cuntree 20% of his Hindu cuntreemen feel that Modi is a cow who must be protected even he just sits in the middle of a marketplace and farts all day. Such a stupid democracy where 20% peepals decide who PM will be. You cee the funnee part is that China is also a better deomocracy than this. Lissin you joakers. Democracy is not just election. It is representation. And yoo three do not represent yor peepal the way I represent my peepal.
Now let me tell you about myself so that yor peepal can really no the difference. I went thru hell in my life. My father was imprisoned and died. I was on my oan since age fifteen. So, I lived in a cave in Liangjiahe. Another matter that still I don’t wear my suit as clumsily as you too white men, Trump and Johnsun. And as regards you, you hairy hare, who uses mushroom whitener on yor face and dresses up like an Indian bride who is waiting for her bridegroom since 2013, I know if you wear a suit you will look like a fat cow in a sari. I don why yoo are so ashaimed of yor brown skin that you eat fungus to whiten it. And evin then yor beard looks like it belongs inside the fly of a 200 years old gorilla. And you Johnson I don’t know which university and school you went to (someone tolded me you went to Eton and Oxford) but they forgets to groom yoo and tell you simpill difference between how to keep the hair on top in better condition than hair inside yor underwhere. But I was a “worker-peasant-soldier” student of Chemical Engineering and unlike you Modi, I have certificates to show for it. And unlike you Trump, I passed without cheeting. And unlike you Johnson, when I studied I really studeed. I did not keep phucking and phucking and phucking and study only to take a brake. And I rose from the ranks. I did not jump from Trump tower to White House or put a drawing pin on Theresa May’s chair befoar she sat down or kill 2000 muslims and talk bullshit about vikas, development, on which my track record is smaller than the little peanut in my pajama. I worked my way up. I did not get into politics very eazy. I was rejected seven times before I was taikin into Communist Youth League of China. In China yoo rize on merit and not by doing one communal riot or licking one dozen backsides. I applied ten times to join Communist Party of China. Exactly ten! And then I joined in 1973, when yoo Trump were selling real estate on illegal land, yoo Johnson were still clearly studying some bullshit. How yoo turned out is evidence of what went into yoo. And yoo Modi were washing saffron underwhere at that time and doing shady things which yoo cover up by saying you sold tea. There also I doubt of yoo can give anyone a single a cup of tea without putting poison into it.
Now let me stop talking about myself so that I don start lukking like you three megalomaniacs. And let us talk about our cuntrees and our performance. I will start with simple facts before I cum into you. So China is the world’s fastest growing economy. What yor peepal don no is that China is also the absolute largest economy in the wurld by purchasing power parity. Amerika is not. At $25.4 trillion, China is $5 trillion bigger than Amerika, $15.5 trillion bigger than India, and $22 trillion bigger than UK. So stop just talking about China as the fastest growing. We are also the biggest. Stop fooling yor stupid peepals. And yoo Johsun should stop reeding this letter now onlee out of shame. And yoo Modi don need to do that becaus you don know how to reed onlee and so yoo must not be reeding it in any case . And Trump you can at least reed numbers so reed this and STPU (Shut The Phuck Up). And yoo ignorant capitalists may not no this but Chinees economy is both centrally planned and market oriented. Private sector is 80% of our GDP. We also have the second largest number of billionaires in the wurld t.i. three times that of India, and eight times that of UK and slightly lesser than Amerika. We are the world’s largest manufacturing economy. We are too times bigger than Amerika, ten times that of India and twenty times that of UK. I suspect our manufacturing waste must be more than the manufacturing of India and UK. We are also the wurld’s largest exporter of goods. And we are the largest traiding nashun in the wurld. We are ranked 31 on Ease of doing business index, India is at 63, Amerika is at 6 and UK at 8. The reesun is simpill. India is louzee so it is at 63. And Amerika and UK are high becaus they has maid it easier for China to do business as the wurld’s largest exporters! Haw! Haw! Now here is what China is very proud of. And I don say this, World Bank says it. That China povertee rate fell from 88% decades ago to 0.7% in 2015. Can yoo three capitalists explain to me why China not only has the wurld’s largest economy and the wurld’s second largest number of billionaires and also the lowest poverty numbers? India has 73 Mn peepal (5.5%) in extreme povertee. Half of the wurld’s poor live in just five cuntrees and the highest number aar in India. In Amerika, 11.8% peepals live in povertee. Tell me Trump, why yoo calls yorself a developed cuntree? And yoo, Johnsun, yor UK has 21% peepals in pvertee. I can onlee hoap that with thees facts yor pepaal throws yoo three suckers out and boo yoo when you criticize China. I hav much moar to say, but this is enuf for this Part 1 of my open letter. If yor peepals are still fooled by yor China bashing then I think they deserve yoo.
Butt still we Chinees aar kind peepal. And this messij of mine is to the peepal of these three sad cuntrees. So we Chinees will still send you masks, PPE and vaccine. And if yoo want we can alos maik hospital for yoo which yor three suckers cannot maik. And if yoo want we can also do testing for each one of you. Ask all yoo want and we Chinees aar there for yoo. But do voat out yor three joakers. Don let them divert attenshun to China. I sincerely meen it for yor gud onlee.
Moar in my next open letter. Part Too.
So, Chow.
This week on Litro Lab, we invite you to close your eyes and immerse yourself in this oneiric flash fiction piece that tells the story of a little boy and his fascination with the rounded moon.
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So after an hour in the biting rain and mud at Cherryvale we were driven back across town to the school gates. No time to change or anything. Because of this some of the boys used the bus as a changing room, though most just put trousers on over their shorts and whenever they opened their bags there was a stench of earth and damp sweat. We dried off as best we could but our seats still dampened. Sleet pummelled down and the city was a grey haze, which wasn’t great for those of us with things to do. I had to go to town to get my ears pierced. Christ. At least I didn’t have to go home for a while.
I couldn’t bear to listen to the boys with their awful jokes, so I put on my headphones and browsed Instagram. I mostly followed makeup artists: I liked the pop of colour, the fantasy. Someone was wearing a metallic blue eyeshadow and mustard lipstick and I thought, I could never. No way. No chance. I mean, I wish. I once tried Meadbh’s baby pink lipstick – I looked like a stern soccer mom, but it was exhilarating. I couldn’t buy my own or anything so I’ve to live through others. Makeup was too hard to hide. Earrings on the other hand…
Speaking of, the studio closed at six and we were stuck on the Westlink. Each time I checked the time my legs bounced violently. I convinced myself that we’d be there for an hour, if not two … in fact we could be there all night. I suppose I take after my mum. She goes from nought to sixty in no time. Recently she found pills in my room and thought I was on ketamine, which was the start of a slippery slope and very soon I’d be on the streets. I couldn’t tell her what they actually were, so I said sorry, I’d never do it again, and anyway it was Meadbh’s friend Emma that gave me them. She didn’t like Emma so that was that.
My phone buzzed. It was Dad. He wanted to go to a match at the weekend. I felt nauseous. It was something we’d done for years but I’d stopped going. He still tried to get me to go, which I didn’t really appreciate, but I couldn’t do much about him until I moved out. Okay, I still played Gaelic, so I guess that gave him a reason to keep at it. I mean, I’d rather quit, but people would then think something was up, and I wanted to avoid that kind of scrutiny.
I checked the time again. A few minutes had passed. We had moved and were on the offramp close to school. There was an Orange Hall with a statue on top blocked out by a curtain of sleet. I messaged Meadbh to let her know I’d be a few minutes late. The three of us had planned this for a while so I really didn’t want to be the one to mess it up. Someone threw a sock at my head, but I ignored it as usual.
I checked inside my blazer to make sure I had money with me. I did. £50. I had saved for a while, which wasn’t easy when your parents controlled your finances. It started on my birthday when an aunt gave me £50. She visited from Spain and said I should stay with her for a week or two, that it’d do me good to get some sun. That money was set aside and after a month or so went on oestrogen. I knew I’d have to explain changes eventually but, I thought, puberty was good cover for a while. If I’m honest, the idea of social transition worried me more. It would be near impossible in school. Like, there is no way. No chance. But I could at least do a few small things in the meantime, so I needed to save for clothes, to get my ears pierced, and to continue medication. I got some pocket money each weekend but most of that went on food or sweets during the week. So, I needed an income.
I liked to draw and in the past did a few profile pictures for Discord friends. I had a decent reputation, I guess, so it didn’t take much to get the word out that I was open for commissions. I enjoyed the routine I got into: I would come home from school, do any homework I had before dinner, then work on the commission after. Some nights I would be up too late with it, listening to music, talking to friends. My parents knew that I did this, although not that I got paid, so they left me alone, which was nice. Getting the money itself was difficult because of my age. I was afraid to open an online bank account in case my parents found out, so I had the money sent to Meadbh’s sister’s PayPal. She was at uni so I only got cash every month or so. It wasn’t ideal but it was better than nothing. I saved around £150 between July and January, which was more money than I ever had.
The bus finally reached school. I shuddered at its grey cast-iron gates. The sky had darkened and the sleet remained. I went downhill toward St Anne’s Cathedral and the city itself seemed unfinished, as if the textures would pop in as they would in a game. I phoned Meadbh but she didn’t answer. She and Emma were probably kissing somewhere. They both went to the girls’ grammar up the road and we had all been friends since childhood. We went to the same primary together then split up for secondary, which upset me a lot. Sometimes I’d think about when Meadbh came round in her bright green pinafore after her first day in the grammar, and how I burned inside, like really burned, as if I’d been told off for something I didn’t do. I thought about that feeling a lot too.
There was a shop next to St Anne’s so I took shelter and phoned Meadbh again. The inside smelled of warm bread. Meadbh answered and said she was in Claire’s picking up a few things. We agreed to meet at the piercing studio in ten minutes. I bought a small cinnamon roll and hot chocolate from a machine then walked toward High Street. I didn’t go to town often. The last time was before Christmas, when Mum took me after school to shop. It rained heavily that day and it was every bit as grey and bleak. Mum was in a mood because Dad, as usual, didn’t want anything but expected a miracle. That’s how she put it. The shops were open late and they glimmered with festive lights and frosted window panes. We heard the same Wham! song at least five times. Mum sang along each time she heard it. Reminds me of when your da and me met, she said. Though don’t tell your da, he hates George Michael.
In every store she’d ask me to go and pick something out for myself. I browsed the rails in T.K. Maxx, M&S, Debenhams, you name it. Couldn’t find a thing. There were some oversized hoodies that I thought could come in handy, but that was about it. Men’s clothes were so dull, really, just sections of navy and grey, aisle after aisle of muted tones and everything smelled like suitcases.
We stopped for dinner in Brights. Mum was desperate. I’d kill for a curry chip. She’d almost got everything, just needed a record player for Dad, and she said I really should pick something out or I’d be walking the streets in a bin bag. I said someone did that to the Baftas last year but she wasn’t impressed. I got a chicken burger and a pepper chip but ate it too fast and felt a bit ill. I was anxious though I couldn’t say why. Well, she’d begun to ask questions about the future, about school, about life in general, and did so over dinner. She was never one to ask questions, so I guessed she noticed a change or maybe, worst case, saw my browser history. Okay, maybe not, but I became more cautious with what I said and made sure all my devices were locked. Honestly, you can never be too safe. I guess it’s possible she picked up on those changes. There was no winning. But I felt, in her company, always on the verge of slipping up.
We found a record player in a second-hand store so our last stop was Top Shop. When we got there I told Mum that I’d be fine with money for Christmas. She said she’d love that too, then went up the escalator toward Top Man to get a jumper for my brother. I watched her disappear upstairs and milled about near the door for a few minutes before I felt this urge, I don’t know how to explain it, I just saw the store in front of me and needed to look around. I paused at each rail and felt taken in by the floral patterns and glittering rhinestones, the pops of mustard, purple, salmon pink. Even beige was a new, wonderful colour. I spent far too long admiring the jewellery with its intricate patterns and the deep blue and crimson stones embedded in rose gold and silver. There was one pair of faux-pearl earrings that I held against my earlobes. I looked at my reflection and laughed, gently, as if someone gave me a compliment and I low-key agreed that, yes, I did look great. I loved how they looked. I felt so light. That was until I saw my face in the mirror and realised where I was, and started to panic. I dropped the earrings and rushed outside before Mum saw me.
*
Meadbh and Emma were already in the piercing studio and snacked on triple-chocolate cookies. I couldn’t help but smile when I saw them. Meadbh had her hair in a high ponytail because she had track after school. “Starving,” she said after we hugged. “Mum is on this health kick so I had pitta filled with hummus and red peppers for lunch. I hate hummus, seriously, it tastes like wallpaper paste. Anyway, are you not freezing? Here, take these.” She handed over tracksuit bottoms from her bag and I put them on quickly while the man at the counter looked at his phone. Meadbh continued, with her mouth full, “There are some wee girls in there already but your man says we should be fine for time.” She sat back down beside Emma, who had recently dyed her hair. It was now a pink wavy lob.
“I like your hair.” I said.
“Thanks,” she replied. “The school don’t like it but sure it’s too late to do anything about it now.”
She gave me a hug, then gently kicked Meadbh on the shin. Meadbh looked alarmed then smiled and said, “Oh, here.” She ruffled in her bag for a moment then said, “Before I forget. We got you something in Claire’s.” She lifted out a wide-panelled hairbrush. It was lovely, and awful. It was bright yellow. I wanted to cry, and I guess my face dropped a little like I was concerned because Meadbh said, “I can hold on to it if you want, just in case.”
“No,” I said, then smiled at her. “It’s fine. Better than fine. Like, it’s perfect. Really. Thanks a bunch.”
I checked out my hair in the phone’s camera. It was a bit untamed, to be honest. I hadn’t cut it in over a year and it had grown beyond the awkward stage into an unshapely brown bob. It was a start, but Dad hated it. I used the brush to set it into some kind of fringe that swept over to one side.
“Very Emo,” said Emma.
I laughed and said, “To be honest I just want to hide that right eyebrow, it’s a lot worse than the other.”
They laughed, then I guess I felt a bit overwhelmed because my stomach felt tight and my eyes stung a little. “I think I’m crying,” I said, then set my things down and went outside.
There was a man playing a guitar in a small archway that led to the entry we were in. I stood against the studio’s window and dried my eyes on my blazer’s sleeve. I felt nervous. I hadn’t told my parents about this. About any of this. Meadbh joined me soon after and stomped her feet to scare off a pigeon. “You don’t have to say anything,” she said, “just know that I’m here and I love you.” We stood in silence for a few minutes then Meadbh looked up the alley and pointed to some shutters and said, “Dad would always take me down this way, he’d park in that multi-storey just there and we’d walk through the entry to get to the shops. He said there used to be an arcade, like Queen’s Arcade with the posh shops, but this one wasn’t posh. He met my mum there. I swear, every time we walk here he says, you probably wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t watching the game in Morning Star and desperate for a few chips. He’s such a melter.”
I laughed, then turned to face the shop again and saw our reflection in the window. I wasn’t tall, but I’d grown passed Meadbh by a few inches and my body had broadened. I couldn’t bear to look at my face. I sighed. We used to be so similar. I turned to her and said, “I wish I looked like you.”
“I don’t blame you,” she replied and gave me a hug. Then, out of nowhere, I started to ball, real heavy, for like a minute. That’s rare, no joke. I don’t think I ever cried like that. I started to cry a lot more. Not in a bad way, and often it was just a sniffle. Nothing like that. After a minute or so Meadbh pulled herself away and said, “Okay? Okay. Now come get your ears done before you freeze to death.”
*
It was a Thursday and the shops were open later so we went to a food court to get dinner. We bought a spicy pizza to share then sat at a table beside an escalator. We all played with the studs in our ears. I liked the dull pain whenever I rotated the metal. Emma asked if my parents knew, and I said, “No, they don’t know anything yet.” Seriously, the thought of telling them made me nauseous. Dad especially. He was, well, something. A while ago he went off on one at a guy on TV. The guy had his ear pierced and Dad said he had a piercing in the wrong ear. He said, It’s fine for men to have them but it has to be in the right ear, this guy has it on the left. What do you think that says about him? Then Mum said, No, no it’s the other way round. Then my Dad got confused and switched over to the news. There were loads of things like that. I’m not sure what he’s going to make of me, to be honest. Different scenarios of when I got in played out in my mind. I noticed some time had passed and I’d picked the toppings from my pizza and put them all at the side of the tray.
“Did your mum ever tell you not to play with your food?” said Meadbh.
I shrugged and said, “Sorry, I was away.”
Meadbh reached across the table and said, “I can be there, you know, when you get in or whenever you tell them.”
For some reason I just couldn’t get the image of ripped earlobes out of my mind. When I closed my eyes it was all I could see. Emma reached over the table herself and held my hand and said, “Listen. Take them out before you get in, then put them back on before you go to bed.”
“Yeah,” said Meadbh, “and I’ll bring tape for you tomorrow as you’ll need to hide them from the teachers.”
I eased a little and looked around the food court. I noticed the colours in the signs and smelled all the different flavours in the air. There were people all around and none of them noticed me and I felt reassured. I thought of the pearl earrings in Topshop and soared. People laughed and for once I didn’t think they laughed at me. There were moments when I could just be and I forgot how I looked and sounded and the world became so full and I wanted to do everything there was to do because I could. Someone at another table played music on their phone and I stood up and danced, badly and with a full stomach, then the others joined in. Others may have watched or laughed. It didn’t matter. We laughed and danced until we ran out of breath.
*
After dinner we walked to the bus stop near City Hall and passed some construction work in the centre of town, where the old Primark building had burned down. “I was there,” said Emma. “We watched the whole thing happen from outside HMV. I thought it was gone,” she said. “Surprised they’re keeping it to be honest.”
“Yeah,” said Meadbh, “they should just knock it down.”
As we waited for the bus I thought about the commission I had to work on later. I told Meadbh I’d give her a call to let her know if anything happened. I wanted to stay out longer but the night was even less safe. At least I didn’t have to walk home. I looked at my earrings in the camera and enjoyed how the winter light hit them. I didn’t want to take them out. Eventually our bus arrived and sloshed through the puddles that gathered by the curb. I took out my bus pass and looked at the name on it over and over, and each time the name looked more and more like a stranger’s.
Dust falls, captured by a heavy glass vase, distorting and covering its intricate flower petal design. It covers the windowsills, the floors, the ornaments, the nooks and crannies, a thin layer of dead skin attaches to static electronic surfaces, until it is removed only to return the day after. Time marches on but yet we stand still, sit still, lay still, scared stiff to move outside where pollen is whipped up and blown around in small cyclones. News bombardment 24/7, 7/11, 9 to five, the odds are 2-1, 5-1, 10-1, we’re flattening that curve, squashing the sombrero from that holiday you never took or had to cancel. Who’s zooming who? Sensitive information through the wires, down the cables, into ears of asymptomatic people. Nobody knows. A food parcel lacking ingredients arrives on the cleansed floor, of the cleansed tower block, several flights up. The deliverer, long gone, didn’t wait for the bell to finish its chime; he’s gone back to deliveries. A small-gloved finger pokes out from the door, through a gap barely large enough for a hand to fit through, and hooks the paper shopping bag handles. The pray is dragged in over the threshold and sprayed down. But something is missing, was missing, sold out, out of stock, only while stocks last, says the fine print of the receipt, they can only apologise. Scarf wrapped around the head, gloves to hide those dry, cracked clawfingers, and a baseball cap endorsed by Odidos; an imitation bandit ventures into tumbleweed Dodge with their heart in their mouth. Curfew ignored, follow the others through the maze of yellow one-way arrows fashioned from in-store tape. Mind the gap, keep your distance, observe the M6 chevrons, between one another in the cleansed store. Pollen and dust is not whipped up but someone sneezed two metres away. Tighten the scarf and breath held, yellow arrows observed and followed arbitrarily, ignoring special offers, avoiding the others, no milk today, no yeast today, no toilet paper today, no flour, no soap, while stocks last, while panic lasts, remember? Plastic shield guards the cashier, past the flimsy automatic gate, and out of the sliding doors, back into empty society where an exchange of glances with rare strangers are accusatory, a raised eyebrow and a scarf check. Return to the new settled dust that awaits tomorrow.
This week on Litro Lab, Karin Jervert brings a beautifully nuanced essay about childhood memories, mental health, insects and displacement.
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You first meet Israel when you start as the Admin Assistant for a hot-desking company in Mayfair. He walks by you every day with a hello and disappears behind an ominous blue door. You wonder how his colleagues whittle away their time. You don’t know much about him except that he’s the head of a dating app, The Boss, The Big Man. And that he’s Danish. You mustn’t forget he’s Danish.
You’ve been working at the company for over a year now. Whirring laptop screens buzz through the day, paper prints, low conversations between desks flit by you as you flick between the different tabs on your computer. You’re supposed to be updating the Twitter account, but you’re too busy trying to decide which dress to buy on ASOS. The one with garish green sequins, or the bodycon beige? Days are spent endlessly clicking, tapping away, and answering phone calls in your sexy telephone voice. The one you’d practised over and over again for weeks before you got the interview for this place. Noura had mentioned they were looking for someone after she heard from a friend of a friend that they were looking for fresh meat, someone youthful. This boded well for you because you don’t look a day over eighteen. The benefits of having full rounded cheeks as an Arab.
Go on, it’s just a stopgap while you figure out what you want to do in life, Noura had said. You only agreed because the office was based in Shepherd’s Market, just down the tiny alleyway of Whitehorse Street, and you loved the idea of being concaved between suits and money. So you dressed up, preened yourself in front of the mirror, and set off for the start of a new life. Before they let you in, you ran your tongue over your teeth and tried to still the beating of your heart. Nervous. They asked you to answer the phone as you would if you were a receptionist. Roleplay. You leant over the desk, boobs resting gentle on the oak, and coiled your finger around the cord. Then your interviewer drew closer to you and asked to speak to Roger Filander. You noticed the speck of spinach peeking out from beneath his pink gums, but instead of pointing it out, you crawled to him and in your sexiest voice, you asked what it was regarding. It’s Israel, he replied, and I’m looking for the hottest, newest receptionist in town. Speaking, you’d replied, doing the Diana upward eye flick, the one you’d also been practising after you’d watched that interview with Diana and Martin Bashir all those years ago, with your Mum. You were fascinated with the way Diana could look so Bambi eyed, even though she was blonde.
You have gone to university, but you left the semester before you graduated. You couldn’t hack the essays and you still didn’t know what you wanted in life. So you went for this job and that job and ended up not doing anything. Then your brother left home without a word, the same way your dad did all those years ago, and left you alone with her.
Monday morning, Israel, in all his glory, asks you out for a coffee during your break.
I don’t get a break, you say.
Come on, everyone needs a break, he says.
And you want to ball up at the cheese but then you hesitate because you’ve been pining over Israel for weeks even though you know he has a girlfriend. You’ve seen her come in a few times. She’s allowed behind the solemn door of his office and you have to remove yourself from the fantasy of you and him, and go back to what your eyes see in front of you, screens and other creatives trying to make their mark in the world. His girlfriend is blonde and slim and has an accent. Israel has eyes that look like they’re about to cry even though he walks around like a Big Man, like The Boss.
What’s it for? you ask.
Business, he says and waltzes back into his office, door shutting behind him.
Coffee Break. He asks you to be the Social Media Exec for his company. You decline before he can tell you the benefits.
You won’t get these anywhere else, he says.
What makes you so sure? you ask, trying to think of all the ways you can make this about you. You are in control here.
Where else would you get to work so closely with me? he asks. He’s joking but he can also feel the chemicals being formulated atop your head as you speak, pheromones and testosterone and all chromosomes melding into a haze of energy. He feels it too.
I’m a professional, you say.
I don’t doubt that for a second, he says.
Fine.
You shake hands and start the following Monday. By Friday you’re in his bed. He takes you to the flat he shares with his cousin in Chelsea and you finger his book cabinet as he fixes you a drink. You’re both too sober to commit adultery.
Rumi? you ask, picking a book from the shelf and flicking the pages so the smell of old paper fills the air, particles of dust flying and swirling beneath your nose.
My mother loved poetry, he says. Again with the clichés. But you can’t argue too much because you love Rumi too and one of your fantasies is to read to him while he does other things with his tongue in the daylight.
We shouldn’t do this, you say, taking the drink from his hand and feeling the warmth of his fingers against your own. It’s been a while since you’ve been back to a man’s house and you don’t want to start getting a reputation amongst your friends. You take a sip and his fingers climb to your thighs, pulling on your knickers. You wonder why he doesn’t just stick his fingers in, but then you realise the Danish do things differently. They have much more charm than the English boys you’ve been with. They didn’t get your exoticism, and your mother warned you about them, the English boys. Said they were cold in bed, even though you don’t know how she could possibly know that since she hadn’t been with anyone since your father left, and she only opened her legs for him on her wedding night. They were in her dad’s house and she bled for two days before they went on their honeymoon to Greece. Too rough, your father, she’d tell you. Your friends were round one day to celebrate your seventeenth birthday and Noura was talking about the time Lift Guy fingered her in the back of his mum’s car when they were fifteen and had just come back from the Cinema after watching Honey.It must have been that Jessica Alba, she said. Your mum was listening and she laughed and said that men were horny dogs and they wanted it whenever they could get it, even if it was by force. So make sure you’re always wet girls, she’d said. Your friends giggled, even if they were a little taken aback because none of their mothers spoke like that, but you’d gone red and tried to laugh it away. Your mum switched on the Arabic cable and turned the volume up, forcing you and your friends to take your girly chat to the kitchen.
I want you, he says, and you grip his head with your knees, trying to hold onto your drink before it spills over.
You avoid talking about the girlfriend. The less you know, the less you are incriminating yourself in this mortal sin.
We both want this, he says, taking your glass, placing it on the floor beside his feet. Gripping your waist, pressing hard fingers against your supple skin, he turns you around, bending you over so that your naked stomach curves around the suede of his couch. He does it, he fucks you and it feels good. Sweat droplets fall on the suede and after a minute of jagged breathing, you reach over to pull your jeans up. You don’t want to get home too late in case your mother has fallen asleep in front of the TV and you have to tuck her in again.
He kisses the back of your head and tells you that he’s not in for the rest of the week because he’s on a business trip in Geneva. You press for the lift and think about Israel on the way down. Away from the pretty views, you step out onto the lavishly adorned streets of Sloane Square. Buses loom round the corner at the traffic lights and your heart beats at the franticness of just-now’s encounter. Your fantasy of Israel has come true, and it rarely ever does, girl, savour it. Cherish it. Remember that good times don’t need to last forever, and if nothing ever comes of any moment, just know that it makes for a good story. Especially when you’re older and you’re sitting around the table at The Ivy with your girlfriends talking about your ho days.
You still have enough time to make it to Friday night drinks with the girls and you can tell them all then while it’s still fresh. As you cross the traffic lights, you laugh at your own recklessness, trying to convince yourself that what you’ve done is not against the law. Liberating, freeing, unchained happiness has come in the form of Israel.
What the fuck is wrong with you? Layla asks as you finish telling her.
What? you ask, knowing that the incredulousness in her voice is deserved.
He’s got a girlfriend! she says
So?
Listen to yourself, Lena. For fuck’s sake, you’re not a charmouta!
Stung, your cheeks redden. You know she’s right.
Like you’re so righteous? you mutter under your breath.
Speak to your best friend please, Layla says, turning to Noura.
You need to stop messing around with these fuckboys, Noura says, taking a sip of her vodka Red Bull. You blink under the harsh red lights of the club and you think of the last time you were at Strawberry Moons. You were eighteen and throwing a birthday party for Kayleigh, the last big send-off before everyone went to uni, work, or popped out a baby or two. Three of your classmates had already had children. You spent the whole night holding back her hair as she threw up in the toilet and as you threw up beside the sanitary bin, both of you breaking down about how much you were going to miss each other.
While almost spilling her intestines out as she vomited all the vodka, Kayleigh turned to you with burning words.
Don’t die a virgin, Lena.
Jake was there, hadn’t left home yet. He and Noura had shared a snog on the dancefloor which you wish you hadn’t seen because Jake was your brother and Noura was your best friend and the whole thing made you sick.
Whatever, you say, rolling your eyes.
I’m serious Lena. What do you think you’re playing at? There’s no future between you two.
It’s just a bit of fun, it’s really not that deep.
Layla’s face flips. Fun?! Lena, you’re going to get seriously hurt, and this fuckboy has options. He doesn’t care about you!
Noura puts her hand on your knee, saying nothing. You know she thinks Layla is right, you can see it in her eyes. But she also knows not to say anything because of the whole walking in someone else’s shoes. She’s been there with you. And even if she can’t understand the decisions you make, she’s there to cry with you.
Let’s talk about something else, you say.
Layla sighs and takes a sip of her drink, bangles jangling against her bony wrist. Did you have a look at the photos I sent you? She means the photos of a flat in Camden where you both entertained the idea of living. Finally, a move towards freedom.
How much is the rent? you ask.
£700 each, including bills.
Seems decent, but I’m not sure about living in Kentish Town you know.
Oh mighty one, my apologies for having grown up in Zone Three.
You roll your eyes at her but secretly wish that you could stay in the area you grew up in. No one knows why. All that you’ve got in that area is bad memories of abandonment. Make a change, girl. It’s about time.
*
The following week, Israel comes back with chocolates galore for the staff. You try to maintain a veneer of normalcy. But you start to stutter when he talks to you and you can’t think of anything smart to say. Girl, don’t lose your wits, do this for us. He messages you later that night. Round at mine? Two words, yes please. Who knew you were this submissive?
The second time round you go to his, you notice different things. There are no pictures of his girlfriend even though you found out from your colleague Sarah that he’s been with her for three years and her family is like French royalty. There’s a crack in the wallpaper behind the lamp that sits beside the window. You find that odd. That there would be a lamp beside the window. But then you don’t want to think too much about what these white boys do, too many customs. Israel’s flat looks beyond the park and you rub the glass with your jumper, trying to make it shinier, so you can see out of it clearer. You smell him though, Israel. You smell him on the furniture, in between the pages of the books his cabinet holds, dribbling from the light switch, you smell his musk. And then you smell it on your skin for days, even after you’ve showered.
There’s never any traffic the time of day you go over. You only hear the engines rev outside as the light casts shadows against his ceiling. When you and your brother shared a room once, you tried to count how many light beams you caught until one of you would fall asleep, and it would usually be Jake because he was younger and your voice always lulled him to sleep. He told you that once, on that night when you all went to Strawberry Moons and the reason he told you was because he was drunk. Otherwise he wouldn’t talk to you because he thought you and Mum were conspiring against him to get him out of the house because he’d started looking to weed and white powder for love.
You and Israel go on for months. A night, a weekend, a trip to Paris, a frolic in the cloak room at the events you both go to. Colleagues start to notice. As you work the events, and welcome people in, he grabs your bum cheek and you try not to quiver at his touch. Smile, you are a professional. You start liking the idea of hanging on the end of his arm, staying over at his Chelsea flat, and going for a breakfast run in the morning like a normal couple. But then his girlfriend rings him one night when you’re both together. He answers and takes it into the other room while you circle the end of the duvet, gripping it tight to your chest.
Sorry, he says, crawling back into bed.
Who was that? you ask.
Tatiana, he says, looking at you looking at him and he can see it in your eyes, what you don’t want to tell him. He takes a strand of your hair and tucks it behind your ear. I’m sorry, he says. You don’t ask what for, because you already know. You allowed a little bit of him to creep into you so that he nestled in between your lungs and breathed the same time you did and smelt the same air and walked the same roads. You climb out of bed and put on last night’s clothes.
Don’t go, he says, grabbing your arm.
I’ve got some shopping to do, you say, buttoning your blouse. It’s true. You do have shopping to do, your mum has friends round tonight and she wants you to help. Ever since Jake left she’s been inviting everyone round all the time, and she can’t do it without you.
Are you upset? he asks. You face him and shake your head, bending low to kiss him in the space between his nose and his lips. He reaches forward, slipping his tongue whole in your mouth and you unlatch.
Don’t worry, I’m not upset, you say.
Monday will be here soon and you don’t want things to be awkward.
I think we’ve had our fun, you say.
He props himself up on his elbows and there it comes, that teary look. The one that reminds you so much of Jake.
Please don’t say that, he says.
This wasn’t going to last forever, you say. Even though a part of you had started to wish it would.
He sighs and rubs his face in his hands. Shit, I’m sorry for everything, he says, making out like he’s scrambling out of bed but you tell him not to worry, it’s fine. You’re fine. You grab your handbag, and stride to the door, wanting to get out before he says anything else that might make you turn back. At least you’re the one walking out this time.
For someone who is located in excess of 13,000 km away from the United States of America, my life and politics are intertwined with American politics. After all, the USA is the archetype of an elder brother to my humble abode of Namibia. The elder brother will forever be older, faster, the superior athlete and try as one may, the shoes are daunting to fill. An elusive pursuit in which the younger brother never scales the heights of his predecessor. On 5 January 2020, I was up as early as two a.m. for an epic showdown between the one, the only Tom Brady and Ryan Tannehill in the NFL playoff game. Days before I had brushed aside the fluke loss to the Dolphins and I was adamant “TB12” would pull off a comeback tantamount to the revenge tour of the infamous Deflate Gate.
If you are an NFL fan or have access to your computer, you will know that The Patriots lost the drab of a match to the Titans 20–13 despite Ryan Tannehill’s meagre 72 passing yards! Why is this important? Well for me the Patriots’ loss was the worst part of my festive season, or so I thought. My wife, our three children and I were due to leave for the coast for one final time before the resumption of business and the Patriots had put a slight dent to my mood. All season I had watched Bill Belichick’s tottering offence for three hours after midnight in Africa! I had made every excuse for them each time Shannon Sharpe spoke in his critical superlatives he attested were passed down by his granddad. I was always in agreement with Skip Bayless that the Great Bill Belichick had one up his sleeve, but on this fateful dawn in Sub-Saharan Africa Coach Belichick had let me down. He disappointed possibly the most loyal NFL fan in this part of the hemisphere and that was as bad as my day could get. However, perception is subjective to each and every individual and time, as the great equaliser that it is, would tell if this would be the lowest point of my festive season.
Whilst the worst thing that had happened to me on 5 January 2020 was The Patriots’ loss to the Titan’s subsequently elevating Ryan Tannehill’s comeback, 9,000 km across the ocean in Singapore a couple were reeling from the devastating news that their three-year-old girl was the first suspected case of the “mystery Wuhan virus” in Singapore. Could what I would have given for Tom Brady to produce a legendary fourth-quarter game-winning drive be compared to what these parents would have given to get answers and closure concerning their little girl? Hindsight is a greater mentor and I believe had I known what fate awaited the three-year-old, and the world, in the coming days, I would have gladly conceded the Super Bowl to Mahomeboy.
However, in this existence of ours no form of ignorance and folly goes unnoticed and the grand reaper is always lurking in the shadows to execute or exercise his form of crude justice, if not revenge. On a fine Friday morning just five days after the Patriots’ defeat, oblivious to the impending fate of the world and the precarious nature of the turn of events the world over, enjoying my little slice of nirvana on the Namib Desert sand dunes whilst camel-riding with my wife and our three children, I would have my fair share of tragedy. A day I will never forget for as long as I breathe, a day in which a part of me was lost, forsaken and shattered, never to be found again. Whilst some events shock, only a few can paralyse the very fibre of our being. Having not been able to answer my phone whilst camel riding, when I dismounted I saw that I had missed a few phone calls from my mother. A few text messages were unread. What followed was the worst news a person could get, possibly the same news the parents in Singapore would also be told in days to come.
“Uncle Tatenda, Mom is dead!” That was my niece’s voice in a voice message as she tried to contain her grief. A mere teenager, fifteen years old, delivering the shocking news to me. They had tried to reach me whilst I was mounted on a camel like an Arab Sheikh; my sister had been involved in a fatal car accident and perished without a trace. Just like a vapour, here one moment and gone the next. At my lowest moment, on 10 January 2020, in China Li Wenliang, an ophthalmologist and coronavirus whistle-blower had also started developing symptoms of a dry cough, which subsequently led to his death on 7 February 2020, after testing positive for coronavirus. Just a few days later, on 13 January 2020, I was laying my only sister to rest, oblivious of the fact that on the same day in Thailand the first confirmed case of 2019-nCoV had stricken a sixty-one-year-old Chinese woman who had travelled to Bangkok. Enduring massive blackouts every evening in Zimbabwe as I sought to comfort my mother, I knew nothing of this virus and the impending cloud of uncertainty that was engulfing the world. A few days after laying my sister to rest, on 15 January 2020, I was catching up on the sports news, distracting myself from my newfound reality by marvelling at the Australian Men’s Cricket Team who had chased down a target of 255 runs in 37 overs by pummelling an unbeaten 258 for the loss of no wicket against the mighty men in blue, India. Whilst distracting myself from my new reality, the fact of the matter is on this same day unbeknown to me and most people in the world 2019-nCoV had claimed its second victim in China.
Call me ignorant or whatever you will but as I went about my daily motions with my mother the only form of distraction I found, apart from Robin Sharma’s books, was sport. On 4 February 2020 all I wanted to find out as I woke up was whether Jimmy “G” did the unthinkable against the Kansas City Chiefs. I was enduring blackouts in Harare daily and, being away from Windhoek, Namibia, I could not get access to the Superbowl. I was willing to forgive Jimmy “G” (if you are a New England Patriots fan you will understand) and let him have a ring, as long as it came at the expense of Mahomeboy. I had a feeling that once Mahomes had a ring (which he now has) it will be a matter of time before he has three or more and I would gladly support anyone who can keep him at bay to preserve Tom Brady’s legacy. As we all know Mahomes, did what he does best and the rest is history. After watching the highlights on my phone, I was still insulated in my own cocoon ignorant of the fact that Li Wenliang and thousands more were fighting for their lives. On 7 February I hugged my mother, it was time for me to return to Windhoek, and for the first time on 8 February 2020, when I was given a health questionnaire to complete as I entered Namibia, I became aware of COVID-19.
Being in Sub-Saharan Africa I can plead ignorance to what was happening elsewhere. By the time I had assimilated back into my normal routine in the last couple of weeks of February 2020 the devastating reality of what the virus had done had become apparent, but not without coming across some disturbing, albeit plausible farfetched conspiracy theories that were creeping up. We were initially quarantined in Namibia on 19 March 2020 and I believe this is what I could term as the day of my epiphany. I scrolled through the canonical news channels to find out for myself how devastating this COVID-19 virus really was. I must say I have come to detest mainstream media due to the partisan nature of some of the reporting hence I hardly watched the news which explains part of my ignorance. To be honest I only signed up for Instagram in April 2020 during lockdown.
I remember an influx of emotions early in the morning as I saw military vehicles transporting corpses in Italy amidst deserted streets void of life. The atmosphere was so haunting and chilling that I spent a dozen hours watching the news without flinching. My heart swelled with emotions and I could not keep my tears at bay. As a father of three, two girls aged five and seven and a boy aged seven I remember thinking, “Lord, this isn’t the reality I envisage for my children.” A couple of days later it was raining and my nose was snotty and I began fighting my own diabolic vices. Worry and anxiety gripped me as my allergies exacerbated the situation resulting in me getting multivitamins and my regular hay-fever medication. I was gripped by immense anxiety as I thought I could have contracted the COVID-19 on my travels a couple of weeks before on my road trip from Zimbabwe. What a start to a new decade it would be for my mother, losing both her children in the space of two months. How would she cope with that? Were my insurances in place? Maybe I needed to call Michael (my financial planner), but I know mandatory blood tests would be the pre-requirement before upgrading the insurance.
The media exacerbated my fears as they sold the COVID-19 as a ruthless reaper akin to the Spanish flu of 1918. The only knowledge I had of this flu was from my fuzzy memory of World War I history and at this time it was all jumbled up with the Archduke Ferdinand – thus there was need for more research on this. Besides, how could I not when our two-week lockdown was extended by another four weeks. “They are hiding something from us,” was the chatter amongst my neighbours. Another third-world annihilation and eugenics conspiracy, was some of the talk. For those of you reading this who are not from Sub-Saharan Africa, welcome to our world. A world where there are no natural disasters or pandemics, let alone accidents. Every hurricane and tsunami is a detonation of a nuclear weapon in the Pacific, Atlantic or Indian Ocean by possibly Uncle Sam. Every car accident is a political assassination – and why stop there? Ebola is part of a eugenics experiment and HIV is a grander plot to exterminate the ethnical Africans.
Backtracking to my research on the 1918 Spanish flu, I decided to make use of the wisest man alive, since we have immortalised him in Sub-Saharan Africa, I am talking about none other than Dr Google himself, the grand sage whose knowledge stretches the multiverse. “Fifty million deaths,” was the first thing I saw on the Wikipedia page of the 1918 Spanish influenza. No wonder the evangelicals in the townships were preaching about the rapture. Yes indeed, in the townships the self-ordained prophets were crying out: “Prepare ye the way of the Lord.” The Pentecostals had defied the government quarantine regulations and held church services as they believed the rapture was nigh. In Namibia and South Africa alcohol sales were banned, leading to mixed reactions. Not to be the one to take Wikipedia at face value I did the next best thing; why not go to a trusted source and who better to give the facts than the Centre for Disease Control and Prevention? Whilst COVID-19 was not akin to the Spanish flu of 1918, it became apparent to me that the fifty million casualties our good doctor had stated was a reliable estimate and if preventative measures we not taken we could be unleashing the beast.
Armed with newfound knowledge on how to effectively sanitize and protect my family I embarked on a journey of social distancing and continued research keeping abreast of all the COVID-19 headlines. Piers Morgan rightfully called on the British government to carry out more tests whilst almost every government official reiterated the “Stay at home” message. In this era of political correctness and social media one thing was apparent, someone was bound to slip up and when they did the social police and Twitter-verse would be ready with both knives and daggers. In our quaint Namibia on 19 April the ruling SWAPO Party secretary general Sophia Shaningwa was at odds with the media regarding the alleged contravention of the Covid-19 lockdown regulations in which an event broadcast live on the national broadcaster featured the SWAPO Party President Hage Geingob, Namibia’s Vice President, Nangolo Mbumba, SWAPO Party Vice President Netumbo Nandi-Ndaitwah and top officials celebrating the party’s sixtieth anniversary to the disgruntlement of the masses.
Meanwhile on the same day as Namibians were distracted due to the media frenzy, it went unreported to most that the enemy was still out there causing terror in many nations. With Namibians distracted on the 19 April 2020, the WHO was releasing Situation Report 90 in which The Africa Centre for Disease Control and Prevention (Africa CDC) had reported fifty-five new deaths, which brought Africa’s death toll to 1,080. However, it seems that even in troubled times politics always “trumps” humanity, no pun intended. For the first time in a while one could literally view the world as a minuscule singular existence because the only news that was being reported was COVID-19 and this pandemic seemed to erase all borders – all but one, actually. It was the world and China but that’s a discussion for another day. In the same month of April at the same time our quaint country of Namibia was making a mountain out of a molehill, in the United Kingdom Dominic Raab was deputising for a frail Boris Johnson, who had tested positive for COVID-19. I actually said my prayers for the British Prime Minister and I realised that this pandemic was non-discriminatory.
By now everyone is aware or should at least be aware of what COVID-19 is, but if there is one takeaway from this ordeal, it is the realisation that we are such a fallen race. A race to be much pitied, I should say. I observed that even when facing a global existential crisis, politics always trumps humanity and there is nothing that currently unites the human race to fight for a unified cause anymore. We now live in a predominantly nihilistic society and of this I am convinced. I watched political leaders in the most powerful nations playing partisan politics with lives hanging by a thread. In a world where most people believe that our help comes from the West I saw the worst, everyone using the plight of many for partisan gain. I expected a truce amongst media outlets and political parties but the rifts only widened further with none offering a solution in sight.
With the CDC becoming my daily COVID-19 resource bible you can understand the horror when I read the tweet “Fire Fauci” in mid-April 2020. I couldn’t trust the CDC as well? Frustration, anger and anxiety were in the air again. By late April 2020 I was entangled in a web of confusion as most people still are today concerning this virus. Home-schooling kids under lockdown, multiple extensions and lack of facts can leave a person disillusioned. The twenty million deaths forecast in early March are nowhere close to what we have. With most of us void of basic essentials I recall satirical images of political leaders indulging in gourmet ice-cream whilst the media actively engaged daily in verbal wars with arguably the most powerful man in the world but to no avail. No closer to a vaccine than we were, Dr Fauci is seen testifying before the Senate with the noisy gong of the conspiracy theorists propounding another rhetoric to confuse the people.
The nihilists are protesting every form of preventative measure and they call it totalitarianism. China is now public enemy number one in the West but in Africa it continues to be the saviour. In Namibia Biltong shops were viewed as essential service providers and were not shut down whilst all restaurants and some retailers were initially closed. Domestic violence is on the rise in Africa yet the MeToo Movement is silent? The lack of priority has been appalling. In the British Isles people were more concerned with the conclusion of the English Premier League with certain Merseyside supporters threatening anarchy. In India the fate of the Indian Premier League seems to take precedence as Chennai Super Kings indicates a boycott if only local players are legible.
There is no one to speak for the voiceless as media and politics converge. A few months after the first confirmed case we have more conspiracy theories than we had at the beginning. Partisan political agendas have caused further rifts and the media has weaponised this. The verdict is still not sanctioned on China, we are neither closer nor further from the truth or to a vaccine than we were. If the current pandemic cannot unite us, of all eras in modern human history, we are a civilisation to be most pitied. Why worry about an existential threat from an extraterrestrial enemy when we are the enemy within? I am not innocent in this, I apologise for my initial ignorance. On 1 March 2020 I was enjoying Ravindra Jadeja’s spectacular superman catch of Neil Wagner at Christchurch whilst the rest of the world was enforcing stricter measures to curb this pandemic. We might not have a solution as yet, we might be a long way off from a vaccine but it’s not a far stretch for us to attempt to be human again.
Around the lounge she goes. Empty doorways and a vacant sofa for an audience. An eye to the tv. The handsome Spaniard, tightly trussed in black matador trousers streams into the room. A ray of sunlight in this top floor flat at 11am. The lesson begins. Alone, she dances a dance made for two.
A spring in her step, picking up the military beat. On the home front; fighting her own little war. She turns, she spins on the gleaming – polished to an-inch-of-its-life oak floor, gives the final few bars her all. Off balance – and into the sideboard she goes. The tiny Murano duck takes flight – soars into the air.
Don’t they say your life passes before you in moments such as this? They took a boat out of the lagoon to the glass blowers’ island of terracotta palaces set against a cobalt sky.
The tiny glass ornament, a mottled green, a memento from their honeymoon, swoops and soars. Down below are sparkling pools ripple in the woodgrain. With a skid and a whoosh of a water skier, they land together, unscathed – on the floor.
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It was ridiculous, Meg knew. At the same time it was the only space she could think of that was completely private: no Alexa, no Siri, no incidental street camera, nothing but white tiles, grout and the toilet. She had the sock peeled off her left foot, which was balancing on her right thigh. No matter which way she angled herself she was blocking the light. She hissed, probably too loudly, but she was beyond giving a shit. She would not risk getting her phone out to take a photo. She just needed another minute, another twist. The door banged, sharply. She jolted. Her foot slipped. Someone shouted, Come on!
She didn’t shout back. Instead, repositioned herself under the light. Breath heavy and loud. There were so many lines on the sole of her foot. She took another breath, smoothed out her skin with her thumbs, holding the foot as flat as possible so she could read the number lined in the arch between ball and heel. 29 11 20 27. Twenty-ninth of November 2027. Two years and one day from now.
The door handle cranked down then up, twice.
“Just a minute,” Meg tried a singsong casual tone. “I won’t be a minute.” She spread the skin flatter. Is that what it read? There were so many wrinkles. She could imagine anything in this crap light.
A fist banged on the door.
*
“Sorry.” Meg didn’t look at the man waiting outside the door as she passed. Instead she spread her weight across both feet as she descended the stairs to rejoin the party.
There she was grateful for low energy bulbs. With so many people packed into the two rooms, everybody was more haze than feature. She couldn’t see Karl, and headed to the booze to pour a large shot of cloudy liquid. She knocked it back, not caring what it was. Two years one day left. Why had it changed so much? It had been stable since she’d been nineteen. Now, thirty years lost – just like that. Well, perhaps not just like that, since she couldn’t remember exactly when she’d last checked before her whim in the bath that evening. It could have been six weeks, longer. She’d got complacent. Was it cancer? A tumour? She needed to get home. Leave Karl here. Give herself time to get all the lights in one room.
A hand waved in front of her face. “Meg! Hey.”
Meg focused, stifled a scowl. It was their neighbour. She couldn’t remember his name.
“Meggie.”
Do not call me that, Meg did not say, nor did she smile.
“I wanted you to meet Theo.”
The skinny man in front of her appeared as underwhelmed by the introduction as he felt. Maybe they could cut a deal and get out of there.
She did not say, Why? She did not say, This is not the time. She did not apologise. She stood, double-checking the calculation in her head: It was the twenty-eighth of November 2025, yes, two years one day. She didn’t have time for small talk, and made to turn away from this Theo.
“Are you okay?” He rested his hand on her arm.
She looked at it, looked up at him. He felt both concerned and invasive. “I’m sorry,” she began.
“You look as though you’ve had a shock.” Theo leant, millimetres closer. She could smell something coppery about him. Too close. “Do you want a seat?” His hand cradled her elbow.
Meg detached herself. “No. No. I’m just leaving.” She didn’t move. There was something about how he was looking. Something intense, hungry, knowing. She was furious with herself. Felt tearful, fearful. She didn’t know. She wanted to say something. Didn’t know what to say. Stood there, looking at him looking at her.
“Well,” he smiled, “that’s a shame.” He was hovering, like a kestrel with his beaky face. She kept staring. He didn’t blink. Nor did she.
“I’m sorry. Yes.” She was spluttering like a teenager. Inside she was seething, despairing.
“Well, should you ever,” he leant in again, handing her a card, “you know.”
She didn’t know, but took the card. Scrunched it in her hand.
“Meg! Sweetheart! I’ve been looking all over!” It was Karl. Inserting himself between her and the tall guy, he kissed his cheek awkwardly. “What’s that?” He was looking at the card.
“I don’t know,” she said, pocketing it. “Nothing.” She tried to smile at Karl, then looked beyond him to the guy who was no longer there. “Look, love, I need to go home. I feel crap. You stay. Get a taxi back.”
“A taxi?” Karl laughed. Then looked at her with concern. “I thought we’d used up our quota? I’ll come home with you. I’m wiped anyway.”
“Honestly, love. I don’t mind.” Finally Meg managed a smile. Verging on snarling. The card was crackling in her pocket. Its text coalesced into words in her mind.
Karl produced his coat. “It’ll be freezing out there.” And hers.
Purple italics: Society of Sole Mates. A phone number. Or her sole date. She couldn’t visualise it.
*
Karl was asleep within minutes of getting into bed. He was good at that. Tonight it irritated Meg more than usual. And he’d been right about the weather. As he snored lightly, Meg lay there, stiff, trying to decide whether to check the card or her foot first. The bedside light was the brightest in the flat but she couldn’t pull the lead free with Karl asleep.
She moved as gently as possible, folding the duvet over Karl’s splayed body, then bending her right foot up towards the light. Karl groaned. She glanced at him, catching sight of her shadow thrown onto the walls of their tiny bedroom. It presented a huge and deformed silhouette across the corner of two walls. The sight enchanted her. A thrill pulsed through her, reminiscent of an earlier life, a dream, an aspiration. It didn’t matter which, she could feel it now. She tried to reach into the surge, but it had already dissipated, leaving her hunched over her foot, trembling. Her thumbs were stretching her sole as flat. An automatic pressing against her foot. Her breath constricted. It was odd to touch her sole and feel her tongue prickling, tasting that thing that was both unfamiliar and absolutely inevitable. Like seeing her shadow, she was straddling two selves, and the sensation, disconnecting and reconnecting her, made her feel she somehow slipped between layers of her feeling-body. It reminded her of the first time her mother taught her how to trace the lines with her finger, whispering the numbers slowly, close enough to feel her warm breath as much as hear her voice, all the time feeling her finger curl across her sole, etching out the numbers. They’d never been so close again.
Meg’s eyes watered with the strain of keeping them open to focus on the lines amongst wrinkles, with the memory now occupying her. Yes, definitely 29 11 20 27.
She felt thin, transparent. It made absolutely no sense. She ate as well as she could. she worked out. Stopping smoking had finallysettled her adolescent fluctuations completely. All those years of reassurance rewritten into a scribble of uncertainty. What had happened? Had she always read what she’d wanted to? She’d expected the same long life as her parents. Of course her mother hadn’t shared her sole date, but she’d never suggested any disparities.
Meg pored over her upturned foot again, trying to see any remnant of her previous date. She couldn’t, released her foot and leant to the bedside cabinet, for her notebook.
Amongst the phone numbers and passwords was her previous sole date. That numerical invocation of life she’d chanted over a decade: oh two one oh two oh five seven: second of october fifty-seven: oh two one oh two oh five seven. She could still hear the tiniest of strains of her mother’s voice in the way she stressed the numbers; how she clustered them. That sense of her being there soothed her, gave her a sense of life lasting longer than the body. More compelling though was the trajectory she felt in the mantra: the arc ahead disappearing beyond any conscious horizon. Meg never made any plan beyond a few months ahead. To know she had years beyond any speculation meant her potential was still unfolding. She still had a chance.
When the number had first settled her recitation of it had been daily, then slowly, as she began to trust what she intoned, she would recall it weekly and then only a monthly check on her foot, and before this evening that had slipped. Being with Karl had distracted her. Scribing had been a potent ritual: tracing, speaking and signing her date. She’d added totems – a felt cloth, three black candles, lavender oil – timing the trace with the waxing moon, and, of course, when Karl was out for the night.
He was still fast asleep, oblivious to how everything had changed. Sprawled on his back, hair thrown around his face. Meg had been drawn to his calmness, confidence in dealing with whatever happened. Except of course he’d never admitted to knowing the real consequence of everything. He must have been looking at his date and not telling her. Pretending to embrace difficulties with the belief it would teach him something, while actually knowing he was safe. She’d already fallen for him by the time he told her he didn’t engage with his sole date, didn’t want to know hers. It hadn’t seemed such a big deal then. She didn’t expect to share everything. She convinced herself some distance fed the relationship. She shuddered, feeling that slippage between her two bodies again: one living, one dead weight.
Meg sidled down the bed, until her face was level with Karl’s foot then lifted the edge of the duvet. It was dim, but she didn’t dare move the light. She held her breath and stared at his exposed sole. So many lines. She squinted. Slowly numbers formed out of the striations: 27 02 20 61. She twizzled back to the notebook now lost somewhere in the folds of the duvet. She needed to find it quickly. She needed to spit the numbers out of her mouth. She needed to not “Fuck it!”, not to fist something. She knew those numbers as well as she knew her own numbers. The numbers that were no longer hers. His, of course, had not changed.
Jerking upright, jaw clenched, she couldn’t focus. The darkness fuzzed and hummed around her. Her skin had a charge to it. It would make absolutely no fucking sense at all if she knew what sense was. Nothing made sense. Her sense was unravelling around her into this dark humming. One way to stop it would be to press her hands against his throat, feel the tension of his cartilage against her fingers, the constriction of his breath and watch his sole change date, watch how quickly it responded. How quickly he would respond, and how eager he would be to know his date, share it with her. Know hers.
Her sobbing broke the thought. Her hands were limp. Heat from her body drained into the duvet. She gathered up the cotton cover and pulled it back over his legs. He’d tuck himself back under. She didn’t want to touch him, didn’t trust herself.
There was no point seeing a doctor. She’d only be given one of those stupid Dying Well leaflets. If she couldn’t prove pain, she wouldn’t even be given a paracetamol. Plus the whole insurance implication wasn’t worth thinking about. She hadn’t taken any photos. There was no digital trail. Nobody would be asking questions, although she had no idea when her next screening was due. They kept them random, for obvious reasons.
The ground floor electricity wouldn’t be on for hours yet, but she took her jeans downstairs anyway and pulled out the business card. It felt shiny, rigid. Untrustworthy. Or maybe it was meant to be reassuringly expensive. Meg almost amused herself except for the worry of her phone not having any charge. She powered it up. One battery bar left. Its screen lit up the card, making its wording and number legible. She texted: It’s Meg. When Where is Soc of Sole Mates? The phone light died before she could press send. She did not throw it at the wall. She squeezed it, as hard as she hadn’t squeezed Karl’s throat.
*
The power did not come back on the following day. This was not unusual, especially at weekends. The flat was well insulated and the weather warmer, no wind, no rain for once. Karl enjoyed these power-free days, enjoyed the camp cooking, the foraging, dominoes and early nights. Meg, usually able to rise to the alternative occasion, could barely bring herself to speak to him. She told him she felt worse, and needed solitude. And she did. She was sweating more than in the heat of last summer, but not the same at all. She carried a small towel around the house. Her palms were sticky with wet. Her trousers stuck to her and needing changing after a few hours. Her mouth, though, was so dry she couldn’t drink enough to keep it moist. It was like spooning peanut butter rather than breathing.
Karl was being sweet. It didn’t suit him. She, short-tempered and aloof. Angry at her inability to say anything. Terrified to think anything. She banged about the kitchen until he shooed her out, offering to make a broth. Meg wanted to scream at him, it wasn’t broth she needed. She needed a new date, amputation, medicine, she didn’t fucking know what she needed. Her head was hot and sweaty. She needed no hair. It stuck to her scalp, moisture beaded around her eyebrows, trickled into her ears. She drank glass after glass of water. It seemed to gush out of her, except she couldn’t pee. She was dry as sandpaper down there. Itchy and dry. Like her tongue, her lips. Even behind her knees was damp.
“Why don’t we ring the health line?” Karl offered her a new towel. “You’re clearly not right.”
Meg wondered about asking him if she could borrow his mobile. She didn’t need to say who she wanted to phone, she could lie, although she couldn’t think of anyone she’d plausibly want to speak to right now. She glanced at the window. If she could catch the neighbour she could ask him about his friend from the party, suffer his smirking, his raised eyebrows, his faux innocent questioning. What the hell would she be asking him? Why hadn’t she just looked at the card when he’d given it her? Why hadn’t she just been friendly, casual, open, like a normal person? He might have been able to help, or know something. He might have at least listened. He might have arranged to meet her. She’d fucked it up, just like she’d somehow fucked this up, not even realising how. “Karl, please, look at my foot.” Meg, sitting on a bath towel on the sofa, raised her left leg, stiffened it as if readying to pull back and kick something. “Please.” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, silencing her. She couldn’t draw any spit to free it. Sweat, meanwhile, slipped around her palms. She tried to smile. Her eyes felt flat, heavy. She couldn’t look at him. She tried imagining him cupping his palm around her elbow, asking her if she was okay.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Karl stepped back.
“It’s just that…” Meg wiped her forehead. Snatched the towel from him. Used it to mop her forehead.
“It’s, it’s private. We ought not to know.”
“But I do.” Meg rung her palms in the towel, already too damp to be effective.
“I don’t know how you can be sure what the lines say, anyway.” Karl tugged at the towel.
“You could check.”
“I can’t. I can’t.” He staggered back as Meg suddenly released the towel. “I’ll get you a new one.”
As soon as he was out of the room, Meg tugged at her sock. There was no such thing as privacy any more. How could there be? Her wet hands made rolling the sock off difficult, dampening it as it hitched and runkled against itself. Finally it was off. It wasn’t exactly privacy they lacked, rather isolation. Her foot cold in the unheated air. Clammy and sore. Too wet. She hadn’t realised her feet were sweating too. It’d be a breeding ground for bacteria, some fungi or verruca. Everything spread into something. Maybe she ought to stop drinking. Maybe she was drinking too much despite her dry mouth. And that was why she was so sweaty. Oddly sweaty. As if parts of her body weren’t parts of her body. Her chest felt fine. Her armpits normal. No nausea. It was just her head, her hands, the backs of her knees. Now her feet. Hence her mouth so dry. Sweat trickled into her eyes, blurring her vision. Her hand couldn’t grip her foot enough to get it on her thigh. She used her sock as a sling. Wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She wouldn’t drink for a while. She needed to regulate. She was out of balance somehow. Maybe Karl had something to with it, carrying a virus. She wiped her sock over the sole of her foot, over her eyes. She could barely see anything. The sky was deepening. He was probably rooting around for the candles. Her body burning and sodden at the same time. Her feet, her hands, prickling with dampness. Her chest and thighs so hot and dry her skin crackled. Skin along her arms flaked under her shirt. Scratching under her sleeve, pulling dry skin off, it clicked, she wasn’t imbalanced. She was absolutely in sync, feeling it all. Everything playing out in her body. She’d slipped between the disconnect of herself alive and herself dead, she here and her mother there, between power consumption and power outage, flood and drought, to become the circuitry. Inevitably fused in her compensation. The room around her shimmered, the table reflected the last of the afternoon light. Next door’s cat jumped onto the window ledge, stared in. Under the window, the armchair rumpled. She sweated and thirst, resisting the last of her water, searching for what might be offset in the folds of the curtains, the light in the corner, the children’s voices outside, and, eventually, the sole of her foot, where her skin glistened under a film of prickling sweat making the number unreadable.
We were watching the Trace Naija Top 20 Playlist in search of evidence that Clarence Peter’s videos had not completely fallen to Nigerian standards. “So Mi So”, at number two, started playing and it felt like I was hearing it for the first time when my friend, standing with a bottle of wine, said “Can you feel it? This is a song to vibe to when you are high.” He leaned back, eyelids heavy, head moving slowly side to side, wine swinging with his hand. “Even the beat will move you through realms.”
We started sipping the wine, talking and laughing as we agreed that So Mi So’s video was most likely not shot by Clarence, filled as it is with color, chill, sex and high, all washed in the night with its soft hues of vibrant colors and women with their gleaming skins and haughty sexy looks. At the center was Wande Coal with his Kingwear, looking for all the world like a big man enjoying his prime time groove. The song ended and “Lova Lova” by Duncan Mighty and Tiwa Savage came on and we slipped into a conversation about Duncan Mighty’s violent return with all the features he’s been getting and Wande Coal’s calm ease back to the top as though he never left. Because I didn’t know how to introduce it into the conversation, I did not mention how Wande Coal was key to socials, night parties in secondary school, when I was in Junior class.
This was the time when we were still shy and new to budding bodies, excited at the prospect of being with the other sex, but not wanting to show it because girls must be coy and guys not entirely open with their disgusting nature. Socials was the event everyone looked forward to. Preparations began from home, from which we packed more clothes and accessories than necessary because we could never be sure which would be vetted as best. On the day of socials, no matter how clean your corner of the room usually was, it was sure to be in shambles with the explosion of boxes, clothes, accessories, makeup and shoes that might not even be yours.
The great thing about being in a hostel is the cluster of girls providing more resources than you imagine you would need. There was nothing on you that could not be fixed, made up or dressed up by another girl. Who cared if she was an amateur? All that mattered was that she was able to bring you closer to the sexy image you and your friends were striving for. Years later, we would look at these throwbacks and wonder what on earth we were thinking and ensure we hunt down every single picture and erase them from the face of the earth. However, in that moment, we were young girls who cared only about being seen and wanted, our bodies, the height of another’s desire and pleasure.
Like many other boarding schools, my secondary school had a timetable that the days would generally follow. Socials was so important that most of us skipped dinner because young women need time to appear sexy. If anyone managed to eat, they were either determined to not get swept up by the excitement or they ate quickly so they could prepare properly. Even lights out, the official time to sleep, would be shifted indefinitely. It was hardly expected that anyone would get to their room or even sleep early when there would be extended party time, then undressing and trading gossip when we got back to the hostel.
In the true African spirit, we had no regard for time. Even if we cared to start the party, the delays from getting ready to waiting for slower friends to get ready would not have allowed us get to the hall even thirty minutes after the said starting time. Besides, who wanted to start the party when you would be stuck looking around self-consciously, eyes finding X, then furtively looking away and back at him to see if he is noticing you; seeing Senior Y as he goes up the stairs with his babe (who probably punished you that same day) to do things the small boys want you to do with them. We didn’t care to be anything but fashionably late, arriving in the thick of the party so we could flow with the excitement and beats that started reverberating within us as we walked to the hall in the night filled with promise.
This was not the night for The Fray and those white songs that would blare from the common room DVD player in the hostel. No, this was the night for the Black American, Jamaican and Nigerian songs. If they were white, then they must have either been extremely groovy, preferably with their own dance, or so popular that to not play them would be a travesty. The songs had beats that would pump your blood as you approached the hall, dizzying you with anticipation, making the night air turn to electricity as it breezed through your skin. Most of us in the junior classes were too shy and conscious of ourselves in the school system to forget our home training but the lack of light both in the hall and the sky were supposed to combine with these heady, body-wriggling inducing beats to produce some action for the guys, and hopefully, gist for the mill.
It was unquestionable that a Mohits song would come up. What DJ would dare to lose face by not featuring the kings of the scene? Once any of their beats dropped, welcoming shouts of “HEEEEYYY” would ring out from every corner of the hall, the gyration would be injected with new energy complete with people blaring out the lyrics with them and displaying the latest dance steps. In Mohits, we had the kingmaker, Don Jazzy, the kokomaster playboy, D’Banj and the man with the voice that can lead you to sin, Wande Coal. He was the man of our youth with his album being one of their greatest releases marking their 2008 climax.
Being in junior school was a peculiar type of hell. It was more than just wearing pinafores and shorts. It meant being at the bottom of the social chain, subject to the whims of the seniors who used you to massage their egos by punishing or talking to you anyhow. As the junior student, you were fresh from home, open to the influences of everyone around you – your peers, teachers and seniors. We had no idea who we were but we had bodies and they were in an environment that was a whole society on its own, with rules that could make or break your reps, which were built with manic care.
Seniors were not just beings in senior class, wearing skirts and trousers that looked so smooth and cool. They were beings who had been in the system long enough to understood how things were done. It was as though with the slipping on of that starched white shirt in full view with the skirt or trouser, we too would become people who understood the social system, oozing cool with our every action whether it was to punish a junior, talk to the opposite sex or give gist, controlling the social sphere. There were junior students who were cool enough by virtue of their social skills, older siblings or some other fortune, that managed to escape most of the junior student scarring. However, in the end, they were still juniors and they had to go through their own form of struggle.
The senior students got the choicest parts of the hall where it was dark and private, without teachers crawling while the junior students got the open floor so if any junior girl was brave enough to dance to the victory of the guy and the entertainment of the crowd egging them on, she risked getting caught and branded as immoral. Junior girls could be approached by senior guys to dance and the girls would get so terrified, they would just run away because they wouldn’t know what to say but wouldn’t want to say no but grinding was such a big deal and could they even perform? Junior guys risked being called by senior guys to do the pimping work for them and these girls would be begged because the boy risked getting punished and beaten by the senior. Junior girls also had to be careful because senior girls had all the power and what if it was the boy she wanted that wanted you? Your life became automatic hell. However, no matter how much the Junior/ Senior dynamics played serious roles in our daily lives, the socials night was still one where many things were done and said, crushes revealed, hearts crushed, confidence melted and relationships formed.
When we got back to the hostel, as we undressed and washed our faces, packed away the clutter from our beds, we traded the open gist with our many roommates over songs blaring out from anyone’s laptops. We would eventually find our way to our respective cliques, clustering around a bed, trading the private stories about the night. The boy who was dancing too close face to face and stupidly thought that doing a spin will make you back up and dance into him. We would laugh at how it was as silly as a boy pretending to yawn to stretch his arm around you in the cinema. How can he think you’re ready for something so heavy? What about X, we would ask one after the other. I saw Y grinding him, we might say. Maybe he was just too shy to talk to you, besides you know Y was just grinding everybody. But, ehen, I saw you dancing with C, oya gist us! We would tease about how hard C hugged her on the turn to the hostel where we all clustered not wanting to go back into the hall just yet. Our cheeks would balloon as we tried to deny how much we liked whoever it was.
In senior secondary school, if a Mohits song came up on the playlist, it would simply be as a throwback. We shed them along with our pinafores and shorts and inhibitions, becoming the bigger kids in school who looked like they knew what they were doing, oozing cool as we took over the special spaces in the hall where we did as our seniors before us had done. At this point, we were too big to allow ourselves show that we were shy or nervous. Relationships developed with their crosses, drama, pain and joys as we grew as individuals in our own right, navigating the supposedly mature space we found ourselves in. More musicians came. Most left. We graduated, moved to our lives in separate universities, graduated yet again and started the rest of life’s journey.
Mohits broke up in 2012 just as my set was graduating. Don Jazzy has stayed the kingmaker, creating Mavin Records which houses a large number of the biggest Nigeria stars. D’Banj is said to be done as a musician since it was Don Jazzy that had the Midas touch but he still produces hits on the charts. Wande Coal sank with Mohits but resurfaced with his hit “Iskaba”, following up with “So Mi So”, which has become an all-time favorite, sealing his welcome back to the top.
I wonder where this hit by Wande Coal met everyone else? What experiences have they had leading up to the moment they encountered the song? Would it be the same person with whom I sang and laughed over “Mogbono Feli Feli”, proclaiming the other to be hotter than fire? If we meet now, would we be able to find spaces where our words fit enough to find that comfortable laughter we once had? Away from the strict structures of school, family and society, what lifestyle have they accepted as theirs, what rules do they attempt to live by?
A friend talked about becoming an entirely different person from the bullied one she was back in secondary school and the baggage she still carries around and I realized we never truly escape our younger selves. Yes, we go about building our worlds, becoming people with relationships, goals and achievements in spheres separate from the ones we had as we grew up, but when we meet these people from past times, it’s as though worlds struggle to merge and we find it hard to reconcile the person we are now with the person that time defined us as. For some, it is a natural progression, a movement from one state to another in their whole growth process. For others, it is a struggle to overcome the idea that we are less and our worlds as they are are good enough.
For a long time, Wande Coal did not produce any hit. He went from one of the kings to one of the throwbacks we would mention when we met up and had run out of things to talk about. We would reach for memories to plug the emptiness and grab at whatever little thing we could so we could believe this connection we established way back when was still relevant to us despite the lives we have gone on to build. It is not that common, but conversations run in funny ways and you never know what could save you from damning awkward silence.
I suppose his new hits could give us something more to talk about. An old friend and I could be at a place where they’re playing “So Mi So” and I would say, “I really like this song. It’s a spiritual something,” to which the old friend might reply in the affirmative, or with disregard. It could lead to a conversation about the old him, his relevance to our lives, maybe socials, maybe a memory. Anything leading us to a terrain that is a comfortable part of the history stretching between us, spaces skipped by the blocks of time we developed away from the other, even as we try to touch around, seeking to know who this person is now that we are speaking to.
If the integral I is invariant with respect to a Gρ, then ρ linearly independent combinations of the Lagrange expressions become divergences – and from this, conversely, invariance of I with respect to a Gρ will follow. The theorem holds good even in the limiting case of infinitely many parameters.
—Emmy Noether
Mathematics is a sensory perception organ for those who learn how to use it.
—S. James Gates
The town. The shrubs are white, the trunks a dull copper. She walks alone like a ghost and the wind goes through the grass and trees and whispers and is gone. She is alone and the weeds push up between the stones and the houses are bare and the street empty. The sky is pale grey. She pulls the barrow and sheets of tarp and the metal spokes taken from fences and broken concrete. The device hangs around her neck and now clicks and then again. Pip. If the clicks come quick she will turn and try again. Try the long way round.
No matter. There is time and her alone to fill it. The static click stutters and the barrow squeaks and her heel catches and they are loud in that quiet place. She passes the bus stop and now the shop with the green shutters and the fence and then the school. The lawnmower and the swings. The windows and the film of dirt outside and inside classrooms and desks and dust and fallen plaster. A panel blown free from the roof lying on the pavement ahead. Broken. She tries and the metal folds and breaks along the seam. The flakes like small blades.
Rusted, eaten. She drops it in the overgrowth and crosses over. To the square and the paths around the beds and benches and the statue of the man at the centre. His jacket is open and his shirt buttoned up and he wears a flat cap and his features are strong. Proud and stern in bronze. The eyes stare and they are without pupils and dead and track her as she carries her load. Ahead the buildings are tall along the main road through the town. Looming. She walks further and comes under their shadow and is cold. Wrapping her coat about her.
Carrying on. The cars are empty and they line the street. On either side and abandoned by the lights that do not signal that two months back she stripped for wires. The glass lying in red and yellow shards on the ground below by the leaves and the blocked storm drain. Colours muted by the muck. She stoops and hand on back retrieves the thin cable from the newspaper bundles long rotten and gone. She places it between the plastic sheets and smooths them flat again. Carefully. Moving slowly, though there are yet hours left in the day. Her alone to fill them.
To abide. Picking between the hollow ruins for each needful thing. Some to be found and some patched and hobbled together and most lost to the town slipping forward in time. Buildings leached by air and rain and sun, beams sagging in the houses and windows falling loose from the blocks. Rubble growing at the outskirts. There are places she is not safe to go, where the counter clicks and where the buildings fall. Where there are only the tall thin bones of the naked trees. Copper. The trunks a dull copper and the shrubs around them white. To the south of town.
She walks. Making her way north and along the main avenue. The tall buildings end up ahead and beyond it is not bright, it is brighter and the air is warmer. The sky is pale grey and sunless but it is warmer out from under the buildings along the broad avenue. The barrow squeaks behind her. The device hangs round her neck and counts clicks and they come slow and she does not hurry. The road rises and the hill ahead as the buildings fall away. Dry. The bushes and the grass and the earth in the fields. The whole place is unslaked.
Late again. But the rains will come, and will fall heavy. She knows when the rain comes and when the sun and when the first snow, when the long cold breaks. It is written into the place which is her home and as though it were a part of her body. It is growing within her. The place written into her and she alone in it and pulling the barrow along the wide road. It is steep and the going is hard but she is strong. Older. Much older than she was, not as strong and still pulling. Turning the barrow to push.
Climbing higher. There is a tractor and mixer at the crest. She sets the barrow by the wheel and rests and looks back and sees the pylons and the telephone wires. The railway timber and the tracks warping and the tanker in the grass and the dark earth and fading signs. The dogs have moved on. Their cries replaced by the wind between the trees and the buildings, against the balconies and bare concrete. The town desolate and her now leaving it behind like a ghost. Alone. Carrying plastic sheets and cables and metal spokes in the barrow. Leaning against the tractor wheel.
Looking out. The rubber firm like a stone against her back. She walks round and lifts the bars and sets off again down the wide road pulling the load behind her. The road goes on a half mile and she makes her way and comes to a path and takes it. The path leading down again. Then the hedgerow tall on the left and the steep bank that carries on up to the right. In the basin there is the lake and the waters are still. Silence. Here the wind passes high above and the water is still. The house by the shore.
Her home. On the far side by the reeds and sheeting. Reeds that trap the mist and metal sheets lying ribbed on the shore like waves in the still water breaking. There is a caravan by the house by the shore and the trailer loaded up with two large black drums. There the old diesel generator. She follows the narrow line she has worn from the path through the grass to the porch outside. By the decking she rests the barrow and kicks her shoes clean. Weary. She retrieves the cable and the metal and leaves the tarp. The door closes behind her.
Dark inside. She reaches the square table and lights the lamp. The light is warm and the place is small and there is an armchair by the stove in the corner. There is dense cardboard stapled to the back of the door where the thin glass sits broken in the wood. Fresh paint on the stairs. There are books and DIY manuals and beside the armchair a chessboard fixed to a stand on wheels. On the board sit screws and bolts in an old tobacco tin. Marbles. Tools and wires and engine parts stowed in green munition boxes. A deck of worn cards.
The kitchen. Jars and tins and plastic pots on the shelves. The sink and vinyl clean and the freezer hooked up to a car battery and the narrow fridge turned off. Check red and white and fading on the wall between the draining board and cupboards, blue flowers on the curtain. The cracks around the window. She searches through the green boxes and finds the tools she needs and takes them and the spokes. Lodging the back door open with a wide log from the pile. Measuring. The cracks growing past the lines marked out in dark pencil. The spokes and the frame.
Hand drill. Through the wall within the cracks and then around. Holding the spokes flat and straight and the brackets and driving screws into the plugs in the wood and brickwork. She fetches the tarp and pins it between a panel and the wall above and angles the last spokes downward. An awning against the rain. To keep the pane dry, if it should come before she has found sealant, or a new window. The lake is still, and on the far side stands a heron. Delicate. Flicking at the dead water, long beak like a mottled blade. Spread of wings and rising.
Impossibly light. The frail wings beating wide and thin and hushed. She watches as the frame of the bird climbs into the sky until it is a line and then gone. There are wolves in the forest but there have been no animals come by the house for a long time. Not since the dogs left. No rabbits breeding in the earth nor fish in the water, no birds nor deer nor wild pigs. Her alone in the house by the lake just north of town. Quiet. Where the wind carries over above and the water is still. The door closes behind her.
The sink. Washing her hands, tap fed by the drums outside. Drying with the cloth she crosses to the stove where she opens the grate and empties the tray of ash. She replaces it and builds a nest of leaves and sticks from the basket which she lights and then blows. The flames lick into life. She waits and watches them grow and feeds them two good thick logs and closes the grate again. The kettle on the stove and the teapot from the drying rack. Sun. Leaves from the foil packet with the sun printed on it. Her usual mug in purple.
Chickpeas soaking. In the pantry where there are spices and garlic. She drains and mashes the tough round pellets in the bowl with her hands and then she dices the clove. Smearing it with the flat of the knife and dicing it twice again so that it becomes an uneven paste. Seasoning with salt and paprika. Mixing in the pan with hot water from the kettle and finding room for both on the stove. Clearing the table as the smell fills the room and is good. Rich. The growing warmth of the stove and the dying light outside.
The stillness of the lake.
Night falls. The kettle slow to boil with the heat split. She pours the water over the leaves loose in the pot which she swirls and sets to rest and brew. After she has eaten she sets the pan and bowl and spoon in the sink and pours herself a cup. She sits in the armchair. In the corner sipping the tea black with her feet on the stool out in front of her. She finishes and places the mug on a manual on the chessboard. Clear. The liquor from the half-empty bottle between the green munition boxes. She measures out two fingers.
She reads. Books from the school library and heavy instruction manuals. How to fix the carburettor in the diesel generator and the parts she will need to source from the cars. An abridged romance and poems, short stories by great writers she had read when she was young and since forgotten. The clock sounds from upstairs. She pours herself another finger and settles back in the chair and reaches and wheels over the board. Scribbling lists on the pad from the pages open on her lap. Bolts. Drawing sketches of gaskets and rings, a note on cleaning fluid. Hose and float and needle.
Dark outside. The waters still in the darkness and no wind. Nothing at all to disturb her, in that lonely place in that small house by the shore by the lake. No cattle grazing nor passing car, only her in the house by the shore by the lake north of town. Her alone by the waters. Reading in the night and by day planting and seeding, sourcing each needful thing and making her repairs. Fixing things and bolting them back to keep them from slipping forward. Decaying. Like the buildings in the town and further to the south. Toward where things fell apart.
The moon. It is drowning in the stillness of the lake. Drowning in the stillness of the waters that are a poison, the lake that in time will kill her too. That is killing her, with the air and the earth and the seeds of the small tomatoes, the misshapen potatoes. The wood from the trees. Metal spokes and plastic sheeting and cables from the rotten newspapers, each needful thing salvaged from the town. Washers and wires and bolts and screws and glass and tinned food. Fatal. Through the days that linger and pass, the days to come. As time slips slowly forward.
Eating her. Disease growing root and branch like a tree inside. Leaching her like the air and rain and sun in the houses and the tall residential blocks in the town. The place that is her home and that is written into her and which is a part of her body. The place growing within her. There are others who will go under drips and sharp light in hospitals a long way from here. Lying in soft bedding and fading out in the blooming of euphoria. Chemicals. Dulling first to the body and then to the world around. Far away from this place.
Two decades. Twenty years ago, then two and her alone since. In the house by the lake after two years, the first ever away and then back and never gone again. Still in the town after twenty, the plant to the south where the buildings fall and the rubble is growing. Where the counter clicks, stutters. Where the trees are naked and the shrubs white and there is rust and the dark dry ground. Where there are the miles of road and then the barbed fence. Meteor. The huge dome like a white comet embedded in the earth. A strange and perfect visitor.
The plant. Under the dome encased in concrete buried in sand. Where fire poured out of a fissure like liquid from a mouth, spitting salt to be carried on the wind. Matter unstructured and undone, the walls molten and swollen like great infected limbs and steaming, bubbling deep into the ground. Smoke and steam billowing, rising. Fire and salt carried on the wind into the burning air and the dark earth and the water. The building blown apart and scattered and melted and smouldering all around. Scorched. The earth scorched and the air too and the water tainted. The water that is poison.
The plume. In the sky for days afterward, a rippling column. In the aftermath rising under a tower of light, like the site were communing with some deep and off-world event. A beam electric and ephemeral, powering into the vastness of the starless sky, breaking out beyond and into the vacuum. The ash like black snow. Carried on the burning wind as salt and fire into the earth and over the waters, the lake. The ash that fell as a blanket in the days, weeks afterwards. Dense. Heavy on the ground, feathered on the face of the buildings. The ash falling thick, black.
An end. Death of a place, and in time its people. So that only ghosts come now, she and time and her alone to fill it as the town slips forward. To abide, picking through the hollows as the buildings fall and weeds bind the cars and park benches and streetlamps. The bones of the trees. The stillness of the water that is poison and in the shallow basin where the wind passes over. Her walking like a ghost, pulling the barrow behind like a plough. Trawling. For metal and tarpaulin, spare parts and tough glass and scrap. Abiding by each needful thing.
She wakes. It is still dark out, the clock sounds upstairs. The empty glass on the floor, the list and the manual open in her lap and the fire burning low. She closes the pages and replaces the bottle quarter-full and picks up the tumbler and places it in the sink. Wet cloth, cleaning the table. Washing up, the cold water raw against her hands and the knuckle swollen sore under her flecked skin. She leaves the list on the table under the old tobacco tin. Tomorrow. All the time she needs to find the tools and parts. She will fix the generator.
The stairs. The fresh paint and in it the candle wavering. Wood of the bannister strong under her hand and weight as she climbs the steps and comes to the landing. The bathroom with the pale green tub facing the window and looking out and toward the ridge and the treeline. Her bedroom and narrow bed. The gas lamp on the side table and metal trunk with her clothes and shoes under the frame. Wallpaper old and yellowing here and there, under a sheen of varnish. Preserved. The paper fixed in time by a veneer of thick glue. Held back from slipping further.
She undresses. Pulling into her long thin shirt and dressing gown. Her body slight and older than it was and still strong and lithe but not as strong as it was. The place written into her body and growing inside, her root and branch like the tall bones of the trees. Mouthless, rust eating through metal. Dull copper and the shrubs stricken white between the buildings that are falling toward the south of town. She climbs into bed and wraps the woollen blanket tight about her. Cold. But growing warm and watching the candlelight play on the ceiling. Shadows dancing on the ceiling.
The window. Clothesline running from sill to the post half buried. In the yard out front the metal sheets lying where the still waters meet the shore and the dark earth. Ribbed waves at the shore of the lake that is still, in it the moon floating perfect as a coin. A circle in perfect white. The reeds sharp and dark with the mist that wallows low and beneath the wind that passes over. The wind that whispers in the town and passes over the basin. Quiet. The place is silent, her in the house by the shore. The house fed by drums.
Darkness inside. She snuffs the candle, rolls over and is still. Her alone in the house, the basin where there is no wind and there are no rabbits in the earth. Where there are wolves in the forest to the west, no dogs in the town nor cattle nor passing car. Near where things fell apart. Where fire poured from the fissure, spitting salt and undoing the all-around and falling thick as black snow. Where buildings fall and the trees are bare and the shrubs white. Alone. Where the ash lay on the water like algae in bloom. The lake in bitter bloom.
March 13, 2020, Sometime in the Afternoon
Can’t remember when a week last felt like a month, a month like the distant past. A blur from Boys and Girls Club summers, when I fell in love with Samantha and held her alarmingly thin frame between my alarmingly thin arms. Hugged lips while her jet-black hair tickled the divot behind my ears. Declared a forever love, imagined plazas where wind moves to the lilt of accordions and the bitter scent of almonds intermingles with fruity wine to create a concoction that could only be romance. Like the movies told it.
Movies never told my stories of bread for dinner, fire hydrants in the summer or Ma’s abuse (Samantha’s either). If they did, I’d be sitting on a wicker chair somewhere in Madrid, anticipating a reunion with a love barely known, a dream barely believed.
Instead I’m here, two and a half months into my reunion with Madrid and summer’s ending. Tell Drake to cue the interlude. Last week I was hungover, running for Gregorio Maranon, line 7 to Avenida de America. Caught a bus for Alcala de Henares. Colegio Escolapios. Two primary classes before the weekend commenced. Discotecas, restaurantes, bares. Dancing through Madrid until mine and Chiara’s bodies molded to the contours of her mattress. Constructing dreams.
Dreaming last week, awake Monday. Madrid schools closed for fifteen days. Effective Wednesday, March 11. Quarantine yourselves and avoid others, they said, but I met homies for drinks in plazas and parks. Two weeks without work were cause for congregation relaxation consternation, except half Madrid was missing, bunkered between a few walls and just high enough ceilings to limit early onset claustrophobia.
*
March 12, 2020, Early Afternoon
Every school in the country followed suit. Talks of evacuations to the United States filled the airwaves news updates didn’t occupy. Me and the homies (Chiara, Chrissy, Mitch and Zach) played it cool. A trip to see cerezas in Quinta de los Molinos but even they retreated before the bells tolled on Madrid. Metro on the way back empty. Still, I cherished the crispness of the air, how it opened up the walls of my nostrils until they popped like eardrums after ascending a certain altitude, and also the presence of the sun on my face. Chiara’s face flushed red.
*
March 13, 2020, Evening
Bars restaurants clubs theatres all to be closed by tomorrow. Americans were ordered to return home immediately. Chrissy leaves tomorrow morning, Chiara next week. Fulbright pulled the plug, leaving departure voluntary for participants but we know there’s no choice. National emergencies declared on both sides of the Atlantic foster fear and confusion, tears inside Chiara’s apartment.
Ochenta Grados is where her hand clenches mine. I lift my head to watch hers drop like the sun after a blistering day. Food was overhyped, experiments with foam left me unfulfilled. Nothing to say, rather no way to express it, I meandered to the washroom and met Mitch whose usual smile wasn’t a frown but uncomfortably neutral.
In the mirror, tears began to well so I looked into the tiles of the washroom walls and reminded myself that none of this is unusual. Of course, when I decide to leave my apartment in Chicago (which my brother no longer has) and reunite with Chiara (who will soon be gone) to foster an unimaginable love in an unimaginably beautiful city (whose knees are buckling) this happens.
No home to return to. No one to struggle with. I’m alone, as I’ve always been. Mitch says I’m not. Don’t forget about your token Aussie bloke, he says, which makes me laugh.
We walked down an empty Fuencarral, where Mitch crossed for Chueca. Took Fuencarral up to Bilbao, the Quiosco still open. I snapped a photo of Chrissy and Chiara in the thrill of their last walkthrough, then ran into the metro station before Chiara could request another hug. Tears hugged my face.
*
March 13, 2020, one last walk through Chamberi, Night
Chrissy wanted to assemble the Doomsday Crew one last time. Meaning me her Chiara and Mitch (Zach included by default of his crashing in Madrid for the week). Zach and I rode an empty metro to Chiara’s. He talked about quarantining at Cambridge for five days. I’m gonna picnic at a park near my college, he said and I reminded him of the definition of quarantine, stressing the prerequisite of isolation. The irony of pervading emptiness didn’t escape me.
The walk down Paseo de la Castellana was silent. I paused to admire the sun against la Caixa, whose windows took me to Chicago. The city I left to teach in Spain.
Chicago. My family’s there, ignoring warnings of a looming lockdown. Chicago, not a dangerous city but a major artery of the world’s most dangerous developed nation, could become a battleground soon. Without a guarantee of healthcare or income, who knows what will become of the forgotten many. The US wouldn’t allow anarchy, except the US ain’t the US anymore is it? Not to people abroad whose rosy shades are falling blue but I recognize fear, danger and uncertainty far more than prosperity, and that’s where things are headed. American dreams morphing into nightmares.
I split with Zach and went to Carrefour Express. Grabbed two bottles of vino. Crianza and a sparkling white, for celebration. The brand doesn’t stand out except for their support of the world’s oceans. Conservation, we should all practice it.
On the way out, a homeless man made eye contact with me. Though I suspected he’d drink it away, I handed him the change from my pocket. Buenas noches, I said and watched as the Iglesia synonymous with metro line 1 emerged from Calle de General Martinez Campos. Clock tower brilliantly ushering the coming minute, hour, day.
*
March 13, 2020, Love is Blind
Chiara’s friend Rosalin was at the apartment. Red cheeks, puffy eyes. Despite noticing, I played normal and walked to the kitchen where I spent five minutes pouring a glass of water.
The front door opened and closed, Chiara trailing the echo into the kitchen. Red cheeks. She’d had a shit day. Blood pressure probably flowed like the Missouri or Mississippi or whichever river roars past the pastures she calls home. Russian River, that’s the one in the sauvignon hills of Sonoma.
Everyone migrated to the living room to chat so I wriggled my way between the folds of Chiara’s arms and ribs, nestling my head beneath her right ear. Lips to earlobe. Sigh. Watch closely as her eyes cry. This is too much, she whispered.
What is?
Today, yesterday, tomorrow. Everything.
No one can handle everything, I said.
I just want to be with you, but I can’t even have that.
You have it now.
I want you, no one else. She’s developed a cold sore at the left corner of her mouth. I hate the timing of this all, she whispered before tilting her nose up to me. I need a nose kiss.
I kissed her. Another, she said, so I kissed her again. And again.
In the kitchen, I sipped vino and stirred the mushrooms until they sautéed a light brown, tossed them in Hacendado truffle sauce, alongside minced garlic and shallots which rose to my nose and eyes like the fur of a stray dandelion seed, tears in rush. Rigatoni nearly done, Chiara emptied the pot of water, returned the noodles and grabbed a saucepan for mixing. I shredded strips of fresh parmigiano reggiano to solidify the bond between pasta and sauce. Wince and stumble. Chiara grabbed the saucepan with bare hands and burned herself.
Hyperventilated through glassy eyes, cliffside eyes.
What the fuck are you doing? I asked in a tone I immediately regretted.
I don… I can’t. I just can’t.
Chiara, let me handle this. You go chill somewhere.
She teleported to her room. After lowering the flame, I followed. Stirred the pot and then myself into swift action, ran after her. Back to me, her shoulders undulated into a silhouette of the curtains beside her. Almost as though the wind were controlling her movements despite her longing for stillness. I wriggled my way between the folds of her arms and ribs, nestling my head beneath her right ear. Lips to earlobe. I shouldn’t have responded that way, I whispered.
I know I’m not making this easy.
It’s hard to make difficult easy.
I feel like I’m helping everyone else figure out their stuff while I still don’t know what I’m going to do.
Don’t shit on yourself for being good.
Maybe I’m too good, she said from the lip of my shoulder.
Maybe, I repeated, but that still makes you good.
I wanted to kiss her but the white paste on her bottom lip reminded me why I haven’t, so I pressed my nose against hers until she had no choice but to clench her eyes to her cheeks. Can you serve the food? she asked.
After serving everyone, glasses were filled and we pledged to drink to the ridiculousness of Love is Blind. To mentions of the pods or Mark’s age. Chiara and Chrissy saw several episodes, but everyone caught on quickly and we found ourselves enjoying it. Wait, so are all Americans this crazy? Mitch asked. The entire room laughed.
A decent amount, yeah, I said.
I’m going to miss them. Chrissy and her occasional snort, her insistence on having the root source of every argument and claim made during conversation, how she openly welcomes anything new or different. Mitch, our easygoing Aussie bloke, who insists on a place in my stories as the token Aussie; but he’s become a brother of sorts over the past two weeks and his text tomorrow will devastate me. Chiara, who I’ll have for at least a few more days. She brought us together and so she’ll be the last thread to come loose before I’m left alone, in a three-bedroom apartment, laptop, books, journals, a phone, a TV and plenty of food, fortunately plenty of food, but no one to cook with, interact with, especially not her. Occasionally, I’ll hop on Instagram and spark ten minutes of messaging but then that’ll die too, as everything does and again I’ll be alone to toss darts across my living room, forever aiming for a triple 20 but never landing it. Maybe I’ll land a 19, might hit a solid 25 but I’ll never get a triple 20, so long as I try.
Returning to the table, I’ll write about it and how when Chrissy said goodbye I avoided a hug and with Mitch avoided a handshake, retreating to the bathroom to brush my teeth for fifteen minutes until the lights faded to black. A mirror left before me.
*
March 14, 2020
Chrissy entered the room to say goodbye but I pretended to be asleep. Chiara hugged her, then me and the two of us descended back into the realm of REM where a mutual nightmare roused us but never to speech.
Streaks of sunlight crossed Chiara’s thighs making the fine blonde hairs visible if I put my glasses on, but I’d yet to do so. Still the hairs were there and I know this to be true because she’s left herself entirely visible to my tainted eye. Can I say the same?
The answer is no when she asks after me. Yes, I’m okay but no, that ain’t true. Might help to tell her about the tightness in my chest, how I can’t seem to rest from the distress fastening about my neck. Damn near impossible to breathe. Would be easier to explain it but my panic leaves her manic and them mood swings of mine ain’t easy to manage. Granted she’s willing, I could help her understand. Stop convincing myself she can’t because she ain’t from my land. I read enough to know internalization is a form of masochism and to accept an outstretched hand is the ultimate wisdom.
Enough with the bullshit, I left with Zach to my apartment and then Parque de Berlin. Chiara hadn’t yet summoned the courage to pack her life away. Shouldn’t have brought my basketball after El Pais and El Mundo warned of park closures. But stubborn always governs so I dribbled it along black and white caution tape that transported me back home. Palm on basketball. White teachers yelling at colored kids to keep calm. Never believed themselves to be rowdy but any contrast is bound to cause a stir, so take caution not to let right and wrong fall victim to blurs.
We sat several picnic benches away from a couple sharing a 40-oz Mahou. Green label. I’ve never been able to tell the difference between the red and green labeled Mahous, which was superior, if either, and that realization dragged me into a state of melancholy that glued my head to the end of the bench. Zach was pacing nearby, mouth to recorder, sending messages of suffering to Guiomar, his parents and people at Cambridge. Frustrates me how he pimps struggle.
A WhatsApp notification rang my phone. “Randy…” lay beneath Mitch’s name and my chest tightened. “Funny how quick things change,” he said. It was never meant to be humorous but that didn’t prevent feelings of naivete and anger from brewing inside me. Mitch lied to me. Said he’d ride this out with me, but then bailed like everyone else. The encroaching loneliness that awaits convinced me Mitch was to blame for present and future woes. Chrissy too. Chiara too.
I’m gonna grab a beer at the alimentacion, I said to Zach when he approached.
Sounds perfect, mind if I join?
Nope.
These are my treat, he said.
The woman behind the counter appeared suspicious, if not about my intent, then maybe about my English and its potential implication that I didn’t care who I infected since Spain, after all, is not my country. I could infect anyone, a young man like myself, without ever realizing it. I’m more concerned about the human race and the sustainability of society as we know it, I considered arguing. Except she never prompted me, simply said: uno con sesenta. Handed me two for the road.
Zach placed his can underneath the nearest water fountain and asked if I wanted him to rinse mine as well. Cleaner this way, I think, he says.
Only thing washing that can increases is my chances of dropping this beer, I responded. And I wanna enjoy the motherfucker.
Hey, suit yourself.
Salud. Felt like old times when the city was filled with beautiful people, blankets and corkscrews swarming Retiro and Casa de Campo, empty cans squeezed and released then squeezed again like a bike horn, vendors cueing everyone into the comforts of cheap cold brews.
Just a week ago I sat across from Chiara and her cousin, Chelsea, on soft pastures beside an artificial lake. Helped them kill a bottle of Rose as we waited for the sun to set and the wind to pick up, carry us over to the metro stop and blow us past the center, through Iglesia and onto Santa Engracia. Many nights ended between Santa Engracia and Paseo de la Castellana. Calle de Fernandez de la Hoz 36 is an address I’ll never forget. Angeles at the front desk smirking as I made way to 2F, Chiara in a grey bathrobe with white borders, her ass lifting the back of the robe like a peeping Tom. It wanted me to look and who was I to refuse? So many nights.
Yet there I was, halfway through my beer when a cop pulled up and drove through gravel, telling me with his eyes to vete pa’fuera. Every street still possesses a lamp but their rules don’t apply anymore. The only traffic they usher is that of a virus crippling a world-class city, except they can do as much to control it as we can. That isn’t true because we could’ve prevented this had we abandoned those parks and drank our vino at home. Had we confined ourselves to our apartments we might not be here. But telling someone who expects, and even demands, freedom that said freedom is put on hold is as effective as telling a bird who expects to fly that it must now walk for the foreseeable future. You can’t institute change without clipping wings and any force will be viewed as an overreach.
*
March 15, 2020
Imagine we were alone yesterday, Chiara says. Chrissy never left, neither did Mitch and Zach never imposed himself. But they also never came. They were working or with friends or on campus.
Spring is causing Madrid’s nose to tickle. Mine tickles and you bless me and I say yes. You do. That’ll make you smile and you’ll probably kiss me, please kiss me. On my lips, because there won’t be enough stress for a cold sore. Sure your job sucks and yes, mine is stressful but we’re in Madrid. People love here and cry here and dance here. They grow here. In the universities they grow and also in the thousand-degree metros and even in the discotecas, if you can believe it. They grow in the cafes attached to random streets. Tourists craning their necks over our table and others, onto peoples’ balconies.
Remember your old balcony, on Calle Ponzano? We watched people enter and exit El Doble through the sprouting leaves of a tree. It covered your balcony, so we fucked there a few times. No one knew, not even Luz, your landlady, with her balcony next to yours. It was usually chilly but the warmth of our bodies made up for it.
Just friends then but I guess that’s never been true. Just friends sounds a bit naive when you think about it. You’ll probably say you never think about it because you always knew. I love your confidence. I’m confident we’ll make it through this. We’ve done distance before. It’ll never be easy. I cried for days after you left Madrid. I couldn’t commit to us yet because I knew it would be too far away when July came around. You were there but I wasn’t and then I was but you weren’t. Now we’re both here and no one else is. It’s like we’re in Cercedilla again. The trees are rustling in the wind and the river is roaring beside us. Everything seems rowdy but also peaceful. We’re happy to be together and I’m happy to be with you but I know you can hear it, the cries that overwhelm me. The Madrid we knew, the one we grew in. She’s dying.
*
March 16, 2020, 7:37 p.m.
Shiitake mushrooms and miso paste danced in the kitchen, whirled heavy aromas into the canals of our nostrils. Chiara chopped chives along the bias, whatever that means, and also a medley of bell peppers for topping. Ramen was on the menu. Broth smelled like the garden I never had. Fresh produce is everywhere in Spain. In the States too with the right zip-code.
A strong echo of clapping hands burst into the kitchen after having traversed balconies. They fell into a syncopation dipping through Madrid’s plazas. Chiara ran toward the living room and I followed. Madrid was applauding essential employees across the city for their sacrifices. Whoops, whistles and shouts of “viva Madrid!” I never clapped more than twenty seconds. Felt more worthwhile to chill behind Chiara and watch as the silhouette of my neighbor’s hands cut the darkness like blades.
I thought of my brother, Nico, delivering appliances to wealthy Chicago-area households. Wicker Park, River North, Naperville. Wealthy Chicagoans chilling while Nico bends to lift a dishwasher, his mask slipping, pathogens rushing him like a mob. Something told me he wouldn’t receive praise so I clapped for him, along with my neighbor whose hands never relented.
When it ended, we put the ramen bowls on a tray and then watched All the Bright Places. Watching Violet and Finch fall in love despite the mental and social hurdles warmed me like the broth in my bowl. I like to pretend Finch didn’t end his life and simultaneously his intense conflicted adventure with Violet. I suppose that’s the point of the movie though, that the light others gift us never truly dies out.
Now I’m sad, Chiara said, lowering her head onto my chest. I’m glad you’re my person.
I’ll always be your person.
I’m not ready to leave.
Still a couple days left.
I won’t be ready then.
Neither will I. But we gotta be.
Chiara’s head dug deeper into my chest. I’ll think of you every day.
You already do, I said and we both laughed.
Oh do I?
You do.
Do you think of me every day?
I don’t get a choice, I joked, with you always in my face.
You like me in your face.
I do.
Practically no traffic. Hedgehogs unsquashed. Frogs unflattened. Squirrels scamper across tarmac. Birdsong the only sound.
Few deliveries. No social comings or goings. Neither catch nor contaminate. Books, garden, chocolate. Alone, not lonely.
Inception: One here, unheeded. One there, unheeded. Easily scared off. Early morning or late evening.
Infiltration: Trickle swells to stream. Cool shadows of morning, bunnies in the bushes. Evening twilight, lapins on the lawn.
Invasion: Coneys under conifer. Family picnics in veg patch. Frolics in the ferns. In midday sun.
Infestation: Rabbits everywhere. Edible shoots destroyed. Plants nibbled to root.
Defence inventory low. Strategic deployment of limited netting, cloches. Supply chain weak. Garden centres shut. Only weapon garlic granules. Useless. Frequent forays to disperse.
Zero tolerance. No time to read. No time for coffee and chocolate. Run rabbit, run. Rabbits rereat. Reconnoitre. Sneak back at dusk. Dig trenches at dead of night.
Operation, ‘Furry Foe’. Destroy opposing army’s trenches. Intensify attacks. Run rabbit, run. Battle won. Suspension of hostilities. Apparent victory.
Ill-planned manoeuvre. Strawberries nearing end of active service. Tough and tangled veterans discharged, root and stem. Plantlings recruited to new bed. Tender young leaves. Dawn foray. Massacre. End of amnesty.
Counter-attack 07.00 hours. Pre-breakfast rampage. Enemy dispersed. Campaign escalated. Twilight patrols. No-go area extended. Lunatic missions. Midnight raids in dressing gown. Shadows with long ears routed. Ceasefire restored. Days free of incident. Quiet nights.
Ceasefire holds.
Renegade rabbit. Working alone. Underground resistance? Obtuse? Hero? Blind? Deaf? Run bunny, run. Monday, run. Tuesday, run. Wednesday, run. Thursday – capitulation.
Territory purged. Lawn empty. Shrubs vacated. Strawberries in intensive care. Likely to live. Other survivors leafless, but budding. New days. New shoots. Fruits of victory. Chocolate. Wine. Book.
Supply chain breakthrough. Limitless netting. Cloches galore. Position of strength.
Chocolate. Book. Coffee. Book. Bored. Lonely. Mowing of lawn. Dessicated droppings. Uncanny stillness. Emptiness. Futility.
Operation, Olive Branch. Veg patch heavily defended. Online shop. Carrots. Cabbage.
Distrust of peace offering. Exploratory missions. Scouts unharmed. Incursion. Cover of darkness. Cabbage eaten. Carrots consumed. Truce.
Amity established. No-go area maintained. Neutral zone instituted. Carrot stocks replenished. Fraternisation. Lovely things, rabbits.
Morning after the little get together at their flat followed by drinks in town for Jonny’s birthday – which Chloe had to organise for him – we all reconvened for al fresco brunch at a café beside the city canal. Citizens ambled past our table looking up at the clear sky or down at the bright pavement with polite Sunday smiles.
Everyone else had just left. A waitress, who Jonny knew was half-Sri Lankan, came over to clear away our bean juice- and sautéed organic closed-cup mushroom-stained plates. She had a pretty smile, which she used against Jonny to coerce him into another flat white after I had asked her for a third americano. She took the plates and left.
“You didn’t have to get another,” I said to him. “I would’ve happily sat here alone with my hangover.”
Jonny smiled. His biceps, which are smaller than I remembered – but tanned and still well maintained – flexed beneath his plain blue t-shirt as he pushed up on the chair arms and fell back in more comfortably. “I’m in no rush,” he said.
I flipped my sunglasses down as the sun’s reflection caught in the glass-topped table. I lit a cigarette.
“How’s Chloe? She messaged you?”
“She has, yeah,” said Jonny.
He looked around and said nothing, so I prompted him.
“And?”
“She’s been throwing up again.”
“Christ, mate. Don’t you think you should go back and make sure she’s okay?”
“She’ll be fine,” he said.
“She seemed pretty hammered last night.”
“She was.”
“Are you sure she’ll be—”
The half-Sri Lankan girl with the nice smile came back with our coffees.
“Ah. Perfect. Thank you,” Jonny said, looking her in the eyes before she turned and went. He attended to his sugar requirements. “She’ll be fine, Cam. Her sister came around this morning to look after her. She said herself she’d be okay. She wanted me to come meet everyone here. It’s my fucking thirtieth after all.” He looked around at the empty chairs surrounding our two tables pushed together – some tucked under, some left out. “Was my thirtieth,” he added. “Thanks for staying.”
“No worries at all, mate. Feeling’s mutual,” I said. “I can never do too much on a hangover until a few of these anyway.”
He smiled.
I sipped my black coffee and noticed the ocean blue in Jonny’s eyes, complementing his clean and manicured sandpaper beard and rugged mouse-brown hair. By all accounts, Jonny could have been a surfer or a model or both. But the truth is he’s, as they say, a bit too vanilla for either.
“I can’t believe that out of everyone who came you were the one to stay,” said Jonny. “I mean that in the nicest possible way. In a really nice way, actually.”
I shrugged and said, “You don’t see a friend in five years, I guess it’s nice to see them for more than five minutes.”
“I appreciate it,” Jonny said.
“You don’t have to keep saying that.” I sipped more coffee and felt it inject a shot of energy into my pulse. But it was drying my throat. I looked around for the waitress. Further along the bright pavement, near the inner-city ring road bridge, a large international crowd of tourists were gathered, waiting to be led down some metal steps for a guided boat tour.
“I do appreciate it, though,” Jonny started. “Theyall left early last night, then ‘dashed off’ early this morning. I hate how things change. I knew it’d be like this.”
I wanted to say something to settle Jonny but my head was hurting now.
“Yeah,” I said.
“See. You get it,” he said. “Last night Laura, Shane, Chloe, and I had a conversation about shades of blinds. Fucking shades of blinds. Which would’ve been okay if someone made a joke, like, ‘Oh god, what’s happened to us – we’re having a conversation about fucking shades of blinds?’ But nobody did. Everyone took it seriously and wanted to show off their knowledge on the subject.”
He shook his head and sipped his foamy drink.
“Chloe instigated that conversation.”
“Hm,” I said. I caught the waitress’ eye and gestured putting a glass to my lips and mouthed, “Water.” She nodded and held up one finger and then two. I asked Jonny whether he needed some water.
“Oh,” he said, looking at me and then the waitress and fumbling like the proverbial rabbit in classic headlights. “No, thanks. Thanks.” He smiled at the waitress and I held up one finger. She went back inside.
“So?” I said.
“So what?”
“Did you agree on a colour of blinds?”
Jonny laughed. “It’s good to see you, Cam.”
But I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to talk about to me. I kept on probing. “You’re living together, right?”
“Who? Me and Chloe?” He blew what my sister calls an exasperberry – a raspberry with exasperation. “I guess. Not sure how it happened, but…”
The waitress came over with the glass of water, and said, “One glass of water,” as she set it down in front of me. Jonny didn’t smile or look at her, this time. But after she’d turned to leave he called her back and apologised and asked for one of his own.
“She’s a lovely girl … Chloe is,” Jonny said.
I nodded and downed my small glass of cool water from the tap.
“She really is,” he said. “You know I think that. But, I don’t know. I was enjoying seeing her while we were living apart. Then she asks to live together because it’s practical. Split the rent. Fine. Then suddenly we’re going to family garden parties hand-in-hand and her old relatives are making quips about marriage after they’ve had a few rum cocktails, and wink, and nudge me in the side, and laugh out loud, even though we’ve never even officially said we’re together. Then she pulls me into an earnest conversation about shades of fucking blinds!”
Our half-Sri Lankan waitress, who looked mid-twenties – twenty-seven at most – placed Jonny’s water on the table, raised her eyebrows at the profanity she’d just arrived in time to hear, and then looked at me with a pseudo-offended expression. She turned to Jonny. “Some soap with your water to wash your mouth out?” she asked. Jonny said nothing. Then she cracked a smile and said, “I’m kidding.”
“See,” said Jonny. “She gets it.”
The waitress walked away and Jonny’s disposition fell again.
“It’s so comfy with Chloe.”
“Nice,” I said, but I don’t think he heard me.
“So fucking comfy,” he went on. “Just fucking comfy.” He necked the rest of his coffee. “And can I tell you something else, Cam?”
I couldn’t say no.
“She only had two drinks last night. She was putting it on. But … fuck … she is genuinely ill this morning. I mean, she says she’s been taking her pill, but—”
“Christ, Jonny. I haven’t seen you in half a decade and now you’re laying this on me? Come on, mate.”
“I mean, I’m just speculating.”
“Jesus Christ. I think you’d know.”
The queue of tourists started filing down the steps and out of view, led by an overzealous guy in a white short-sleeved shirt and captain’s hat.
Jonny looked at me for a while, then said, “It is good to see you, Cam.”
I nodded, finished my coffee, and looked away.
A few moments later I turned back, and caught Jonny staring at my empty cup and empty glass, and then he edged further across the table towards me, and leaned in with his elbows on the glass tabletop. “Cam. Can I ask you something?” he said. “Have you ever had a threesome?” His eyes flicked across to the waitress, who was slightly bent over depositing coffees on a table from a tray, and then he looked back at me.
“Mate, what? I’m not interested in that. No, thanks. Fucking Christ, Jonny. What’s going on?”
He slumped back into his chair. “I don’t know,” he said. Pretty soon his eyes creased up and his bottom lip started quivering. “I’m sorry.” His nose inhaled deeply, as though the slim volume of water vapour in the air could moisten the dirt in his throat. It sounded as though all the world’s driest earth was down that throat. “It’s just, I’m not good, Cam. I’m a let-down … to everyone. To myself. I feel like everything in my life was building up to me becoming the happiest person in the world. And now look.”
“Jonny,” I said. “Listen. It just seems to me you’ve lost a little control. That’s all. And you’re hungover; that doesn’t help. And you’ve had two cups of the frothiest, driest drink you could imagine. Have your water. Christ’s sake.”
He did as I said. I pulled my jacket closer around me and thought about another cigarette. Then I had one, and we didn’t speak a word from me lighting it to dabbing it in the white pot ashtray.
“You’re right,” Jonny said. “I have lost a little control. Maybe a lot. There are just things I thought I would’ve done before now. Things I still want to do.”
“Okay,” I said. “Like what? Apart from … that.”
He looked down and laughed to himself. Then he looked up at me. “Just … things.”
The sun glinting across the gentle canal water was disturbed only by steady passing boats and dinghies. It was coming up to midday.
“Do you want to get a pint somewhere, or a bit of lunch?”
“Look,” I said. “Jonny, you need to go and see your girlfriend and talk about—”
“She’s not my girlfriend. I never said to anyone that Chloe was my girlfriend.”
“Christ, mate. Look at you, Jonny – you’re living with her. People would assume that you are together. Listen to how it sounds – you and Chloe live together, you’re both now thirty, and you may even have a baby on the way.”
We both let the words hang in the air for a while.
The waitress came over.
“More coffee or any nibbles for you guys, or are your veins already popping out from all the caffeine?”
Jonny looked up at her and smiled. “Well, I quite enjoy a Sunday morning heart palpitation, so I’ll have one more if…”
He looked at me. They both did. I stared back at Jonny and shook my head.
“No?” asked the good-looking waitress. “Too bad.”
“Just another glass of water then, please. And the bill, if that’s okay?”
“I guess so,” the waitress joked, before taking our cups and leaving.
Jonny put his sunglasses on. “I’ll get these,” he said. “Birthday money.”
“It’s fine, I’ll chip in for my bit. And you still get birthday money?”
“No, no. I got it, honestly. And yes,” Jonny said.
He took out his contactless and then put it back. He glanced up at me and paused when he noticed I was watching him. But then he carried on regardless. He slid out a £10- and a £5-note – a hefty tip given we’d paid for all of the food and most of the drinks already – and removed a little card from a zip pocket inside his leather wallet.
“Jonny,” I said, “are you sure about this?”
Jonny directed his sunglasses towards me. “Absolutely,” he said. “I am. Thank you.”
When the waitress came back he slammed the full glass of water down his neck in front of her and thrust the money and tray with receipts on into her hand almost before it was on the table. He’d folded the notes around his business card like a hotdog so she wouldn’t be able to miss it when she straightened the cash out to file it into the till.
As it happened, she found the card before we’d even left the premises. Jonny nudged me as we were walking away on the canal pavement.
“Look,” he said.
The girl was looking at Jonny, smiling above the other customers. She gave Jonny a little wave and then disappeared inside behind the blinding sun’s reflection off the glass-walled café.
“I could fucking kiss you,” said Jonny, to me.
We reached the bridge and shook hands. I told him I’d get the early train back as I had a bit of work to do before Monday. He said he was disappointed, but glad I’d made it.
I quickly passed a Subway and a few takeaways and shops along the busy road and was soon almost out of sight of the bridge. I turned back just before rounding the corner. Jonny was still there, hands on the stone wall overlooking the river and the international crowds on the tourist boats, and he was smiling his heart out. The man looked as though he’d never been hungover in his life.
This spontaneous and heart-piercing place originated decades ago and is located on the left side of the Dnipro river in Kyiv, Ukraine. People build massive monuments with touching and sometimes bizarre engravings, decorate them with toxic-coloured faux flowers, proper or DIY fences, and the favourite toys of their dear and furry ones. Cat ladies have their dynasties and some people approach it as a bold statement “my dog was from a wealthy family!”. It’s a pet (cemetery) sematary and there are two more like this in Kyiv. How dare you to use precious land for something like this, you may ask. Well, in a country of golden toilets and poverty levels below poverty levels themselves, everything is possible. You learn to work with given circumstances, you become a guru of mind and imagination yoga, and sometimes sentimental priorities are all you’ve got. But even that can be taken from you. Back in 2003, local authorities stipulated plans to build a single paid municipal pet cemetery in the suburbs of Kyiv for completion by 2020, but all such conversations tend to stretch for decades and simply end without further action. Ukrainians have long been accustomed to not to rely on the state and make things work on a volunteer basis, and that’s why this improvisational pet cemetery appeared. However, in 2019 an announcement appeared stating:
“In connection with the construction of a sewer collector in this section, the construction of a reinforced concrete trunk and a well will begin. The construction site will be located at the pet burial site. Dear owners of buried animals, we ask you to rebury the remains by September 10, 2019.”
Yet thus far words have just been words but the future of this place will always be under question. Although to build isn’t the same as to demolish and the destruction of the pet cemetery without ultimately doing anything with the land afterwards is also a realistic scenario.
This place combines the very contrasts of this city that are so often talked about, in particular the system vs the people. On the one hand there is a huge number of homeless animals in Ukraine, and all shelters and given care are volunteer and DIY, on the other hand, this cemetery is a symbol of immeasurable love for animals and proves the insuperability of the people and their larger-than-life indifference towards the authorities. All these Mickeys, Barons, Marquises, and even Rudol’f Dark Dracula and Jephrey de Peirac were once someone’s family members, dear friends and even the only joy in life, and to force people to exhume their dearests is an inhumane and traumatic experience that I hope no one will have to face. Besides that, this cemetery has become a unique landmark and even an attraction, over the course of time people have invested lots and lots of money for gravestones and a lot of them (surely not all) are taking regular care of the graves as they would do for deceased humans.
Since I’ve moved from Ukraine and now only visit, more and more ordinary things are revealing to me in a new bright light, architecture, people, culture, and of course places like this. Am I becoming a stranger or is it a case of “to leave it – to love it – to come back”?
Guillermo Stitch is the author of the award-winning novella, Literature™, and the novel, Lake of Urine: A Love Story (Sagging Meniscus, 2020). His work has appeared in 3:AM Magazine, Entropy and Maudlin House. He lives in Spain.
*
Interviewed by Erik Martiny.
Your novel Lake of Urine has a rather provocative title. Did you consider other titles? Were you not worried that a title like that would put off some of the more high-brow reviewing newspapers, not to mention publishers and readers?
I can’t remember the precise moment of settling upon the title, but it was early on and it was immediately obvious to me that it was the only possible title. Authentically, anyway – the truth is I did subsequently consider alternatives, especially as the book accrued a complement of rejections. Some of them were OK, I think, but I won’t give them an airing here – in comparison with Lake of Urine, which my stellar publisher has never even queried by the way, they tended rather toward the twee.
If the title puts a reader off, then that wasn’t my reader, so the problem resolves itself, but I know what you mean about critics and publications. The book has yet to find its place in the world, so I’ll have to wait and see. I think the implication of your question is that some might dismiss the book as daft or puerile or both without having read it or, having reached whatever lazy conclusion based on the title, read the book inattentively. You may be right. Risks, you know? Risks and rewards.
Can you tell us the inspiration behind your beautifully mysterious pseudonym?
The point of using a pseudonym for me is that it allows me to maintain a certain degree of anonymity or, if that proves impossible in the age of social media, at least a degree of distance. With that in mind I must remain circumspect here, but I’ll say two things.
Firstly, part of the reason it’s difficult to answer this question is that I am still making the answer up.
Secondly, do you remember how Alfred Hitchcock would always give himself a fleeting, blink-and-you’ve-missed-it cameo in his movies? As a child, I thought that was cool and would watch intently, pretty much oblivious to plot. It wasn’t big and it wasn’t clever – just cool. Well, there’s an element of that.
Your pseudonym is as playful as the names given to your characters. Was Dickens your main influence when choosing these?
Yes. Dickens could be delightfully on-the-nose with his names and I suppose in naming my characters I felt licensed by that. Nobody else casts such a long shadow over the book, especially the third and longest part.
Swift also makes cameo appearances in your novel, most notably in the Brobdingnag Semiconductors. How far-reaching was his influence?
Specifically? Not very. It’s obviously just about impossible to imagine a world (or an imagination [or a literature of the fantastic]) without Gulliver in it. But that’s as far as it goes, I think. Maybe that sense of a cleansed, “blue sky” allegorical space? Maybe it’s Swift that I have to thank for that.
Do you see yourself as a specifically Irish writer or are your sympathies more cosmopolitan?
I see myself as a person who has spent what probably amounts to way too much time in the spare room, making things up. Two of your questions this time round begin with the words “Do you see yourself as…” and they stump me, I have to say. I think I would rather not see myself, preferring the outward gaze. I am very fortunate in that a book of mine will see the light of day. And after that perhaps another, and then maybe more. If the work gets any attention at all, then there will be that process, won’t there? Other people will decide, maybe reach some sort of consensus, on what it is that I’ve produced and what its value is, if it has any. That’s as it should be.
I’m a writer and I’m Irish, so there’s some compelling evidence. I’ve been conscious of Irish writers all my life but then also of Europeans, Americans, Africans, Russians, South Americans … was it Iggy Pop who said “It’s all disco”?
Do you therefore have no interest in autobiographical writing?
I suppose I subscribe to the view, today anyway, that autobiographical writing is inescapable – that in a sense it is the only kind of writing. I am not absent from my work; I’m all over it like a cheap suit, in fact, but endlessly reiterated. There might be a bit of me in this character or that, a bit of my story in this scene or that – but it’s an inevitability, not a deliberate act.
I think when you leave something of yourself in your work inadvertently, it will be all the more revealing for the reader who is looking for that kind of thing.
But the challenge for good fiction – am I wrong about this? – is that the reader should find themselves in there, not me. Were I to consciously seek to present myself, assert myself, via my work, I would feel like an intruder in an intimate encounter between reader and text, as if I were hiding in the wardrobe, horribly aware that my socks were still on the floor beside the bed.
Some of your characters’ names (like Amerideath and Vacuity) suggest allegorical heightening. Did you intend the novel primarily as a critique of American culture?
Amerideth is a real surname, you know – I just dropped the “a” in.
No, I don’t think I would want the book to be considered a critique. Not primarily, anyway – I obviously take swipes and there are clear satirical elements but I think a book, a story, should be too rich and animated a thing to be primarily anything.
Lake of Urine is a particularly playful novel. Was the spirit of American postmodernism a driving force behind your stylistic and formal approach to storytelling? I’m thinking of Donald Barthelme in particular. Do you see yourself as a belated postmodernist or a neo-postmodernist?
I hope I’m not a belated anything. I’ve always considered myself to be quite a punctual person. I’m aware of the traditions, the delineations – but I am not driven by them. I love Barthelme but not because he’s postmodern. I could fill a page with the names of writers who have produced work I love, and all of the named would by now have been placed within a tradition by critical theory, but I don’t love any of those books because of those traditions.
What drives me is much more personal and much more rooted in early life, I think. It was when I put theoretical concerns aside that writing became possible, for me.
There’s also a postmodernist fairy tale atmosphere to your novel. What are the fairy tales that you had in mind when you were writing?
Noranbole’s arc is that of a subverted Cinderella. There’s also a kind of Fairy Godmother, and a sort of Wicked Witch. I don’t want to get too close here to explaining specifics, but Pinocchio is in there. The Goose that Laid the Golden egg. The book has a fragmentary relationship to a number of old tales. Broken bits of them show up as shards in its mosaic.
How close do you feel to the concerns of magic realism?
See my above observations regarding critical theory and my relationship with it. If anything, I am marginally more comfortable with the term fabulism – which invokes both Aesop and Calvino – to describe my work.
Don’t get me wrong – the reader who turns to my fiction looking for something akin to the wisdom of Aesop needs a good talking to.
But I am drawn to this idea that what we are after a story is different, and better, from what we were before. That when our fictions hit the truest notes, we are transformed.
I have always liked the term magic realism though. Magic is … well, it’s magic, isn’t it? And reality … is OK too, after the second coffee. And the combination of the two words works well to circumvent this supposed distinction between realism – the realist project – and other strategies.
Are you aware of American Weird fiction? Do you feel close to it or part of any movement similar to it?
In matters of membership or affiliation, I am a devotee of Groucho Marx.
Some of your characters speak in several different languages in the course of a single conversation with the same person. Bernard for instance even speaks in binary computer code, but Noranbole understands him perfectly. What was your aim in doing that? Is Bernard supposed to be some kind of robot or enhanced human being?
Bernard is … misunderstood. But not by Noranbole.
Can you tell us about your process?
When I am in the throes of a thing, I get up early, take care of any domestic tasks which might otherwise be hanging over me, break a quick sweat running, then sit down and write. After between four and six hours I dry up, or shut down or however you want to put it, but go back to things late at night. In fact a lot of the ideas that move a thing on come late at night.
I do not allocate distinct blocks of time to writing, editing, research and other elements. They all go in the mix together.
I am slow. Things need to brew.
Are you working on something new at the moment or giving it a rest after the writing of Lake of Urine?
I’ve been working on something ever since finishing Lake of Urine, although the various things that need to be done in the run up to publishing a book are distracting.
I published a component part of it a couple of years ago, in novella form, under the title Literature™.
I will call it a novel, I think, if only to help me convince people to read it.
Lake of Urine is published by Sagging Meniscus.
To me,
Wish you were here? Of course you do! Here I am, growing irate at how long it’s taking for my poolside Sprite to arrive, and there you are, at home, wondering if you’ll ever taste the carcinogenic air of another London postcode again, never mind grill yourself under the Mediterranean sun. Well I’m writing to let you know: of course you will! Chin up – and be careful what you wish for.
You x
PS: The resort shop only sells these novelty postcards of animals copulating. Sorry.
To me,
A heads up: the day after receiving this, buoyed with hope for the future, you decide to go for a jog that takes you further than the end of your road (there’s nothing wrong with your ankles – quit moaning), and for the first time in weeks, sweat will begin to itch your unruly eyebrows, just as it does mine now (where is that Sprite?). Lost in the moment, you’ll wipe the sweat away with your knuckles before realising it has been over forty-five minutes since you last washed your hands, causing you to hyperventilate with the certainty that this reckless face-touch will be your downfall. Relax! It won’t be. Not that one anyway.
Stay alert! You x
To me,
Boy, did you ever pile on the pounds. I mean, look at me! We’ve never been the Peacock of the Poolside – true – but now. Jeez. Do you really need to buy three tubs of humus every time you go for your daily walk? Are those really essential? Also, all those people saying, ‘Make the most of this time’ – listen to them! Seriously. Binge-watching ‘Tiger King’ in your dressing gown doesn’t count. Oh, and good luck at the testing station next week. I would tell you the results, but I know how much you hate spoilers, and it would only be redacted anyway – there’s only so much I can say.
You x
To me,
Well. You got complacent, didn’t you? You thought, even if you do contract it, you essentially have a written guarantee that you’ll recover. The hubris! The naivety! And now look at you. Oh, you thought I was writing from the future? I see. Too many sci-fi films, I think. As far as I can tell, there is no past, present, or future at this resort (two-star at best, avoid the buffet). Now, what has happened tothat Sprite? I’ve been waiting forever. Safe trip!
You x
To me,
Wish you were here? Of course you do! Here I am…
They meet again at the frontera.
An empty dirt lot. Blowing yellow dust. Shirtless children on the roofs of buses, swinging luggage down. Touts jostling for the chance to carry a bag. Thieves pretending to be touts.
He is waiting for him. There are no phones. This is 2005.
Feral dogs hesitate at the periphery of the throng milling beside the waiting area. Shuffle, wait, look at the departures board. He buys a beer from the vending machine, opens it, sets down the can when he is distracted by a woman whose hair is like Alex’s. The beer is gone when he turns back.
He had been asleep against the chain-link fence. He awakes to grinding gears and shouting. The baking sun. A shadow over him.
Lovely Alexander. He wears a light blue striped cotton shirt, darker and damp at the arms from hours on the bus. A man with a kind face stands sweating beside him. Alex holds his bag defensively against his chest, then, to get rid of him, gives the kind man a few córdobas. Alex’s face is straight, not kind, gauging him. Buses idle, pull away. He hadn’t known men could be beautiful.
He must remember everything.
The insect bites, the mosquito nets, the piles of decaying bananas at the base of the tree outside the window. Alex in a bathing suit, muscles he had never noticed. Tracing his eyebrows, head in his lap on the bus from Dominical, braiding a bit of Alex’s long dark hair. The brown skin of his arms and the white beneath his clothes.
Alex is the most intelligent person he has ever met, but the body is something new.
And already he has a fear of forgetting.
He holds him for a moment before Alex pulls away and flags a taxi. Practical Alexander. The driver tells him that the “Maria” is broken. Alex is the one who warned him of this scam. He removes his bag from the backseat and the driver curses, flips the meter, and they get inside.
The pension is on the edge of town. Three stories. Modern for the region, with a new tin roof, in contrast to the gulf of those with rusted scrap metal upon which their room looks out. Carrying luggage up the steps, he pauses at the sight of the serrated eastern horizon. Then again at the glowing leaves of a banana tree in the upper right of the window. He had tried once to tell Carly about the sunsets here.
Alex is on the bed. He steps onto the balcony where the glycerin waters of the horseshoe bay are visible. The sun straddles the Pacific Ocean. Everything is pastel, which, he tells himself, means that what he’s doing is okay. That not every action is a mistake.
As he unpacks Alex pulls him onto the bed and nestles into him. He has forgotten the smell of his hair during their month apart – citrus and coconut, sweat so sweet it unsteadies him. He is afraid of having so little self-control. He stretches from the bed, across the floor, zipping and unzipping his bag in search of a condom. Alex stops him.
Don’t worry.
He is afraid of this new impulsiveness.
Please, my watermelon. There’s no need.
He has always used protection. With everyone. Even Carly.
The day they met: A New Year’s Eve of unsteadily shy glances, in filthy Dominical – knowing his situation – Alex had crawled across the dark sand and lay so still beside him.
Alex now arranges himself against the pillows in the dusky light. His arm falls from across his chest; a hand disappears beneath the thin sheets.
Please.
He does not know how to say no. He has already done the unforgivable. He has given him what he wanted. Alex has come 600 miles to meet him. This, while the woman he loves is traveling 3,000 miles for the same reason.
Alex, however, thought that relationship was over. Hoped that it was.
With a groan he rolls back to the bed. Alex smiles. He has no idea what the smile means.
He loves Carly. Her softness and safety. Even when separated by thousands of miles, he hadn’t known before that he could feel so distant from his fiancé. A flash of waiting outside her dance studio in the rain for rehearsal to finish. Her quiet voice and unhurried movements.
At night, deep skies across the ridge, lying together in her basement room beside the open window. Her little apartment on the hill near the zoo. The sounds: primate howls, peacocks roosting, a wolf. She’s there now, packing for the trip. She thinks of him, knowing nothing.
They were not really engaged, but they had joked about it. Carly acted as if they were, but it would be hard to use that word. So why did he leave?
The trip was to prove something to himself. He told his family it was to improve his Spanish, work at the escuelita, better his chances for admission to the school of social work.
She was his first. He was not hers. That was it. The sorry demands of symmetry.
*
He and Alex on the beach after a long hike. Crabs in the tide pools, the smell of warm limes in their pack, his legs around him beneath the surf, a tongue that tastes like cigarettes and saltwater.
I could die here.
Same.
Lying beside him on the sand he rests his forehead on Alex’s calf, as if in prayer. The smell of the sea on his skin. A splash of freckles on his shoulder. A small foot retracts when he rests a hand on top of it.
He knows now that when Alex sleeps he must hold some small part of him – a finger, a hand, an arm, once even cradling his head. A sleeping body is a trap set against escape.
What does he want? He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. But it’s better that it isn’t a woman.
Or much worse.
I don’t want to go with Beatrice. Alex’s small voice, accent both French and German, is muffled by the towel. He had expected to feel changed after being with a man. I want to stay.
He wouldn’t like someone who has done what he has done. Even if this isn’t real life.
Alex is now crying into a small mound of sand. Affectedly, he thinks. But very quietly. The kohl he uses around his eyes runs down his face.
The tears diminish gradually. His eyes are soft and wet and brown as the chocolate-covered marzipan sweets his mother sends him. Those Alex sneaks when he is in the shower so he doesn’t have to share.
He tries to embrace him, and Alex lets him for a moment, then bites down hard on his shoulder, so hard that he cries out. He rubs the spot, inspecting for a bruise.
No?
He falls back and pulls Alex down on top of him.
Yes. Yes.
*
The night. Thunder as they walk toward town. The breeze off the water carrying the smell of something dead. A strike of lightning behind the mountain that illuminates its ambit.
Where should we go to dinner?
Anywhere.
The dusty road curves southwest as it hugs the horseshoe bay. A strip of restaurants lines the shore side, along with small shops where shopkeepers bring in racks of towels and sunglasses for the night. Beach towns, the same the world over.
The restaurant. Typical post-and-beam bamboo frame construction, dry frond roof, a floor of sand. But the light is softer here. A blue and gold macaw sits on a t-shaped perch of gnarled mahogany, near a cash register that wobbles on a piece of plywood.
There are no other diners. The menus are delivered with a careless toss.
It is hard to take seriously someone who says they are interested in liberation but hasn’t read even Fanon. On her walls, Situationist artists, but she doesn’t know Society of Spectacle?
He nods but says nothing. As he so often does when he does not understand.
The peeling laminate menus stick to the table. The waiter stands silently beside them, balancing on the balls of his feet. He shakes his head and the man retreats to the kitchen.
What will you do while I travel with Beatrice?
Alex’s roommate. Sharp, pale Beatrice who claims to be a debutante from Seattle. He is from Seattle; there are no debutantes from there. You’ve been to Bocas, yes?
The water to the west is perfectly calm. A trawler rises and falls at the edge of the horizon, its twin booms beseeching the dark sky.
The speech he has been preparing the entire time. Admitting guilt, explaining confusion, caught between worlds, conflict and contradiction, his own heart a mystery. His sorrow for having dragged Alex into this. Not wanting to hurt anyone. Etcetera.
I can see you as soon as I get back?
He must drive him away.
I’m meeting a friend.
His voice hangs in the air. The parrot utters a few words of gibberish and shrieks loudly.
What does it mean?
A friend from the states. They’re coming down.
They? More than one?
One. Just one. His voice is quieter to match the empty restaurant. He pulls his hands away, picks up the menu, comments on the special.
Alex swallows. Your girlfriend.
Where’s the waiter?
Alex’s face rocks visibly, as if being struck. The waiter whistles along with the trova that plays on the tinny-sounding television. You said to me…
He takes in Alex’s eyes, understands that he has erred. But he hadn’t offered any assurances. Alex made assumptions.
Alex… What could his expectations have been? He feared having any. Only the smallest, inextinguishable hope. That was his small power over him. Alex—
Alex, Alex. You don’t tell me? Why did I come here?
I didn’t want—
Alex’s face rearranges itself.
You did. You did it. You came. And only now. No. Not even now! Beatrice will love this.
What did you—
Were you going to tell me?
I tried…
Coward! Coward. Liar. Does she know? No. Why do I ask?
Alex sits hugging himself. His eyes are wild. He’s truly never seen a man’s eyes like this.
Please, Alex. I do love you… My watermelon.
Shut up. Shut up. Watermelon? Mother said, “Be careful.” She thinks I’m stupid. My father says nothing. All the time I was diving at the reef. I thought of you. Us together. Finally someone … was nice. Nice to me. I thought, He is so sweet, my social worker.
The violent beat of wings. A blur against soft light. The bird sits on the chair directly between them at the table. It cranes its neck, glass eyes dilating. It looks at him then doubles over to preen tail feathers.
Just a show. A narcissist. No. No. I won’t.
An ear-piercing screech from the parrot. Dry black tongue between brilliant orange beak. Alex flinching, drawing back, swatting with the back of his hand, making contact. Wings, blue and gold and flash, drifting feathers, deafening distress calls echo through the restaurant.
Alex stands and then is gone, sand settling behind him.
He holds the sticky menus and the waiter, on tiptoe, asks him what he wants. First in English, then, when he doesn’t reply, in Spanish. What do you want?
Tomorrow he must take a taxi to the border, get on a bus, change currency. He will worry about his luggage being stolen. He must check in to the Grano de Oro in San Jose. He doesn’t remember where the hotel is in relation to the bus station or airport. He hopes it’s not in Alex’s neighborhood. He wants to impress Carly. With his Spanish and knowledge of local custom – the trick with the “Marias.” But now everything is undone.
Tomorrow he must recognize Carly’s small shoulders and sleepy, hooded eyes and sweater she won’t be able to take off. Kiss her with his old lips, hug her and hold her convincingly.
She will not talk. If they fight it will be quietly. Saying nothing until one of them breaks or forgets and offers some accidental kindness.
Now he is alone.
It will not be like with Alex in his modish apartment the week after Dominical, fleeing obligation, expectation. The burden of being known. To find out that they’d both escaped, and that here, at least, they were the same.
Alex collapsing on the couch, throwing himself on the floor, hitting him hard when he came close. Feeling no control. Then pulling Alexander against him. Taking Alex’s hand and slapping his own face.
Yes. Again. Harder. Hard.
It is not healthy. But it is what he wants.
Permission.
*
Alex is not at the pension. He is not at the first bar they visited, nor at the surfer bar or the upscale tourist bar.
He thinks of how Alex drank an entire bottle of guaro locked in the bathroom when he saw the picture of Carly that fell from his book.
How Alex left his journal on the kitchen table open to a page that said, underlined: Je veux MOURIR.
How he slept against the bathroom door all night and felt so protective of him.
How he reassured him it was over. Then, while he slept, called Carly from the next room.
How strange to cross such a line and wake the next day still thinking of oneself as good.
*
He rubs his sore shoulder, bruised green-blue from where Alex had bitten him.
It is late now. He stands at the north side of the square. Iglesia San Juan Bautista is pink, now purple in the night. The faintest glimmer from a candle burning in the narthex illuminates the stained glass above the wooden doors.
He could go. He got what he wanted. An “experience.” It, of course, hasn’t changed him.
Right now Alex is probably taking his revenge. In the small bar at the backpacker hostel on the other side of town, sitting on a worn brocade cushion beside a hookah, in the red lamplight, drinking himself stupid enough to tolerate the come-ons of an inevitable Australian.
Alex’s need to show him his worth.
And the condom. He had been so insistent. Why?
To own a part of him. To take that from Carly.
*
Without thinking, he is running. Drunk and running.
He is at the sunken lot at the end of the bay, the borderland before the saw grass. The trail up to the ridge is black. He scuffles across paper cups, beer cans.
When his eyes adjust, he realizes the true extent of the dark. The cane is already overhead, a sandy tunnel where trickling river meets sea. A few rotten timbers lead over the brackish waters. The strong smell of sewage and something acid.
Further up the path is steep, changed from sand to rocky stones. He must go slow.
What if Alex was now back at the pension, waiting for him? He would be worried.
Let him be. Let Alex imagine him out in the dark cane grass, the treacherous slope, as he had thought of Alex in the arms of someone else.
Alex had thought of him that way. With Carly.
Tomorrow he would be with Carly.
He could go. He could meet Carly. Have a two-week holiday. Show off his Spanish, eat well, try langosta, hotels with hot water showers. Quiet words. Hardly the need for words.
Carly. It is okay to hurt her because she does not really love him. Is only in love with the easy idea of a future together.
But Alex. He wanted to curl behind him on the tiny pension bed. Breathe him, feel his back stretch against him, the needy writhing of his body, the dark caves of his mind.
To be in control when Alex is not. To give up control.
Reckless.
The blackness of night is profound. He is alone, the moon behind cloud.
He makes his way blindly, never fully acquainting to the dark. The way is smooth, slow, switchbacks snaking toward the crest of the ridge. At one point he stumbles upon what he thinks must be a very small deer.
The sound the animal makes is strange, almost human, a surprised gasp and then crashing brush. Nightmare images of hyenas, scorpions, basilisks, all manner of evil that could be stalking the bush.
Alex was home. Obviously. Rereading the Fitzgerald novel he found at the book exchange in Granada and recommended to him, about which Alex was reserving judgment, but wouldn’t like because stories about the rich and bored generally don’t satisfy like those of the proletariat. Alex with the degree from the Sorbonne. With the paintings that will go to a museum when his parents die. Who talks incessantly of the Biafran War. Alex who has a legal internship waiting for him whenever he finally decides to return home. Giving up his “third-world exercises” – his mother’s words – and volunteering with PaixSuisse.
There is a new sound. He thinks he can hear it; perhaps it has been present for some time.
He calls Alex’s name. The echo is obliterated by water.
Down the ridge he flies. Across gullies, ravines, over rocks, boulders, pulling off branches and leaves as he goes.
At the bottom of the ridge he can’t hear anything. He passes through a dry riverbed. To his left, the sea’s surface looks like a mirror in need of resilvering. There is the loop of sand where they hiked, picking their way through the dark, crab-filled tide pools.
The strand is smooth and undisturbed. Their place.
A hush.
At the apex of the dune, one knee pulled to his chest, his head inclined.
Alex.
He runs clumsily through the sand.
No. The voice – tiny, as if he believes he might only be speaking to himself. No, no.
Alex’s small feet are tucked in the sand like on New Year’s Eve. His wet face shines with moonlight. He presses on his thigh with both hands.
Alexander.
Only then does he see the blood. The whole leg shines with it. Sand cakes around where he leans his hands.
What happened? Alex, what happened?
Not affected tears. Small, stifled, fearful tears.
The sand is damp with blood as he kneels beside him. Alex tries to squirm away.
Alex. What happened?
Get away from me.
I’m here. What happened? I’m here, Alex.
Get the fuck away from me.
What can I do? Please, my—
Watermelon. You are so stupid.
He can’t think of what to do. His hands press against his own thigh.
Alex. What happened?
I thought you came to find me.
I did. I’m here.
No. I thought that.
I don’t understand.
Before.
He can’t make sense of the words.
I jumped in the water to get away.
It is difficult to tell how severe the wound is without light, but when he touches Alex’s hands he feels the warm blood flowing out, feels it coursing out of Alex’s body and across his fingers.
I jumped in the sea.
He got what he wanted.
To get away.
Alex tries to stand, but totters and falls. He bends and gathers his lover in his arms.
*
They are in a sandy crevasse at the base of the cliff. Alex is awake again. His shirtsleeve is tied around his leg.
Alex.
What happened? What are you doing?
It’s okay. You’re hurt. It’s okay.
I dreamed … the sea reminds me of Mother rolling dough when my father didn’t come home.
Alex. I have to go get help.
Go.
Alex. I have to. Right now. You’re okay. I’ll be right back. Please don’t go to sleep.
Fuck you. Putain.
Wind in leaves, crashing waves on rock.
Alex. I love you.
Alex flinches. He kisses his calf, but Alex jerks away at the touch. He does not relax.
Though he can barely see him, he looks small and soft and beautiful. Not hurt at all.
A picture of Alex as a little boy, found on the messy floor of his closet in San Jose. His black hair already to his chin. Carefully applying lipstick in a mirror. A child’s eyes reflected, but already so serious, lips so red. He had asked if he could keep the photo. What? Alex took it from his hands and threw it back on the floor. Disgusting. Don’t infantilize.
He wants to pick up that child and rock him in his arms and keep him safe. From Beatrice and all of the arrows of insecurity that pierce childhood defenses. The parental battles, comments about his weight from an older sister, his teacher who “seemed cool” and told him after school he was so, so special. He wants to hold Alex inside of himself. Protect him from all those who would hurt him. Himself above all.
*
A steady wind from the water; it is not cold. He tries to hold Alex but he pulls away. He must go for help. Alex must be in shock because he is shaking. He is shaking too. How much blood can a person lose?
He must go for help, return, accompany Alex to a hospital, travel across the border by bus. There is no time. It is impossible.
Carly will go somewhere else, not tell him where. To punish him.
So go. Pute.
Alex, you’re not thinking right. You’re going to be okay.
You are a liar.
He hugs him, avoiding the blood-soaked legs. He combs wet black hair from Alex’s eyes.
He pushes sand into a mound so that he will be more comfortable. It won’t stay in place and Alex leans to his left and retches. He kisses his shoulders splashed with freckles.
Alex shakes his head. But he is holding his finger, weakly. A trap against leaving.
His brown eyes and long lashes. Tiny ears dusted with sand. He lets go of his hand.
Alex, don’t go to sleep. Okay?
Alex closes his eyes. He tries to hug him.
Fuck you.
I’ll be right back. Alex, I’m sorry.
She will know.
He wraps what remains of his shirt around Alex for warmth but he throws it off.
*
On the sandy dune, he faces the water. No phones. No light. No compass. No moon. Only sea and stars. The melody of a voice. The wealth of things Alex knows that he does not.
Perhaps there are boulders and a rocky path, briers and sugarcane, a silt-covered road, deer. The only sure thing is dark. His own breathing is false.
*
There is no way to stop the slow end. The inevitable ending, which begins in the Hotel Grano de Oro after his first hot shower. When Carly, pouring coffee over grounds at the kitchenette, frowns at the purple bite-shaped bruise marking his shoulder, but says nothing. Carly, who simply wants a life with him.
The feeling of rejoining time and place. And losing all of yourself.
But remember. Remember the hospital where everything seemed cheap and touched by dirt. Flies outside in the heavy air as the gurney slipped past the automatic doors and across the terrazzo floor. Rows of beds without curtains. The smell of iodine. A man in a white shirt bleeding calmly into another white shirt. A woman in black mourning veil unable to reach her fallen crutch. The hours waiting when he felt angry, angry at the poverty, not sorry for those afflicted by it. The need to speak English overwhelming even before the doctor asked him in Spanish if he wanted to see Alex. The doctor’s lack of surprise when he said no.
Remember Carly’s silent face a week later, sitting with her dancer’s legs curled under her on the settee that overlooked the cloud forest, when she picked up the Fitzgerald. Remember the picture of Alex fluttering to the floor. The photo he had never seen before. A child running across a faded lawn. Not putting on makeup in a mirror and looking very adult, but crying. Almost twilight, five-years-old, short red overalls, pastel striped cotton socks, arms pumping, black hair trailing. Adirondack chairs in the distance and the horn of snow-capped peaks evident through grim, pale light. Lake Geneva. Alex embalmed in childhood, face twisted in pain.
Remember bending to kiss Carly’s forehead, and the welling tears – like those of childhood – that he couldn’t fully explain.
Photography by Reynaldo Leal
“God bless the Free Syrian Army!” a boy cries on an overcast, frigid February afternoon, his breath as gray as his surroundings, “God bless the Free Syrian Army!”
Through the shattered window of an Aleppo school, the boy watches rebel fighters, stocking caps pulled low around their ears, none older than twenty-five, all of them once university students, all of them with beards, some full and thick, others patchy and spare, play soccer on a basketball court, their Kalashnikov rifles propped against a mortared wall near ruined plastic chairs where their commander, Alhusen, and other rebels sit and watch.
The players: Ahmad, Abualeez, Yasser, Rashid, Akran and Abdullah.
Ahmad juggles the ball on his knees, shows off. He considers anyone wearing a Syrian army uniform a target. Man, woman, it doesn’t matter. One time, he shot a man who had found a green Syrian army helmet and placed it on his head. He should never have worn it. Stupid man. Occasionally, a soldier – a target, Ahmad calls them – crosses the street alone and Ahmad sees him clearly and takes the shot but at other times when a target uses human shields Ahamd can’t shoot. He gets angry, calls the target a coward and many other worse things because coward is too good for such a chickenshit. As long as he thinks of them as targets they are less than human.
He passes the ball to Abualeez, who dribbles up the court. Abualeez was born in Aleppo and studied engineering at Aleppo University. When the FSA entered the city, he saw it needed fighters and joined. At the time, he didn’t know how to carry a gun. The FSA sent him to a training camp for fifteen days where he learned how to storm buildings (“you run up stairs screaming and shooting”), how to shoot (“point and fire”) and how to clean his weapon (“shoot it to keep the barrel spotless”). He enjoyed training, holding his gun and the expertise he began to feel as he learned how to use it, and he liked how it changed him. He felt more confident. Children followed him and chanted his name. Adults stood aside for him. His self-assurance abandoned him in his first battle. It was a new experience and he ran from the shooting, the noise, but killing is not new anymore and it is the silence between battles that disturbs him. Waiting, knowing something will happen to shatter the quiet but not knowing what or when. One time, three rockets hit three buildings around him. Other soldiers dropped to the ground for cover but he kept walking. He doesn’t know why. Months and months of war, man. That’s a long time. You get used to it. He remembers one battle above all others, an attack on an army school south of Aleppo. At first the FSA failed to secure it. There was too much shelling by the government. Too many FSA soldiers killed. The rebels retreated and organized a fresh attack. Abualeez felt nothing but a desire to liberate the school and kill government forces. During the second assault, he fired his weapon and Syrian soldiers fell before him like trees and still he felt nothing. Then his brother was shot in the left leg and right foot and Abualeez became crazy with anger and fear. His brother lived and Abualeez, submerged in a sense of overwhelming relief, praised God and then at some point as he surfaced from this good feeling, he doesn’t know when, he resumed feeling nothing.
He rushes toward the goal, elbowing Yasser, but Yasser snatches the ball. Yasser passed a hospital his first day in Aleppo after the revolution started and saw a dead woman, a baby spilled out of her body still attached to its umbilical cord. Yasser could not sleep for days. This woman could have been his wife. Then he put those thoughts out of his mind. It was a revolution. She had left this world for paradise.
Yasser stumbles and his legs intertwine with those of Abualeez and Abualeez takes control of the ball and passes to Rashid, who holds it beneath his right foot and surveys the court. He was an architect student when the revolution started and served as a medic for the FSA. He threw Molotov cocktails but admits they did little damage. Then he started shooting videos because the FSA had no public relations. He posted the videos on YouTube. One night, he viewed a video he removed from a dead government soldier. Four naked men knelt at a wall, hands tied behind their backs. Syrian soldiers in gray uniforms stood behind them shouting, “Don’t move!” The naked men huddled close together, backs grime-smeared. Then the soldiers drew knives and lunged forward, stabbing the men in their heads. The men fell to their sides, blood gushing.
“Don’t move!” the soldiers said, and thrust again.
The wounded men struggled to a sitting position.
“Don’t move!”
Holding a bloody knife, a soldier stabs each man yet again.
“Don’t move!”
Rashid takes a shot at the goal but Akran stops the ball with his chest, skirts around Rashid and dribbles in the opposite direction. Akran’s father used to beat his mother. Months ago she left the family for Turkey and in her absence, his father turned his anger on Akran and threw him out of the house. He lived on the streets of Aleppo until an FSA leader saw him scavenging in trash. “What are you doing?” he asked. He took Akran in and treated him like a son, enlisting him in the FSA. Akran learned how to shoot a Kalashnikov. His hands shook the first time he went into battle. FSA soldiers shouted insults at the Syrian army. “You have big noses. Bigger than anything else on your body.” Akran laughed and joined in the taunting. When he shot at the enemy his hands stopped shaking. That is the thing about war, he has learned. Keep busy, keep shooting, keep moving and you won’t be nervous. He has a brother in the Syrian army. He doesn’t know if his brother supports the regime or if he was conscripted. If he supports Assad, Akran will kill him no question, no regrets, no shaking.
He kicks the ball out of bounds. Alhusen, slouched in a chair sipping tea, too bored to play, picks up the ball. He commands two units of fifty soldiers, one nearby, the other in Old City. He fought in the jihad against the Americans in Iraq and the Israelis in Lebanon and then returned to Syria to fight in the revolution. He assumes he’ll fight somewhere else after this if there is a somewhere else after this. In August 2011, the Syrian army stormed a rebel-held neighborhood in Idlib. Alhusen lost three of his best men in a seven-hour battle. Two of them were brothers. Their family was so sad that now he doesn’t allow brothers to enlist in the same unit. The brothers believed in God and the revolution. They knew they could die. He took their bodies to the family and kissed the head of their mother. He will never forget her face, no tears but grief mapped in every line. When she saw her sons, she said, “Thank God they are martyrs.” Alhusen was proud of her. She knew her sons were in a good place. The father wept. Sometimes, men can’t control themselves when disaster happens, especially when they lose a son. Dead government soldiers, he knows, have families too, but when they kill women and children he has no choice but to kill them. War is so bad and dirty, especially against your own people. Alhusen has seen so much death he misses it when there is a lull in the fighting. Like not having your shadow, something is absent. He wonders if they will all need psychotherapy when the war ends.
Getting up slowly like an old man wary of losing his balance, he tosses the ball to the players, and amid a general scuffle, Akran gets it, dribbles down court and shoots, but Abdullah, the goalie, blocks it. Abdullah really loves guns. Every week he must shoot a target. If not a government soldier, then a window, the side of a building, anything. He grew up on a big farm. Every year he and his family had to protect it from neighbors who would try to steal their crops during the twenty days of harvest. In1999, he bought a shotgun, in 2002, a Kalashnikov. He fought in the countryside of Idlib when the revolution started. The government soldiers shot every which way. The shelling was so loud Abdullah’s head filled with the noise of explosions, a great swelling roar. At that time, the FSA had only rifles and homemade bombs. One day, they put bombs along the street of a village as military vehicles turned onto it. The front and rear vehicle struck the bombs and exploded. Abdullah thought the engagement would last half an hour. Instead, it persisted all day. The FSA killed most of the soldiers. The soldiers cried and shouted, they were so scared. They offered to surrender but their officer would not allow it, a stupid decision, and Abdullah shot them.
He kicks the ball down court.
“How much longer do we have?” he shouts.
“The game or life?” Alhusen asks.
They all laugh, keep playing, until they no longer can. Exhausted, they sit with Alhusen and breathe loudly, sucking in air as their hearts slow and their breathing relaxes into the uneasy, listless stillness around them, the acrid air, the empty school, the vacancy of this pause in the fighting, and then they hear an explosion far off but close enough and a jolt of adrenaline replaces the tension and brings them to their feet with an eagerness bordering on joy. “Allahu Akbar,” they shout, “Allahu Akbar!” and the boy watching them joins in the celebration. Abualeez can’t restrain himself. As the others move in the direction of the explosion, he sprints onto the deserted court, kicks the ball toward the goal and throws up his arms in victory. Hurrying back, he grabs his weapon and slaps Abdullah on the back.
“Score, man,” he says.
Photography by Reynaldo Leal
This week on Litro Lab, Michele Wheeler shares with us an intimate story about her relationship with her grandfather, a machinist who taught her the importance on passing on legacy to create links that run deeper than pain, tragedies and even death.
You can listen to the podcast on the player below, or subscribe to “Litro Lab” on Spotify or iTunes.
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The Making of Legacy Podcast
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In the stillness of life stopping, sunlight shifts on her music, thoughts flying every inch of everywhere. She thinks she is comfortable with impermanence, but in this quiet little eye-of-the-storm, alone, she faces that she is in love with two people and has the discomfort of indecision. She imagines supermarket security guards, clear plastic visors, nervous feet straddling a stripy line, and two sides at once makes sense.
Because of covid, she gets to stay home and play Bach; two simultaneous musical lines, one for each love, complementary, different, either side of her, unaware of each other. In the applause along silent streets the claps seem tiny, faded, like blousy moths flapping against windows, too busy, like the rest of the world, to notice what’s really happening. And they are not for her, those claps. They celebrate real-life and death-workers, not split, or doubled, heartbeats.
Love exists in the time of the virus, the one that makes the separating world take stock, and means she will never see a door-handle the same way again. Will she choose the delicious stolen time of a siesta or the early-morning splat, face-down, unfacing, belonging. She wakes early, now she doesn’t have to and hears courting birds as they layer-up their chatter.
Which love does she want in lockdown – the middling, steady dissonance? The long-desired unison? Which would she leave the house for? Which thing? Novelty? Skin on skin. She’d be out like a shot and want all/both/either of those arms around her. Lockdown feeds want as imagination soars outward, carried by lines of Bach, dipping, rising, never settling. Come to me. One of you. Both of you. Is there a cure for wanting more than you can have? Life: too short to waste on mediocrity, half-loves.
She centres on the exquisiteness of flowers – magnolia, camellia, tulips, apple-blossom – as they track the weeks of coronavirus in blooms and demises until the clematis bursts forth, each as big as her outstretched hand, ready to play. Her loves stay true, undiminished in either direction, suspended since lockdown began – one trapped at a father’s sickbed down south, the other writing poetry out west.
How did we get here, to the doorstep refrain of these weeks? ‘On your/our/her doorstep’; flour, eggs, biscuits, Beethoven. I will help you, provide for you, be on the doorstep a minute or two, but I can’t decide the future for you.
Source: Unsplash
Health and wellness have become buzz words over the last five years. Although there’s always been a culture of physical and mental well-being within societies around the world, things have stepped up a gear or two in recent years. Indeed, when you scroll through Instagram, the number of fitness professionals, influencers, and keen amateurs is at an all-time high as people strive to improve their bodies and minds.
That stats back up this trend. According to the 2018 GWI Global Wellness Economy report, the industry is growing twice as fast as the global economy. Between 2015 and 2017, industry revenue increased by 6.4% from $3.7 trillion to $4.2 trillion. Although this figure takes into account all facets of the industry, from spas to wellness tourism, the overwhelming sentiment is that people are now paying more attention to their health.
A Health Culture Built on Knowledge
Why? As with all things, the reasons will be numerous and varied. However, one of the main ones is that more people are focused on their health is knowledge. Today, it’s easier than ever to learn about fitness, mental well-being, and everything in between. For all of its faults, social media has exposed more people to the benefits of being healthy. When people are more exposed to anything, they’re more likely to take an interest. In turn, they’re more likely to educate themselves about a topic.
The internet is awash with health and wellness advice. Admittedly, not all of it is good advice. However, there’s information out there and that’s inspiring change. What’s more, it’s opening up people’s minds to new ideas or, in many cases, old ideas that were either lost or hidden. Within health and wellness, one area that’s come to the fore over the last five years is plants. Plants have been used by civilizations to keep fit and well throughout the ages – for example, the University of Edinburgh’s Dr. Gavin Hardy has examined the use of plants in medicine in Ancient Greece and Rome.
The Roots of Plant-Based Health Are Long and Strong
From Dioscorides, a Greek physician, to the father of modern medicine, Hippocrates, plants were a standard tonic. Oregano was often added to soups and stews because Ancient Greeks believed it promoted good health. Mint was used to treat sore throats, headaches, and nerve disorders. Sage reportedly warded off death and was required for a long, healthy life.
Source: Unsplash
Regardless of how effective the plants were, the fact is that they were an important part of Ancient Greek and Roman culture. Today, these roots are still blossoming. Although much of the evidence regarding the health benefits of plants is anecdotal, there’s a long history of them being used. Some of the most popular plants being used for health and wellness today are:
Aloe Vera
If you’re looking for a natural way to treat a variety of dermatological issues, aloe vera could be the answer. Although there isn’t much in the way of research when it comes to its healing properties, it’s a substance that’s been used for thousands of years. In fact, evidence of aloe vera being used as a skin treatment dates back to 2200 BC and the ancient Sumerian city of Nippur. For those that use it, aloe vera has the ability to soothe the skin, treat burns, and remove impurities.
Cannabis
The rise in popularity of CBD oil has brought cannabis back into the light in recent times. As well as oils, health hackers are now looking towards cannabis seeds and growing their own plants. Just visit a renowned website like Zamnesia and you can learn a variety of strains like the famous OG Kush to grow it successfully. Using online guides, consumers are being shown the difference between types of cannabis, from big bud feminized to auto-flowering options like northern lights. These plants, in conjunction with CBD oils, are being used to help everything from depression to respiratory issues. Again, research into the positive effects is still emerging. However, finding from places like the University of Buffalo are showing support for the use of medical marijuana.
Rosemary
Used in folk medicine for centuries, rosemary is said to improve memory and concentration. Like all plant-based solutions, more research needs to be done into the true effect of rosemary. However, a study carried out by Northumbria University found that the scent of rosemary improved memory retention in people aged over 65. The same study also found that peppermint tea can improve alertness and chamomile has a calming effect.
In addition to aloe vera, cannabis, and rosemary, there are many other plants that are popular within health and wellness circles. There’s English ivy for removing toxins from the air, echinacea for preventing flu, garlic to treat blood pressure, and ginger to ease nausea.
Advances in modern medicine can’t be ignored. Today, healthcare, and the ability to improve our own well-being, is better than ever. However, we shouldn’t ignore the tonics around us. Plants have been used for thousands of years and, within this new health-conscious culture of ours, they can be used for thousands more to come.
The throb in her abdomen, sting in her groin, stiffness in her lower back, swelling in her left knee – which she knocked when she collapsed outside the tannery – the grit behind her eyelids, tightness in her calves, rip in her still swollen tongue – she remembered biting it deliberately to eclipse the pain as she was lifted into a wheelbarrow and pushed through the crowded, cobbled streets of the medina – the ache and discomfort she was still suffering nine days after her fallopian tube had ruptured, was nothing compared to the hurt of knowing Michael wasn’t coming.
Salma had knocked twice before entering Elspeth’s room. She’d brought a bowl of salty olives and a fax from her brother.
Aamir worked in the Kasbah in Soho, a small restaurant off Brewer Street that Michael often stumbled into late at night when the adjacent bars were too crowded, too noisy and too concerned by his levels of inebriation to serve him anymore. Aamir and Elspeth had spent many an evening manhandling Michael into cabs or, if they thought he could make it, the short distance back to the flat – they would half drag, half carry him there themselves. Things had got desperate, Michael went to rehab and weeks later emerged sober and keen to start writing again so Elspeth had kept him away from bars, and everyone away from him, and in between working shifts at The Blue Anchor, her early morning cleaning job and the odd few hours modelling for an artists’ collective, she cooked wholesome soups, hired foreign-language films from the video shop on the corner and read to him. He’d kept it up for three months, and even had a meeting with a publisher about a new collection of poems, before stumbling back into the Kasbah one Thursday night and vomiting into a vase. It was Aamir who told Elspeth she’d done all she could; that she needed to go away and if he could be so bold, his sister ran a small hotel in Fez.
“What does he say,” Elspeth had asked as she tried to sit up. Salma came closer to the bed and rearranged the pillows behind her back.
“Michael no come,” she’d replied.
Elspeth took the fax and scanned it quickly. The first part was from Michael: “can’t find passport … can’t face flight … too sick.” His handwriting was still beautiful, the page dancing with expansive flourishes of thick italic ink. Then Aamir took over with a paragraph written in Arabic – obviously meant for his sister – and underneath he’d written in English:
“Michael is in a bad way. He cries for you or maybe himself, it’s hard to say. He’s sent some money for my sister, for her to look after you, so you can take as long as you need. When you are better, Salma will take you to our cousin’s factory. They make Zellige tiles, each one shaped individually from local clay and hand painted. They are the most beautiful tiles in the world, but they are not perfect.”
*
Salma was a wonderful cook. Every lunchtime, after Elspeth returned from the hospital, she bought her homemade bread and salads and thick Harira soup. In the evening, she made tagines – chicken, beef and goat – and she would carry an earthenware pot up to Elspeth’s room and set up a little table in the corner by the window. When she removed the domed lid, the rich aroma of meat, ginger and garlic would waft towards the bed. Elspeth had no appetite to begin with, but after her first visit from Docteur Larbi, who reassured her that she was healing well and that there was no infection – either in the ropey scar that reached from her belly button to the itchy strip where they’d shaved her pubic hair, or deeper in her abdomen – she began to tentatively look forward to Salma’s meals and the short bursts of company; the few forkfuls of bland couscous and coriander leaves soon gave way to bowls filled with thick, spicy stew.
*
It wasn’t an unpleasant room in which to convalesce. A much simpler décor than the rooms downstairs with their chalky blue walls and carved wooden doors, piles of Berber cushions, coloured rugs and big clay pots filled with dense, dusty-looking plants, but its sparsity suited Elspeth. The pale yellow walls and plain metal bed seemed a fitting place to reflect on how she’d managed to end up alone in a city so far from home. The high windows and pendant lamp offered just enough light.
*
Elspeth had no memory of the hospital. She recalled the thin-limbed boy standing over her and praying whilst his brother got the wheelbarrow. She remembered how he jabbed himself in the chest saying “Medhi, Medhi” then gently held her hand as she mumbled her name and where she was staying.
She wanted to repay him for his kindness and asked Salma if they would be able to find him again, but she just laughed and shook her head.
“One million Medhis in Medina!” she’d said.
Elspeth remembered that morning clearly enough: the pain in her shoulder – she’d assumed it had come from carrying a heavy rucksack – and the upset tummy that she’d put down to the street food consumed the day before. She remembered wandering through the narrow streets of the souk and recognising a stall selling musical instruments hanging from a corrugated sheet of metal, and another selling spices and bunches of dried fish which caught the light where the sun slew down between the roofs. She’d known that sooner or later she’d find the tannery again – the smell would warn her when she was getting close – and she was in no hurry. She’d stopped to admire a huge copper urn and haggle over a bag of dates.
She wanted to buy Michael a leather pouffe. She had no idea how she would get it home or indeed if she would even choose to see him when she returned, but she couldn’t resist the idea of him resting his sore foot on one of the beautiful round stuffed cushions, instead of a pile of tatty books. His gout was a result of his drinking of course, but when it struck, he drank even more to numb the pain. He was probably beyond deriving any pleasure from the colourful leather and splendid geometric designs, but caring for him was a habit she was also struggling to break.
And there it was: The Rue Chouara with its stalls of tightly packed slippers, handbags hanging round doorways and tables laid out with jackets, wallets and purses. Herded into a shop, mint leaves were pressed into her hand and she was led up some steps at the back, and out onto a balcony which overlooked the terraces of the crumbling stone buildings surrounding the rows of round terracotta vessels filled with colour, and the squarer white vats, full of pale liquid made from cow urine, pigeon faeces and quicklime. That was where the raw skins were soaked before being hauled out, scrubbed, draped over balconies to dry in the blistering heat, then scraped and plunged into the wells of dye. Even when she’d held the mint to her nose, the stench was overwhelming. Elspeth remembered feeling a little dizzy and she’d sat down on a proffered stool as a guide explained to her that this was an ancient process. He described men standing thigh high in vats, stomping on the animal skins to help them absorb the colour, how much they would sweat when they buffed them with oil to lock in the stains.
“Where do they get the colour from?” she’d asked, trying to put off the moment when the hard sell would begin.
“Orange is henna, blue is indigo, yellow from saffron and red, the colour of love,” he’d said, pausing for a flirty smile, “is from the poppy flower.”
*
When Docteur Larbi came again, to remove her stitches, he told her that she’d almost bled to death.
“By the time we get you in the operating theatre,” he said, “you already in hypovolemic shock.”
He had a heavy accent and even though he sounded out “hy-pol-ov-em-ic” syllable by syllable, she didn’t recognise the word and asked him to repeat it.
“You were very pale, Madam,” he explained. “Very pale and nearly looking at death. We had to cut you very fast. It isn’t the most prettiest scar,” he added on examination.
When he straightened up, he stared pointedly at her left hand lying on top of the bed sheet.
“Ectopic pregnancy is often come with lifestyle. Many partner mean many diseases. You are older lady, so maybe you be careful now?”
“Will I still be able to have children?” Elspeth asked.
“You are older lady,” he replied wobbling his head from side to side. “Next time I bring oil to rub in and help with healing,” and he left leaving the door slightly ajar.
*
Elspeth tried reading. Salma bought her some English books from the shelf in reception: a couple of dog-eared thrillers, a Jilly Cooper and a history of the Al Karouine Library. Elspeth flicked through them and then left them on the bedside table and lay propped up on her pillows, staring at the fan.
*
The night she met Michael, she’d been with some friends at a pub in Hammersmith and they’d dragged her along to a party somewhere out near Shepherd’s Bush. It was on the top floor of a tatty terraced house and as they stumbled up the street from the tube station a man was sitting astride the balcony, swaying and singing in a language Elspeth didn’t understand.
“Yan is at it again,” someone said as they pushed open the front door and started to climb the stairs. Elspeth didn’t follow them. She sat on the stone step and lit a cigarette.
“It’s rather beautiful, isn’t it?” said a voice behind her. She turned around to see a man – tall, solid, battered leather jacket – resting his shoulder on the doorframe. “It’s a polish love song.”
“Is it safe?” said Elspeth looking up at the foot hanging four floors above but directly over her head.
“Love is never safe,” he replied.
She moved in with him three weeks later.
*
When Michael had his second poetry collection published, it was well reviewed and as his editor had promised, it opened doors. There were readings in the big London bookshops, interviews in literary magazines and even a weekend newspaper, and they were invited to all the right parties. That’s when she first noticed his drinking was a problem. They all seemed to drink a lot, but he would come home and carry on, often sitting up until dawn. She’d wander into the sitting room to find him sprawled in an armchair, surrounded with notebooks, scraps of paper and empty bottles – wine, beer and spirits. Eighteen months later, she was visiting the bottle bank every couple of days and by then it was only whisky and vodka bottles that she was chucking into the huge metal bins, feeling cheated if they didn’t smash.
Sometimes he tried to give up and within hours he would be sweating, shaking and weeping. He would cling onto her as if he was drowning and beg her to never leave him and then stagger around the tiny flat howling abuse at the world – his publisher, his father, his ex-wife and her, of course. He said she was suffocating him; her care, her love – he didn’t want it. He hit her once and was so full of remorse he wrote a poem that went on to win a prize.
He slept with other women, so she did too. She wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt her, but she couldn’t bring herself to hold another man. When he found out, he laughed, then cried and they spent three days in bed. He told her she was the most beautiful, arousing and inspiring woman he’d ever known. She was the love of his life, his queen, his muse; his Calliope and his Fanny Brawne, his Beatrice Portinari, his Maude Gonne. Then they ran out of gin.
For six years she’d cooked and cleaned and typed up his poems. She’d made excuses to his publishers and peace with his friends. She’d massaged his feet, worked triple shifts to pay their rent and then come home to scrub his piss out of their mattress. She’d lost time, self-respect, any meaningful career of her own, and now an ovary and maybe her last chance…
Michael liked to shrug and quote Kafka: “the positive is already given”. She picked up the Jilly Cooper and read the last page. “ENOUGH” she scrawled in pencil down the margin. Enough. Enough. Enough.
*
Another guest in the hotel was travelling back to London. It was short notice, but Salma suggested that Elspeth travel on the same plane and that way they could ensure that she’d be looked after and that at no stage would she need to carry her bag. Elspeth came down to the dining room and met the woman in question. She was a grandmother, travelling alone after a recent divorce. She hadn’t been too friendly, or too talkative, or indeed overly keen to help, all of which had been a relief. Elspeth wasn’t looking for friendship, she just wanted to get back to England without putting her recovery at risk. And she couldn’t have coped with too much kindness, not now that she had decided her days of giving too freely of herself, were over.
She went to reception the following morning and used the phone to confirm her flight. She looked out through the open door into the street and wondered about a gentle walk later – once the sun was lower in the sky and she could find a short route entirely in the shade – but nothing was gentle in Morocco. The moment she left the sanctuary of her hotel she’d be approached by beggars, hawkers selling hashish, street urchins, and she had nothing for them.
She wrote some letters instead, which she didn’t post, and slowly packed her bag.
*
On the last morning, she got up early, dressed herself and sat on the end of her bed. Docteur Larbi had given her some painkillers for the flight and she laid them out on the table with her passport and the last of her dirhams, which she planned to leave for Salma and her family. She read Aamir’s fax again, before rolling it up and putting it in the bin in the corner of the room. She traced the mosaic of black and white tiles with her big toe, and carefully bent down to put on her shoes.
A few days before, she’d remembered her Sony Walkman in the bedside table. The batteries were flat, so Salma’s husband had bought her some more. Before leaving London, she’d grabbed a handful of cassettes and thrown them loose into her rucksack, but space was tighter now, so she chose a tape at random, inserted it into the machine and slid the others into her walking boots.
There was a knock at the door and before Elspeth could answer, it swung open and there was Salma’s daughter, carefully balancing a tray with a glass of mint tea. Elspeth had seen the girl downstairs, watching from behind her mother’s skirt. She must have been seven or eight years old, a scrawny little thing with long hair that looked like it could do with a brush. It was the first time she’d been up to Elspeth’s room and it took all her concentration not to spill the hot, sweet liquid as she walked in a pair of leather sandals, much too big for her feet. With each careful step, the buckle on a broken strap slapped the floor.
“Thank you,” said Elspeth as she took the glass in both hands and placed it on the windowsill. The girl grinned, exposing more gaps than teeth, lifted her arm and rattled her bangles.
“Very nice,” said Elspeth and the girl nodded. “What’s your name?”
The girl bounced up and down on her toes.
“Do you speak English? Or French?” The girl grinned again but said nothing.
They stood like that, staring at each other, nodding and smiling until Elspeth saw the girl glance at the Walkman lying on the bed. She picked it up and held it out, but the girl stepped backwards so Elspeth put the headphones on herself, pressed play and started bobbing her head to the music. The girl smiled, less confidently now and a frown followed shortly afterwards.
“Music,” said Elspeth, over annunciating, but the girl clearly didn’t understand. She reached up to her own ear and fiddled with the lobe.
Elspeth tried humming along but the girl took another step backwards, closer to the door.
Elspeth removed the headphones and lowered herself carefully onto the bed. She patted the sheet beside her and the girl, understanding this at least, came over but she wouldn’t sit. She hovered in front of Elspeth instead, her eyes darting back and forth between Elspeth’s face and hands. Elspeth slowly lifted the headphones again and placed them on the girl, adjusting the two sponge pads so that they sat flat against her ears. The girl waited, Elspeth held up the machine again and pressed play.
The girl jerked her head towards the window, then the door, then the fan, before turning back to Elspeth, her eyes wide with wonder. Elspeth clapped her hands and laughed, and the girl laughed too, before twisting round and squinting at the shower, the ceiling cracks, the floor, still looking for Elgar’s cello.
President Barack Obama used “watching Real Housewives” as a term of derision.[1] Gloria Steinem has called it “a minstrel show for women.” The Real Housewives is an American media franchise, hatched by Bravo in 2005.“It is women,” Steinem said, “all dressed up and inflated and plastic surgeried and false bosomed and incredible amount of money spent, not getting along with each other. Fighting with each other.”
The Real Housewives of Orange County, New York, and New Jersey were the first. Advertisers and executives had discovered the public’s insatiable appetite for watching prosperous women shop and feud. There were real housewives in Vancouver, Sydney, Melbourne, Bangkok, and Johannesburg; the Mulheres Ricas argued with each other in Brazil.
The literary output of the cast members of The Real Housewives of New Jersey is extensive. Their collective works include cookbooks, party-planning books, how-tos, polemics, a surrendered wife manifesto-cum-beauty and style guide, and a prison memoir. Almost all of the cast members have produced a book containing autobiographical fragments. Again and again, they stress the importance of “family,” “respect,” “loyalty,” and “blood.” Collectively, these texts serve as a valuable document of the experiences of the Italian diaspora in New Jersey. A rich tapestry is woven by the vivid, almost Proustian descriptions of a childhood of Catholic schools, mozzarella and eggplant sandwich picnics, and a stern, hardworking father driving his daughter from house to house on her paper route to keep her safe.
Social historians seeking a precise description of cocktail waitress uniforms of the early 1980s (“We also wore a tuxedo cuff on each arm, and black high heels – the higher the better”) or the nicknames of inmates at Danbury Federal Correctional Institute (“Butchy,” “Heaven,” “Teeny,” and “the Stud”), will consult Danielle Staub’s The Naked Truth and Teresa Giudice’s Turning the Tables, where archaeologists puzzled by single occupant dwellings with two kitchens will also find their answer.[2]
Future civilizations will consult these books to learn which tune Nero was fiddling when Rome burned. The heirs to the present will marvel at the excess and consumption and the blithe, careless obliviousness of the people who lived in sixteen-room mansions and drove his-and-hers SUVs. The clues are scattered all over the texts, the murderer in an Agatha Christie novel who was under your nose all along.
Aspiration:
The books promise to teach readers how to dress to impress their man. Cook Italian style. Raise little princes and princesses. Strengthen their marriage and amp up the passion for life-long bliss. Get on track, get organized, get flawless skin and beautiful hair. The new rules for dating, relationships, and finding love on their terms.
These books tell women to drink lots of water and always take their makeup off before bed, but what they’re really saying is “follow me” – the ancient command of King Agamemnon and Genghis Khan, the plea which embodies the digital age. For all that the real housewives of New Jersey have, they want more. They want to sell iTunes singles, clothes, Skinny Italian spaghetti, and Fabellini wines. They want to be Bethenny Frankel from The Real Housewives of New York City, who sold her cocktail company for 100 million dollars. Teresa even published the handwritten contents of her vision board, which included the words: “Ferrari,” “black card,” “private jet,” “helicopter,” “best body,” “abs,” and “happily ever after.” “Other images and words I put on my vision board: making forty million dollars so I could take care of my girls and help needy children around the world,” she wrote in her memoir, which debuted ahead of The Name of God is Mercy by Pope Francis on The New York Times bestseller list.
The Show:
A conceit of the Real Housewives franchises is that irrespective of the interviews to camera punctuating their scenes, cast members never refer to the fact that they’re on TV. Season-long disputes occur over misunderstandings which could easily be cleared up by asking to see the footage. They only acknowledge the production in their books and on the reunion specials mediated by their gleeful Geppetto Andy Cohen, where the fact of the programme is a constant, Orwellian presence and the most common accusation hurled is, “She was only doing it for the show!”
The source of the animosity between Teresa Giudice and her extended family, which raged over three seasons, was never made clear on-air. The reason for the bad blood, she explained in her memoir, was the show itself. “I will never forget when I was getting ready to shoot Season 3 and got a phone call from Andy telling me that my sister-in-law and cousin were going to be joining the show as the newest housewives… Reality shows are all about drama, so I knew where this was headed.” That same old story: the Contendings of Horus and Set on a papyrus found in Thebes, Hamlet plunging a dagger into Claudius onstage at the Globe, JR trying to wrest control of Ewing Oil from Bobby on CBS, a YouTube post entitled “RHONJ: Joe Vs. Joe [EXTENDED FIGHT] Bravo.”
“When reality TV came calling and I joined the cast,” Teresa’s cousin wrote inher dessert cookbook Indulge, “I was already a housewife, for real.” The verisimilitude of their characters is constantly emphasized on the book jackets. “Caroline Manzo, the tell-it-like-it-is, breakout star and fan favourite.” “What you see is what you get with Melissa Gorga.”[3] A quote on the back of Turning the Tables reads like Samuel Beckett: “The world will see a new Teresa. A different Teresa. Well, actually, the Teresa I always was.”
The books make frequent cameos on the show. Cameras follow the housewives to meetings with editors, cover shoots, and signings at Barnes and Noble, where a line-up of #Trehuggers coils out to the parking lot. The scion of the Columbo crime family was ejected from the launch of Turning the Tables; Teresa said that a co-star was “as Italian as the Olive Garden” in her cookbook Fabulicious!, then they argued about it on camera, a snake eating its tail. “I’m far too young to be your mother, but I’ll be your Italian best friend,” she promised in the introduction to Skinny Italian. “The fiery, kind of crazy one, who’s always good for a bottle of wine, a big dish of pasta, and a million laughs.”
In the books they’re at pains to stress the show isn’t fake. “You can try to present yourself as one thing,” Melissa Gorga wrote in her marriage guide. “But your true nature will eventually come out. That’s why the show films around the clock, to catch that telling moment when you let your guard down.” Tell-it-like-it-is fan favourite Caroline Manzo tactically acknowledged “I can sense when I’m being set up to help gets sparks fly.” But even if every scene has been staged, real happiness and sadness and discomfort intrudes upon the cast; marriages fail and babies are born and people die. They get arrested, file for bankruptcy, have their tummies tucked, and cry about their kids. How does a personality alter through this particular type of renown? How does the presence of cameras form the character of a child? If people are plied with alcohol and ordered by producers to talk out their differences, is the explosive fight that results fake? “It’s a mystery wrapped in a riddle, inside an enigma,” Joe Pesci said in JFK. “The fuckin’ shooters don’t even know!”
Polemics:
One of the most interesting RHONJ-related books was only previewed on the website All About the Tea.[4] Putting the REAL Back in Housewives (aka the Uncensored Cohen Diaries) by Jim Marchese promised to “present a behind the scenes look at the Housewives franchise, as it has never been told before. This story will be told through the eyes of it’s [sic] most notorious and brutal villain, as created by Bravo.”
The excerpts are a delineation of the mechanics of a group trip to Boca Raton, a holiday which culminated in Jim shouting, “No but I do think he fucked your mom!” at one of the housewives, thus “recklessly humiliating several generations of the Aprea and Napolitano lineage.” It was his big scene, the climax of the dramatic structure of Season 6. Jim said his answer when people ask him how he could have said such a terrible thing is always: “It was in the script.” He said the crew arrived a week before the cast members to set up. The producers stayed in a room full of monitors where they tracked lighting and sound, and the cast went into the kitchen to be directed. “If we missed a beat, if production wanted more drama, or a direction changed, we would be pulled into the kitchen.”
The plot of Season 1 was the discovery of a true crime book about Danielle Staub’s first husband, Cop Without a Badge: The Extraordinary Undercover Life of Kevin Maher (tagline: “What’s the difference between a cop and Kevin Maher? Kevin doesn’t have a badge. And he doesn’t play by the rules”). Maher revealed that he’d met Staub when she was out on bond for kidnapping and extortion. Her mug shot was printed in the photograph section. After the Cop Without a Badge episode aired, copies of the out-of-print book were selling for $200.00 on eBay. “People also tell me they’re on a waiting list at the Strand to get a copy,” the author Charles Kipps told the New York Post. “There’s nothing like television.”
The reissued editions of Cop Without a Badge tastefully refrained from mentioning the show at all, and Danielle Staub was as good as Kipps’ prediction that she’d make her own book deal. The Naked Truth was published before she left the show and fled the state with her daughters. Her eldest Christine Staub wrote an excoriating essay for Vice: “With each episode, the bullying and harassment grew worse. After another housewife said my sister and I appeared ‘dead in the eyes,’ strangers felt the need to repeat the line to us. When the show labeled my mother a criminal, people called us the children of a felon.” In 2016 her mother announced on Twitter that she was writing another memoir. “I’m breaking my silence. And writing my tell all including the Reality of #RHONJ the impact on mine and my family’s life’s [sic] @Andy @bravotv.”[5] A year later Danielle Staub was photographed doing yoga with Teresa Giudice, and she rejoined the show in Season 8, in the “friend-of” capacity for prodigal housewives.
Teresa:
Teresa Giudice is the only cast member to have appeared on every season, and she was the first New Jersey housewife in print. With six books, she is the Judith Krantz of the 23-city franchise. “The first thing people say to me when they find out I have four kids is that they could never tell from my body,” were the opening lines of Skinny Italian: Eat and Enjoy it Live La Bella Vita and Look Great, Too! Published in 2010, it landed on the New York Times Advice, How-to & Miscellaneous paperback bestsellers list. It’s a safe bet that Giudice – whose celebrity is predicated upon flipping a table (Season 1), metaphorically igniting a powder keg that initiated a brawl at her nephew’s christening (Season 3), and serving just under a year for fraud at Danbury, where she inherited Cameron Douglas’ prison sobriquet “Hollywood”, embraced yoga and co-authored two consecutive memoirs focusing on personal growth and resilience – is more recognizable globally than Mike Pence.
“I’m not a nutritionist or a food scientist or a fancy chef,” she wrote in the introduction to Skinny Italian, presaging by six years a British cabinet minister’s announcement that “people in this country have had enough of experts” in the lead-up to the Brexit vote. “I’m just like you: a regular girl with two eyes and a brain and enough common sense not to buy any of this crap.” Or, as Caroline Manzo put it in her own book, “Everybody shits on a bowl. Never allow yourself to be intimidated.”[6]
The Gorgas and the Giudice families have been forged and buffeted by the currents of history. Their patriarchs met in Paterson, New Jersey, paisanos from Sala Consilina, a town “right at the beginning of the boot in the southwest of Italy.” Franco was at the hospital when his friend Giacinto’s daughter Teresa was born. Giacinto walked Teresa down the aisle of the Cathedral Basilica of the Sacred Heart in Newark to marry Franco’s son Giuseppe – in America, he went by “Joe.” The newlyweds honeymooned in Hawaii. Teresa got a job as an assistant buyer at Macy’s and appeared as a “Shocked Stripper” in Donnie Brasco. Joe had a stucco business. They owned rental properties and flipped houses. Teresa was cast on the show in 2009. In her debut season she attempted to tip a table over Danielle Staub and paid a $120,000 bill in a furniture warehouse. “I hear the economy’s crashing,” she said, licking her thumb to count through a stack of bills. “So that’s why I pay cash.” The Giudices lived in an enormous chateau with their daughters, Gia, Gabriella, Milania, and their youngest Audriana, who was born on television and is the first “Audriana” a Google search engine suggests. “You see how perfect she was when she came out? The cameras came right back into the room as soon as she was born,” Teresa wrote in her Bravo blog.
The Giudice mansion has two Cinderella staircases, but the story of Teresa and Joe is the myth of Icarus and Daedalus for the reality-warping, fake news, post-truth age. They filed for bankruptcy protection at the end of the first season. Joe got a DUI and told Andy Cohen, “The times that I should have been charged, I wasn’t. The one time I really wasn’t drunk, I got charged.” Teresa promoted bestselling cookbooks. She came fifth on Donald Trump’s Celebrity Apprentice and launched lines of Skinny Italian pasta and Fabulicious gelato bars.
These are some of the other things that the Giudices did: used fake W-2s and tax returns to receive a construction loan. Hid assets and income from a bankruptcy trustee representing their debtors. Joe forged his business partner’s name on mortgage discharge papers. They were indicted on thirty-nine counts of federal bankruptcy fraud and conspiracy to commit wire and mail fraud. Watching them face the consequences was excruciating. “I’m not dying,” Joe said gruffly to his daughters, their foreheads creased with anguish. Teresa was sentenced to 15 months in prison, and Joe 41 months. She served her sentence first so Joe could stay with their children, her Q-Score maintained as a speakerphone voice on the Bravo special Teresa Checks In.
Turning the Tables: From Housewife to Inmate and Back Again is an observant and detailed report about what it’s like to serve nine months in a federal correctional institute. The products sold in the commissary, the Dickensian conditions, the guards “in charge of literally everything you do.” The agony of missing her kids and seeing their distress. A chapter is devoted to the complex hierarchies and unspoken rules of the television rooms, where five TVs were shared between 200 women. Internet access was severely restricted. Inmates could only send and receive emails, which meant that Danbury was one of the few spaces in American life not dominated by phones. It’s a self-referential experience to read a ghostwritten account of her attempts to watch Teresa Checks In at Danbury, transmitted via the first portable device to revolutionize the world.
Joe Giudice had arrived in America as a toddler and he’d never bothered to become naturalized. Legal permanent residents who commit crimes are subject to removal. US Immigration and Custom Enforcement took him into custody when he got out of prison. He spent six months in an ICE detention center in Pennsylvania, locked in a cell with eight people. “Being in there is like having your head in a panini press, okay?” he told Andy.
He appeared via satellite from Italy on The Real Housewives of New Jersey Special Event: Joe and Teresa Unlocked. The Giudices gave the scoop that they were separating to Us Weekly. Teresa took their daughters to Italy at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Today, Joe works in a fish factory in Sala Consilina, and he recently posted an old picture on Instagram. It was the 1980s. Teresa’s hair is feathered and enormous; Joe’s moustache is neatly groomed. They look like two babies. “Whatever happens in our future, remember we were friends to begin with,” he wrote. “We will always stay strong.” He concluded his posts with the hashtags “#family is everything #awakening #kids #future.”
Books written by celebrities have always been around – The Brooke Book from 1978 had an analysis of Brooke Shields’ handwriting and her personal horoscope – but books have never before been written by this particular type of celebrity. These texts and the accompanying photographs are a document of moneyed leisure in the most powerful country in human history, during an incomprehensibly profound cultural shift. A product of our age, these are the books of the women who live in phones, storming away and flipping tables on an infinite loop of GIFs. They are the stokers on the steamship of the attention economy, and we are the members of the court assembling in the bedchamber at Versailles to watch the king eating breakfast, the rhesus macaques in the study who traded hard-won rewards to look at photographs of higher status monkeys,[7] the bloodthirsty tricoteuse Madame Defarge. We are who we have always been.
[1] “I do love a little Real Housewives every now and again,” Michelle Obama, Live! With Kelly and Michael, October 19, 2012.
[2] “My parents installed a full kitchen in the basement, which is totally an Italian thing. They did that because they wanted to keep the kitchen upstairs spotless.” Teresa Giudice, Turning the Tables.
[3] The descriptions of the real housewives on their author blurbs (“outrageous,” “straight-talking,” “brutally honest breath of fresh air”) are startlingly similar to the fan descriptions of a certain very stable genius.
[4] All About the Tea is a font of information about housewife books, like this beauty from an “exclusive insider”: “Teresa’s big thing was buying her own books at cost, at local bookstores, (which count towards NYT List) then taking them to her events and selling them herself, at full-price. CASH ONLY of course – it’s really shady, and no legitimate author would ever do that.”
[5] “I have no NDA!!!” Staub continued on Instagram. “I owe BRAVO NOTHING… It’s a two way street.”
[6] Other chapter titles in Manzo’s Let Me Tell You Something: Life as a Real Housewife, Tough Love Mother and Street-Smart Businesswoman include: “For spoiled kids, my kids worked their asses off,” “I’d rather you said fuck than did heroin,” and “Don’t touch my face, but tuck my tummy away.”
[7] “Monkeys pay per view: adaptive valuation of social images by rhesus macaques,” Deaner RO, Khera AV, Plattt ML, Department of Neurobiology, Duke University Medical Center, 2005.
She swerves off the road, gunning the engine. Rear-view mirror a spray of pebbles and loose earth. Wheels spin and gears complain as she screeches up the hill towards the trees. She grinds to a halt, wrenches open the door open. It swings like a broken arm.
Steep slog upwards. From the road, the dividing line between forest and not-forest looked clear. Now she’s leaving one and entering the other, it’s far less obvious. She concentrates on walking: right foot lift and swing; heel down and push. Left foot lift and swing. Repeat. Repeat. There was a time she climbed hills without thinking.
Finally, she can’t see the way back. Around her ankles, saplings tug the hem of her skirt with small sharp fingers. Leaves rustle with a comforting shush. Her heartbeat slows. She will not remember the mess, the way some things can’t be repaired; the way promises and people can be broken so easily.
A river of fallen pine needles slides her forwards. She falls into step with the broken rhythm of dripping, a code tapped out by water. All she need do is follow its encouragement. The forest exhales, breath swaying the branches. A slow and gracious beckoning.
Who better to trust than trees, who watch us flare, gutter and wink out in the time it takes to grow a branch. She’s done with the effort of being human: its shrill insistence on superiority, the universe a toy created for amusement and exploitation. Holding out an arm, she waits.
From wrist to elbow, each faint hair pricks upright. Scent of warm resin. Skin crackles, stiffens into bark; fingers unfold twigs. Toes pierce the soil and dig into earth’s wet heart. Roots twine up her calves and hold her steady. Bruises unpeel, shed yellow leaves. Breath quits her lungs, the splinters of her heart unpluck and scatter. Hair swirls, feathering upwards as heat she no longer needs ripples from her flesh. The forest gathers her into its arms.
This is not diminishing. This is not surrender. It is a shift of perspective. Not one particle of her being has been lost, simply reconfigured. She is far from the body’s frantic complication of blood, bone, certainty; the imperative of belonging. There is a split in the sky, growing wider. She soars towards it, fluttering in the space between the trees.
I saw Anna. I wasn’t expecting much that night; I was travelling to my parents’, back along the main street, tired after working all evening. It’s a quiet bus; by the time it reaches my estate the bus driver and I are usually the only two left. But as we drove between the honeyed lights of the town, the bus stopped for a few moments. Being vacantly consumed by some article on my phone, I didn’t look up. It was only when I sensed the bus had stopped for longer than usual – long enough to be picking up another passenger – that I glanced up and saw her sit down. I saw the side of her face and the cloak of her hair, many-hued and damp from the rain. She sat at the front of the bus, her head leant against the window, a kaleidoscope of streetlights setting her hair ablaze.
In many ways, seeing her there felt like the most natural thing in the world, as if it were just one more step in the course of my life. It had been a few months since I’d seen her, a few months since our pre-season holiday to Cornwall. It occurred to me that this time about six months ago, I would have been on a bus in the opposite direction, on my way to her house. It’s what started our nocturnal relationship.
I worked evenings and didn’t need much sleep so Anna would wait up for me. Her bed was low and large, and we sank into it like two stones in water. The warmth of the laptop would press into my thighs, killing off my sperm hour by hour while we watched cartoons. Eventually, we’d have sex. It was nice sex, fantastic sex. The kind of sex you want to be having with your girlfriend – different every night, but still just the two of you. Always that familiar touch – that same warmth.
She’d turn to straddle me and I’d groan. It was the hyperactivity before the inevitable tiredness, the wrestling, pinching, laughing nakedness after half a bottle of wine. I fought with her and didn’t mind at all. She laughed at how easily I overpowered her, arched her back in protest and then beamed as I released my grip. Sometimes I found it surprising just how little effort it required to push her away, or halt her flailing arm as she tried to sink a playful punch to my chest. By no means was I a strong man, and by no means was she weak.
When she became tired it happened quickly, and rarely could she fight it. She’d always apologise as if it were a vice, eating away at our half-inched hours. I’d lie awake, my movements slow and controlled. If I moved too suddenly, my hip brushing against her shoulder, she’d murmur – her voice coming at me lightly, full of a tired drunkenness, mumbling words that made no sense. I’d lie awake, delivering quiet, articulate responses.
Her voice stuck, following me wherever I went. It would creep up on me in unusual places, like the gurgle of an open drain or the static screen of a television. Sometimes, her voice would float off the backs of strangers, as I stared into corners of rooms that weren’t hers. She’d offer disembodied words, always bearing the same gentleness and unformed irregularity that I remembered as the late-night soundtrack of our relationship.
So naturally, seeing her on the bus months after all of this was almost pleasantly normal. Or at the very least it felt more familiar than anything else in my life had recently. Even working the same job I’d had for months had changed, as if I was an android moving around a building that I wasn’t programmed to know. I’d pour pints and watch the beer run over my hands. During our busiest times I’d wander down to the cellar, without being able to recall what it was I needed. As I cut lemons in the early evening, I winced as the acid burned the lesions in my chewed fingers. Sleep offered little relief, as I began waking up in odd places after Anna left. It was as if even in my dream state, my body was dictated by this insatiable yearning for what was far away. Often, I’d find myself shivering on the pavement outside my parents’ house or wandering, rootless, down the stairway. These episodes would end with me stumbling, adrift, back to my cold bed.
The bus pulled up to a stop, the noise depleting like water down a drain. This time it was a familiar stop, being the unofficial timing point used by bus drivers if they were ahead of schedule. Despite a sign on the lamppost reading “DO NOT MAKE TIME HERE”, bus drivers seemed to favour the quietness of this out-of-town shelter for a fag break. Back in the early days of Anna, I used to wait with a quiet anxiety for the bus driver to return, keenly aware of the stop’s proximity to an ex’s house. It felt strange to be there with Anna, at this place which once made me writhe with anticipation. The ex was a nice girl, but the rap of my knuckle on her door felt chaotic, even then. I remember the rain splashing my trainers as I walked up the stone steps, the quietness of her home. Family portraits that loomed in the hall, watching us on our midnight rendezvous. My shaking hands and the flood of adrenalin that rattled me too much, driving me back down the concrete steps. After that time came Anna, and the rising bile in my throat was replaced with the smooth sinking of red wine, a medicine. The floods of anxiety evaporated. Then came a period of calmness, belonging.
I thought that maybe now, as the bus held us in the quietness of the night, I could say hello. Perhaps we would sit next to each other, have a chat. I could ask how she was getting on with her master’s. It was something I’d never experienced, going away to university. When we met, Anna was a year out of her degree. She’d adored it, she always said, feeling like she had finally met people she had something fundamental in common with. In our hometown, Anna said there wasn’t much room for growth. For pursuing your interests, and meeting people who shared them. I always thought of that time in her life with a brownish, speckled filter, or accompanied by some grave, ancient soundtrack. I’d met a few of her university friends – some wore braces and small, round spectacles. They all seemed very nice and very intelligent, but I got the impression that Anna had more feeling than the rest of them.
It also occurred to me that perhaps Anna didn’t want to speak to me. I wouldn’t have liked to speak to any other girl from my past, in almost any circumstance. And I remembered Anna’s face when we broke up. She looked at me in a way that made me feel like a sick child. But only a few months ago we’d swam in the shock of Cornish waters, felt the strong sun burn our faces. The salt had lodged in my skin, my pores, clung to the redness of my face. Sitting there on the bus, I scratched my arm, almost expecting salt-white flakes to shower to the floor.
It was my first holiday to Cornwall, but it was somewhere Anna had visited twice a year, growing up. On our first day, she lingered on the shore, the water cleaning her ankles. I stood with her briefly. The water lulled and glistened just as I thought it would. I couldn’t help but wade in. The sea pushed against my knees as I walked, and I felt the sand slipping from under the pressure of my feet. The water was so clear that I could see the grains rushing from under me. When it became deep enough, I dove under and began a slow, long breaststroke. It was only my second time swimming in the British sea, the first time having been as a child, on a school trip to the coast. The shore we visited then was murkier and I only remember paddling in the shallows. Here the sea was clear, the beach golden. Almost tropical.
After a while, I couldn’t hear any noise from the shore. Nobody was around me, all I could see was the expanse of blue and the light catching on its surface. I plunged down once more, my scalp weightless with cold. The salt burned my eyes and my mouth, and I knew then that this would be a place I would revisit often in the future. Out there in the ocean, everything became quiet and far away. I saw Anna, suspended in liquid crystal. I began to laugh, the freezing water compressing my lungs. I watched Anna as she continued to swim, like me, into the vast sea.
Later, we showered together in the Airbnb. I washed the salt from her body, slathered her hair in shampoo. We laughed together like we usually did, amusing ourselves with the lubrication of soap on our bodies. Later, I padded downstairs and found her curled on the sofa, reading her book. She was wearing a thick white dressing-gown that belonged to the host of the cottage. It was a beautiful, quaint property – full of a whitewashed, seaside charm. I perched on the end of the sofa and told her to budge up.
Anna put down the book and looked at me.
“This book,” she said. “It’s so good. But I don’t understand it. I’ll have to read an analysis of it when I finish.”
Anna often said she didn’t understand the books she read. She pored over them, getting through a novel a week. I think she’d started that one the day before, and was already a third of the way through. I didn’t read books, but I enjoyed hearing her talk about the stories. She spoke about them well.
“What’s it about?”
“As I said, I’m not one-hundred-percent sure yet, but it’s about a teenage girl and her mother, who has just died. But there’s a narrative about her mother being involved with spies – which is what confuses me. I’m not sure if it’s relevant or just a device to explore the character’s grief.”
Anna paused and looked at the front of the novel. On the cover was a vintage-looking photograph of two young women. Anna began to flick through the book.
“And there’s this one line I love. The mother is talking to the main character – when she was still alive, obviously – and she asks the daughter: ‘Which comes first? What we see or how we see it?’”
She looked at me from over her book and pressed her glasses to her nose. I tried to break down the question in my head.
“Well, to me it matters less than it makes sense.”
“I think it matters,” she said slowly. “If what we see comes first it means that there is some objective truth – like, ‘The sky is blue’ or ‘I am good’,” Anna said, placing spikey emphasis on the “is” and the “am”.
She continued, “If the essence of a subject can only be determined by who sees it, then anything could be true. At least that’s what I make of it.”
“I don’t know anything in the world,” I said. And it was true; most of the time I felt certain that nothing existed beyond the velvet sheet of the sky, that the universe offered nothing more than a backdrop to the futile practices on earth. Full of drama and intrigue, sometimes beautiful – but ultimately without substance.
“I don’t know what’s true or what’s false. But I know that I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Later that night, we pulled the duvet from the bedroom onto the sofa and watched a film. We drank red wine and for the first time, it was me who felt sleepy. I struggled to keep my eyes open and had to jolt myself awake a few times. Each time I awoke, my chest fluttered with contentment.
Towards the end of the film I looked over to Anna. She sat upright, staring intently at the television. All the lights in the room were off, so I remember the screen seemed painfully bright. I watched as an artist-type man walked through the streets, accompanied by a smaller man. Both were wrapped in thick scarves, braced against the snow. They were talking vehemently. I was still tired and slightly drunk, so I could barely make out what they were saying. But I watched as they walked, and then I turned to Anna, whose eyes still hadn’t moved. The camera panned up, and I squinted in the bright white of the cinematic sky. I looked at Anna once more, but she still stared, her eyes were wide and hopeful as the light from the film drenched her.
That short time in Cornwall felt like our own private paradise, something I hadn’t experienced before. Anna had opened the curtains to her world and we’d soaked together in the warmth of the sun. When we returned from the trip, I didn’t see Anna for a few days. It was odd, as usually she was very engaged with me, very thoughtful. Where I could be distant, she would seek closeness and understanding, always asking how I really felt about things, or what I really wanted to do that night (always the same, lie together in our warmth). After a few days, she told me she wanted to get her stuff together for a late master’s application, starting that coming September. She wanted to study art history, and who was I to question her, always having faith that whatever happened would somehow work itself out.
The bus driver returned from his cigarette and brought the engine back to life. I watched the back of Anna’s head as she stared out into the black nothing of the night. We carried on moving through the estates and I felt that familiar beat of anxiety rise up in my chest. The urgent desire to act, held back by the seatbelt of doubt.
The bus slowed as we moved through narrow bends and crowded housing, so I stood up. I slipped out of my seat and felt my heart ignite. I didn’t want to frighten her, so I decided to simply say her name and then wait for her to turn. I moved forwards, gripping the handlebars attached to the seats, staggering stupidly with the bus’s movement. She still stared out the window. Her name left my mouth and it felt like it did all those months ago, as if I was just asking her if she wanted tea, or if she could switch the lamp off. Anna turned and I realised with swift mortification that it wasn’t her at all. She was similar in age, in complexion, in the lines and rhythms of her face, but the eyes that stared at me were laced with a kindly confusion, for the simple reason that she didn’t know me at all. I apologised, said I thought she was someone else, and sat down on a seat a little away from her. When the bus reached my estate, I pressed the bell and got off. Anna-not-Anna still sat there, and as I walked past the window of the bus, she smiled at me.
When I got home, I opened my window and lay on my bed, a night-time routine. Instead of Anna, I heard the voices of various actors on television from neighbouring windows, coming loud and profound down the quiet street. It felt peaceful now, quiet. They seemed to me a benediction, uttered for myself and others who were not only awake but listening – and perhaps alone, too, late into the night. Eventually I slept and awoke the next morning to find the light breaking through the thin fabric of my curtains. If nothing else, I remember observing it; the green, puerile colour that had become butter yellow in the morning sun. It looked familiar and it looked comforting. Soft, and comforting.
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On the evening of the 29th of November, I am on the train home from London when Ben abruptly adds me to a WhatsApp group titled “News”. Ben types for a long time and I am considering asking if this is his way of announcing that his partner is pregnant when the message comes through. Ben tells us not to worry. He says that the knife attack on London Bridge on the news actually began earlier, at a nearby event that he was attending at Fishmongers’ Hall. He is safe but some of his friends are hurt. He says he does not want to talk but asks that we hold him in our thoughts and prayers. This is exactly the sort of request Ben would make.
It is the first I’ve heard anything about a knife attack. I have not read the news because I have been teaching all day. I cannot fathom what sort of event Ben would have been attending at Fishmongers’ Hall on a Friday afternoon during term time. The word terrorist gets used immediately in the coverage and my heart sinks. Terrorism had been recurring theme of that year, and each time I had found myself hoping that it would not turn out to be a brown Muslim man.
It is only when I get home that the news starts saying the attack began at a University of Cambridge conference celebrating the five-year anniversary of the Learning Together program.
On one of our early trips to prison, Ben tells us that the flat monotony of the landscape that we are driving through resulted from the draining of the Fens, an area of marshland in Cambridgeshire that was once underwater. What we are looking at is essentially sea floor. Ben is the sort of person who speaks in fully formed paragraphs, his speech dotted with oddly specific historical anecdotes. He mentions that one of the early investors in the drainage project was a “Potato Baron” interested in new farming land for his vast potato empire. We spend the rest of the trip laughing about carrot barons and soybean barons.
HMP Whitemoor, a category-A men’s prison, is located in the Fenlands, near the town of March. I made this journey every week for several months, as a group facilitator for the Learning Together program. Learning Together brings undergraduates into prisons to learn alongside prison students. There are a number of educational activities that fall under the umbrella of Learning Together, from reading groups to courses on everything from Law to French Literature. I was part of a course called “Good Life and Good Society”. Each session began with a lecture by a professor at the university followed by discussions in small groups, one of which I facilitated.
*
I am terrified that the attacker might be someone I know. Realistically this can’t be right, because I saw everyone in Whitemoor mere months ago and they could not have been released in the meantime. But I scour the news looking for a picture. When I finally find one, I try to imagine it in various permutations: without the beard, thinner, fatter, smiling. Finally I relax, reassured that I have never met this particular brown Muslim man.
Facilitating a group discussion in prison is no different from teaching in general. I worry about the same things, obsessively. I worry about how to get certain students to talk more and others to talk less. I try desperately to stop John from telling meandering stories about his nights out in Glasgow, which leave us laughing but completely off track. I attempt to lure Ahmed into speaking. He only opens up, truly, when he is talking about his son. I worry, in turn, that the material is too difficult or not stimulating enough. I suspect that Gary would have enjoyed university – I am proved right when I read his essay at the end of the course and find myself thinking that of my students, he is the best suited for philosophy. He is the only one who openly challenges the material. This is the wild egalitarianism of philosophy that I love. You can never be too famous, too clever or too well-established to be wrong; even a prisoner may disagree with Aristotle.
I worry about the same things, but with added salt. I worry about what it means when it is the Whitemoor students that are not speaking. Their silence embodies a complex shyness to do with lost educational opportunities and shame. I worry when the Cambridge students listen, riveted, when the topic turns to prison. It is voyeuristic but it seems monstrous to interrupt and redirect to the readings; I cannot pretend that I am not also fascinated.
The sessions are hit and miss – Aristotle early on is popular; the one on the methodology of anthropology, disastrous. Something shifts when we have the session on Criminology. Alison Liebling lectures on trust in prisons. She has worked in Whitemoor before and seems to know most of the people in the room. Suddenly, the Whitemoor students are voluble with stories of complicated interactions with prison guards and loved ones. Someone asks how trust is possible when, by the time they get to prison, they have watched their friends and family testify against them in court. Gary tells us of the time he spent in isolation, how there were years when he did not get to see the sky. I do not know what to say. I relinquish control over the discussion. This time, the Whitemoor students have no trouble speaking and those of us from Cambridge listen silently, the reading forgotten.
That night, after the session on trust, I went to the pub. I do not normally drink alone. I am angry, I feel cheated by my profession. Nothing I have ever read or learned in my many years of studying philosophy gives me comfort, or even comprehension in this moment. I began the course wondering idly about moral terms, how I was to reconcile the badness of the act, murder, terrorism, what have you, with the person who had committed it. A person who I could find funny, or hospitable, or interested in the same obscure Dracula remakes. The criminologists and the ordinands that populate the course seem far better equipped to navigate this distinction, largely because they do not seem to make it in the first place. It occurs to me that when I have needed solace in the past, I have read Ecclesiastes, not moral philosophy, and certainly not moral philosophy in the analytic tradition, of which I am a part. Moral philosophers seem to be children quibbling over the most useless of words – “permissible”, “blameworthy”, “superorgarative” – determined to stick the peeling labels of obscure moral terms on to phenomena that barely resemble the agony of lived experience.
I drank, watched the moon over the river, and wondered if the cost of taking a life was commensurable with being deprived a view of the sky.
*
Once it becomes clear that I do not know the attacker, I panic about who was hurt. I start checking the social media of people who were likely to be present. Ruth Armstrong and Amy Ludlow, the founders of Learning Together, had to be there. Their Twitter accounts have been locked down, which I find promising – someone had to change the account settings, so they are likely to be unharmed. I think of Alice next, Alice who was one of the coordinators for my course. She has not posted on Twitter since yesterday. I am about to message her when I realise her number has been somehow replaced with a different Alice’s since the course ended. I send an email and a flurry of messages to other Learning Together friends, asking for her number.
Shortly after Alice replies, the papers start saying that Jack is dead.
I am in Alice’s office, telling her the worst thing I have ever done. It is the sort of thing you inevitably end up doing, when you are the sort of person who reaches too readily for anger. When you reach for anger first. After I finish, I ask jokingly whether she is going to run away. Alice is not so stupid as to think this is actually a joke. She conducts interviews for a living. Her research is on men convicted of sex offences, a crime that carries with it a great deal of stigma, even for the prison system. She is an expert on getting the reluctant to talk. She would normally pause here. Alice’s speech is punctuated with pauses, sometimes in the middle of sentences. But today she responds, unhesitatingly with the same calculated flippancy, “Well, I am still here aren’t I?”
I am not entirely sure how we ended up at my confession. I had asked to meet with her to talk about some strange dynamics between my Whitemoor students that I wasn’t sure how to manage. The conversation was typical of those that happen within Learning Together, meandering between various topics and our own lives. We had somehow talked about everything from philosophical pedagogy, power in prisons, to moral language and culpability. Alice tells me that the people who are involved in Learning Together fall roughly into two camps on the question of culpability. People who believe that once an offence has been committed and the punishment doled out, there was nothing more to be thought about it, morally speaking. Then there were those who looked at those convicted of crimes and thought, “There but for the grace of God”.
When Alice interviews me after the course is over, I will insist she turn the recorder back on so I can tell her that Learning Together gave me something that no amount of therapy, reflection, so-called self-acceptance and time could. I had learnt to make peace with the things I had done, by quietly taking my place amongst other people.
We fell out towards the end of the course. I had sent my apologies for the end-of-course celebration, a graduation of sorts, held at the end of April 2019. Alice responded by urging me to reconsider and I replied furiously to her email, baffled that anyone could think it was appropriate to attend a celebration when both the countries that I called “mine” had just been hit by the biggest terrorist attacks in their history.
*
The vigil marking Jack’s death is held at the Cambridge Guildhall on the Monday morning, following his death. What most of us will remember from that day were the sounds of agony his girlfriend would make periodically, her grief hitting her in waves.
Beth, the other coordinator for the course, will later refer to this as the wail of grief, instantly identifiable to anyone who has encountered loss. For me, this is the wail of suicide bombing. When I was a teenager, my parents did something very peculiar for immigrants – they went back. They abandoned New Zealand, their adopted country and returned to Sri Lanka. I have heard that particular cry multiple times. It is the noise that mothers make, falling to their knees, when their children have died in a bus bomb.
In the face of such very private, personal grief, I feel out of place. I barely knew Jack. I had spoken to him briefly, but for the most part, he was a person who sent me administrative emails and hovered at the edges of our sessions in Whitemoor. Everything I know of Saskia, whose vigil is happening on the other side of the city centre, I learnt from the news alongside the news of her death. I attended Jack’s vigil, numbly because I do not know what else to do. Even worse, I am here because I want to confirm with my own eyes that my friends are not hurt. The names of the injured have been suppressed, so I am reduced to crossing people’s names off in my head when I see them in the crowd. My eyes meet those of one of the Criminology receptionists, and she nods slightly. I realise I am not the only one silently crossing off names.
Ruth and Amy are dressed inappropriately for such a sombre occasion, which I find comforting. Amy is wearing a bright red coat and Ruth, in a textured hoodie and jeans, looks, as always, impossibly fashionable. As I hug them, they whisper “sorry” in a way that makes me think they are apologising, instead of comforting me for my loss. If Jack’s death has the sharp rebuke of a Greek tragedy, a reminder that you can never be too young or clever or beautiful to die, Ruth and Amy’s story seems no less tragic. A warning about the fragility of things, that even the most tenderly built life’s work can one day sit in pieces around your feet.
I clutch Ben’s coat during the moment of silence, as I clutch Alice when I finally find her in the crowd. I am convinced that they cannot die if I have them in my grip.
The mosque shootings in Christchurch followed by the Easter bombings in Sri Lanka were a one-two punch. They were similar, two sides of the same coin. Both targeted religious institutions and involved extremism; extremism of different stripes, but extremism nonetheless. One was said to be a response to the other; I am still not sure what to make of that. New Zealand, a country where nothing much ever happens, let alone anything bad, seemed to lose its innocence overnight. It became like anywhere else, a place that could harbour hatred. In Sri Lanka, which did not have much innocence to begin with, the attack harkened back to the civil war, though the country had not seen anything of this nature. Whilst the first destroyed me, the second struck me as the cruellest – to opportunistically take from those who had so little, not even innocence, to begin with. I felt as if someone had wrenched my childhood from my chest and viciously stomped on it. Ecclesiates no longer braced me and I turned to Job instead. I took a great number of sad baths over many months. I did not know how to reconcile myself to a world where people were killed as they prayed.
When we returned to prison for one last visit, having apologised for missing the end of term celebration, I find myself telling Gary about the Easter bombings. He describes them as “evil”, which shocks me. I cannot recall ever encountering this word in conversation, as an adjective available to anyone. Even now, this is a word whose contours I explore with my fingertips. By now, I have learnt that it matters who holds a position, who uses a word. In philosophy we pretend, on pain of fallacy, that this is not so. We act as if it is the argument that matters, not the one who espouses it. I have learnt otherwise from John, who I used to harangue every week. No matter what the topic was, John would refuse to hold any definite view on it, cheerfully exclaiming, “Ah well, live and let live, I say”. During a session on anger and justice, he tells us how angry he is at himself, for what he has done and the pain he has caused. It proved impossible to bring him back to the reading on moral emotions. Privately, he tells me that this is why he has no thoughts on any of these topics that I keep trying to bait him with. “Who am I to say how someone else should live?” he asks, and I am ashamed for believing his moral relativism to be glib, rather than hard won. And so when Gary uses the word “evil”, it means something to me. It means something to hear it spoken out loud, in this place, by a Muslim. By someone who knows something about the outer edges of human experience.
*
In the weeks following everything, I became obsessed with learning German vocabulary, something I was far too lazy to do when I was actively taking German classes. I start going to Quaker meetings. Ben is a Quaker, and I diligently try to honour his request by trying to hold him in my thoughts during the silent worship every Sunday. I sneak out immediately after, I cannot bear to talk to anyone over tea and cake. It is as if I do not know how to paste familiar words onto the world. I do not know how to respond with anything other than silence.
An old friend gets back in touch and after listening to the whole tale says casually, “And I suppose, you are angry about it all”. I realise to my surprise that I hold no anger towards Usman and never have. The question reminds me of something Alice tells me, when we meet again a few days after Jack’s memorial. When she was being barraged with questions about what happened, but unable to answer them as it was an ongoing investigation, she had been advised by Ruth and Amy to say only that three people had been killed. It takes me a moment to understand the significance of what she has said. For Ruth and Amy, all the tragedy of the situation was condensed into the fact that three young people lost their lives.
I am a person who obsesses over words. I do not know if it is a professional hazard, or the reason I ended up with this profession in the first place. In either case, I will wonder about the differences, if there are any, between these sentences, for some time:
A terrorist killed two people.
One person, who most likely, would have once shared tea and cake with the others, killed them.
One person killed two others.
Three people were killed.
Three people lost their lives.
I fear I will childishly keep trying to paste labels onto things. But if evil is an unfamiliar word, goodness, thankfully is not. And what else is this, the capacity to say “us” in the face of such tragedy, but human goodness? And what else is there to do in light of human goodness, except to lay your forehead on the floor, and weep?
This week on Litro Lab, Reagan Razon talks to us about how something as personal as hair can be used to police and oppress Blackness, controlling how people are treated in public spaces including work and school.
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Today we introduce the first prize winner in our Flash Fiction Isolation series. We received a range of entries exploring our Covid-19-constricted environment – many with the expected observations, but our favourites harnessed vivid aspects of this eerie time. Over the next eight weeks we will present our shortlist and winner, and two Highly Commended entries, all supple and insightful workings of the theme. Congratulations to Marwa Belghazi, author of ‘Mimicha’, our first Highly Commended flash fiction.
Mimicha is the term of endearment I use to call my mother. It is the word I look for on my contact list everyday since this stay-at-home state of affairs. After speaking to the walls, after fighting the local cat, and watching a pigeon take his last breaths under the beak attacks of a magpie, I put the phone on speaker and wait for her to reply. No luck tonight, but had she picked up, I would have said…
Mimicha, when things are better, mama, when the lockdown is over, I promise to get on the first flight to see you. Morocco’s citizens are banned from their land and await the signal to let them back in. Every day, I wear my jabador while working from home and drown my hair in argan oil. Yet, here I am: a headless chicken with nowhere to call home.
You send me funny memes and I send you food recipes. I call you every day, you miss my calls and make me wait. Remind me again, who has given birth to the other? On Whatsapp, I read to you from a novel in Arabic and you listen with a smile while sipping your morning coffee. Thank god for our virtual and patient host. I still remember a time when every transatlantic minute of conversation left my scanty account empty and our souls still thirsty.
Tonight, suhoor time, I watched the moon and imagined you looking at it from the other side. I searched for your features in the craters of the satellite, like when they saw King Mohamed V’s face when he was in exile. Netflix, Amazon, Apple TV, I have done it all, and when the blood moon is out, it makes me feel so small.
Mama, please wait for me so, together, we can go to the sea. No more battery, what was the last thing you said to me? Charging my phone every morning, plugging it again in the evening, how much power does one need to fill this loneliness with meaning?
As the days merge into each other, and the wardrobe thins into a single uniform, what else is there to do but to wait for the time of our reunion? What else is there to think about but our resilience? We have been through worse. You, I, We will survive this.
Repeat after me, we will survive this.
The school’s large group lecture room looked anything but normal, as an oversized desk and armchair replaced its usual podium. Behind the desk, a large projection screen provided a simulated backdrop of a criminal court chamber. Even the room’s typical occupants seemed out of place with their surroundings. Instead of spreading themselves out among the many-tiered rows, high-school students, now posing as famous literary and historic figures, sat clustered behind their respective legal teams, waiting to take the stand for either the prosecution or the defense. Further back, among the upper tiers, another set of students assembled as jurists in one of the most significant trials they might ever be asked to weigh in on. For the next few days, they would be observing competing witnesses such as philosophers Hobbes, Locke and Rousseau, political leaders, Machiavelli, Churchill and Hitler, and famed authors Aldous Huxley and William Golding debate human nature’s essence, in response to the latter’s indictment of humanity’s selfish, brutal nature, as portrayed in his novel, Lord of the Flies.
Life on Golding’s island, too, was anything but normal, as a group of British choirboys had been shot down from the sky and stranded there during a failed air attempt to rescue them from war-torn England during World War II. Left to fend for themselves, the prepubescent boys soon began establishing their own government and rules. It wasn’t long, however, before tribal behaviors overtook group governance and savagery overtook rationality. Golding’s own experiences teaching at an all-boy’s school, then serving as a paramedic during World War II, had contributed to the disdain for humanity evidenced among the fictional survivors. The novel so disturbed early readers that Golding felt compelled to explain his rationale for writing it. In Notes on Lord of the Flies, he justifies the novel’s dark portrayal of innocent schoolboys, the catastrophic consequences of their behaviors, and the ironic hypocrisy of their military rescue:
“The theme [he writes] is an attempt to trace the defects of society back to the defects of human nature. The moral is that the shape of a society must depend on the ethical nature of the individual and not on any political system, however apparently logical or respectable. The whole book is symbolic in nature except the rescue in the end where adult life appears, dignified and capable, but in reality, enmeshed in the same evil as the symbolic life of the children on the island. The officer, having interrupted a manhunt, prepares to take the children off the island in a cruiser which will presently be hunting its enemy in the same implacable way. And who will rescue the adult and his cruiser?”
Who, indeed? Who would choose to imagine a world where civilized behavior is simply a veneer that protects the human eye from seeing what really lurks within the psyche? Most, like myself, would much prefer to believe in the human capacity for kindness and generosity, even when it’s less evident. In the year 2020, though, as humans confront an unknown, insidious threat to our existence unparalleled in modern times, we may have inadvertently stumbled upon the ideal opportunity to seriously consider, once again, what lies within our hearts.
“We did everything adults would do. What went wrong?”
(Lord of the Flies 559)
It’s been nearly seventy years since Golding so strikingly maligned human nature while responding to a publicity questionnaire from the novel’s American publishers, concurrent with the book’s distribution in 1954. Though in many ways we live in more progressive times, when we take into account the world’s persistent strife and pervasive inequality, it’s clear that we haven’t done enough to nullify Golding’s insistence that without governing rules, humans would be reduced to selfish, primitive behavior comparable to what he portrays on the island, where hoarding of resources is more important than preserving the environment that provides them; and where eventually, young boys hunt each other down with no remorse and kill their prey for the sheer sport of it. And as is the case whenever humans resort to primal instincts, at the root of it all is fear displaced as hatred – fear that we won’t have enough and fear that we are not enough.
“I’m scared of him,” said Piggy, “and that’s why I know him. If you’re scared of someone you hate him but you can’t stop thinking about him…” (94)
Granted, the quality of life today is more comfortable for many and our primitive drives manifest themselves more subtly. While it’s true that young children rarely play “Cowboys and Indians” anymore, they still find pleasure in war games by engaging more remotely and insidiously, as detached tacticians plotting on their computer screens, rather than ruthless savages firing rifles or flinging flaming arrows at human prey. And in a time where drones and artificial intelligence devices soon may take the place of fighter pilots and infantry, it’s easy to imagine that global warfare will become more detached and distanced, as well; tempting, then, to view Golding’s dystopian portrayal as an unrealistic extreme. Still, there’s that damn officer who rescues the boys at the novel’s conclusion! His presence defies such reasoning, despite his regalia, as he happens upon the survivors while en route to an air battle. And that’s precisely Golding’s point, I imagine.
“Which is better – to be a pack of painted Indians like you are, or to be sensible like Ralph is?”
A great clamor rose among the savages… (202–3)
As the globe turns its attention to the year 2020, we would like to think of ourselves as both rational and civilized, but we’ve yet to put this theory to the ultimate test. Now, just three months into the new decade, we find ourselves in the midst of an invisible enemy that is ruthlessly annihilating over two million people across the globe. It eviscerates global economies. It jeopardizes our citizens, from our most vulnerable to our most valiant. It wreaks havoc on households, as basic resources, from bathroom tissue to bread, become scarce, even inaccessible. It encourages hoarding among those who are able and inflicts desperation among those who are not. As we confront the greatest challenge of our progressive times, a global pandemic fueled by inequality, festered in intolerance, and flourishing despite compassionate acts of courage, we would be wise to consider what we want our future on this planet to look like, lest we become desperate and fearful enough to contribute to the annihilation of many for the benefit of a few.
“Maybe,” he said hesitantly, “maybe there is a beast.”
“What I mean is… maybe it’s only us” (89)
And if we do carefully examine our motivations during this critical period of human development, what will we discover? We need turn on the news, where wartime rationales and accompanying metaphors abound, even as nature, an insidious and pervasive enemy, relentlessly stalks us with stealth epidemiological tactics that we’ve yet to fathom, much less overcome. How fitting that the name of the virus that is destroying life as we know it; that has caused mandated isolation in some locations and “stay at home” advisories in others; that has wiped out over two million of our global brothers and sisters and relentlessly continues to do so; that has pitted scientists against politicians when vying for pragmatic solutions, and most significantly, that has totally abolished our preconceived notions of “normal,” is named corona.
Astronomers define the word as the gaseous envelope of the sun and stars that is usually hidden by the bright light of the sun’s surface, so much so that it takes a total solar eclipse to reveal the pearly glow surrounding the darkened disk of the moon. As for the virus, it has darkened our physical worlds because of its exclusionary impact and dimmed our hopes by illuminating our human frailties, most especially, our limited capacities to embrace one another, despite them.
“They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate” (55)
The sun and the moon. Hobbes and Rousseau. Churchill and Hitler. Love and Hate. Just as volatility invisible to the human eye envelopes the sun, so too does what we consider “normal” human behavior mask more overtly primal human volatility. In both cases, whether we observe or acknowledge their existence, unpredictable agents lie hidden beyond the surface. In the case of human nature, though obscured by the blinding light of productivity, sociability and civility, our more erratic, explosive natures are not atypical or abnormal at all; they are merely ritualized by cultural conditioning, and therefore, normalized. Why then, do so many of us wait with anxious anticipation for a return to these previous conditions, even as we pause to contemplate the current state of our collective wellbeing? Perhaps, instead of rushing to resume our “normal” activities, we’d be better served to carefully examine both the benefits and the costs that accompany this current, horrific, unmasking of what we naïvely refer to as civilized behavior.
“Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man’s heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy” (202)
Eclipsed: The poignant truth that at this stage of our global evolution, humans, at their core, are neither innocent nor wise, though we have the capacity to be both. Consider what the pandemic reveals regarding whom we most value in our culture – the wealthy, the privileged, the powerful. Consider, too, the sad reality that up until this critical juncture, we’ve least appreciated those among us whom we’ve most needed. Today, we regularly meet on balconies and at windows to cheer the health care workers, first responders and public servants who risk their lives so that those afflicted with the virus have a chance to survive, or those who need vital protection or transportation can avail themselves of it. Prior to this point, though, we’ve been patronizing, oblivious, and at times, disdainful of the services these same workers provide.
And our educators? We’ve maligned them in recent years for supposedly underperforming when preparing our children to achieve on standardized tests. Too often, though, we’ve held little regard for the many variables beyond their control that prevent them from doing so, the most challenging being racial bias and economic disparity. During this current crisis, the same economic disparity accounts for inconsistencies in access to educational programming, food supplies and treatment and testing. Hopefully, the present pause will lay bare these challenges and will encourage generosity and gratitude, instead of judgment.
And what of our most vulnerable? Even now, some in power consider it to be a viable solution to risk the safety and health of our most defenseless – our elderly, infirmed and poor, so that more privileged lives can return to “normal.” What is this normalcy they are referring to? The accessibility to fine dining, sporting events, entertainment venues and sunny seaside resorts? At what cost? The cost of human lives deemed less critical, less valuable, less useful, in terms of economic currency, than their own? Who has access to the antibody tests? To medical care, should they develop complications from the virus? Who will feed our hungry children if a household’s sole provider becomes ill and is unable to work, but has no health insurance or viable income source beyond a now defunct paycheck? Perhaps it takes perilous times such as these to compel us to realize that the world is, indeed, interconnected and that our continued evolution entails that we expand our notions of “home” to include those most in jeopardy, even while protecting ourselves from further harm?
“There ought to be some mode of life where all love is good, where one love can’t compete with another but adds to it” (The Spire 18)
Why not trust that love has the capacity to be exponential? And why not embrace the many unanticipated gifts that Corona offers, most especially, the possibility that what makes us human is neither our savagery nor our civility, but rather, our capacity to understand that we’ve confused one for the other, when they are really one and the same? How do we come to terms with this unsettling truth? Perhaps we begin with the simplest of actions, retreat. Ironically, as a verb, to retreat means “to recoil,” but as a noun, it means “a haven.” And now? We’re experiencing the pain and pleasure of recoiling from this deadly disease by retreating to whatever havens we call “home,” even while these very homes isolate us from the greater community. The exponential gift in this isolation is that many of us are spending more time with our children and loved ones, confined to limited spaces and reliant on one another for comfort and security, and by doing so, we’re also providing our natural environment a gracious pause, one in which it has been able to refresh itself, uninterrupted by human disregard.
And though most of us don’t reside on a tropical island, replete with wild boars and edible plants, many have been able to sustain an uninterrupted food supply, while actually thinking more carefully about what we need, as opposed to what we desire. Doing so entails careful reflection and honest self-assessment, which in turn, cultivates our capacity to understand the inner workings of our hearts and souls. Corona has enabled us to do so by affording us the most essential gift of all: time.
“He found himself understanding the wearisomeness of this life, where every path was an improvisation and a considerable part of one’s waking life was spent watching one’s feet” (Lord of the Flies 101)
The human inclination toward improvising, then ritualizing, has brought us to this point, but it doesn’t have to leave us here. Too many of us, prior to the pandemic, found comfort in routines that became our way of coping with the frenetic pace that consumed our lives. Without them, we’ve awakened to an all-consuming exhaustion as we desperately attempt to re-establish long-held norms and it’s tempting to recoil in fear of the unpredictable unknown that lies ahead. What if, instead, we allow ourselves to embrace ambiguity, rather than certitude, especially since the certitude we’ve relied on is merely a chimera, a feeble attempt to establish human viability in a material world? We can begin this process by relinquishing the outer trappings that have become less important, the latest cars, smart phones, video games and fashion trends. Once we’re able to see past these, our interior landscapes might garner much needed personal attention as we weed out tired mechanisms for coping with modern life and reassess what matters most when all else is eclipsed. What we may discover is that, at our core, each of us has the capacity to erupt with indignation, regardless of whether we have just cause to do so, but we also have the capacity to harness this same energy toward shining the light of dignity for all.
“There aren’t any grownups. We shall have to look after ourselves” (33)
Perhaps we’re not so lost, after all. Perhaps all that has been missing up until this point, are the tools with which to measure our maturity as a species. As is the case with the young boys stranded on their island, perhaps, we too, are on the cusp of adolescence, often unable to manage our impulsivity and self-absorption. What is adolescence, after all, but a period of both volatility and rationality during which we have the opportunity to cultivate discernment, wisdom and empathy? Though many of us already claim ownership of these characteristics, we now face the ultimate test, the total eclipse of the surface behaviors we refer to as “normality.” Perhaps it is in darkness that we will be able to shed light not only on who we are, but on who we are capable of becoming.
“There have been so many interpretations of the story that I’m not going to choose between them. Make your own choice. They contradict each other, the various choices. The only choice that really matters, the only interpretation of the story, if you want one, is your own…” (Lord of the Flies, Afterword).
*
Works Cited:
Golding, William. Lord of the Flies. Faber and Faber, 1954.
—. Notes on Lord of the Flies, 1954.
—. The Spire. Harcourt, Brace and World, 1964.
On a Sunday, I sent an 800-word excerpt to my virtual writing group. The piece was about my partner, Erica – a love letter to her, really, about the ways in which she helps me inhabit myself more fully, with more truth. The members of the group, who are firstly my dear friends, talked about the work and then they talked about Erica, whom they all know and adore.
On a Monday, one day after rejoicing with my writing group about how lucky I was to have met Erica, how profoundly grateful I was to have found the love of my life, I was driving her to an urgent-care clinic. She was curled over herself in the passenger seat, her body loose and lethargic, while I spoke prayers into the ether. By then she’d been sick for ten full days, which is a long time to be sick, even when there’s not a pandemic covering the globe like floodwater.
On Sunday, we were still able to think thank god it’s only the flu. But even despite that, the severity and unexpected longevity of her illness was beginning to wear on both of us. Sunday morning I’d lain on the rug in our living room and sobbed. At first I cried because I was so frustrated by how she handled being ill – her refusal to communicate honestly with me, her endless attempts to diminish how badly she was feeling, the way she’d say “I’m fine” then collapse on the couch in bone-deep exhaustion minutes later. It’s a goddamn global pandemic, I said, can’t you understand how afraid I feel? But she continued to insist on working full eight-hour days, even though she could hardly keep her head up. She drank Alka Seltzer then Theraflu and white-knuckled her way through the day. After work hours, or during, she’d answer phone calls from her mom, who owns a nail salon and doesn’t speak English and had no money because of required business closures and couldn’t pay her rent. Friday morning, Erica hung up the phone with her mom and immediately collapsed into tears, sick and tired and stressed beyond her capacity.
I begged Erica to rest. I begged her to think of what this might be like as a person who loved her, as a person who loved her and watched her stagger around sick in the middle of a global pandemic, as a person who loved her and saw news stories every day about the overcrowded hospitals, dwindling or already-exhausted resources, the rising death toll, the rising death toll among young people and people of color and people without preexisting conditions.
When I’d cried long enough to dry out my frustration, a deeper well emerged. My memory-body opened. From a coil in my stomach, images rose and made themselves vivid. Projected across my insides, clear as a drive-in movie: my mom, sick. My mom, stage-4 cancer. Me, caretaker. Me, beside her. The bed where she spent all her time. The treatment center. The second treatment center. The mountains. The light. The pine trees. The stellar jays. Her cough. The feeling in my nervous system every time she coughed. Bed. Bed bed bed bed. Netflix, when Netflix still meant DVDs in the mail. Sudoku. Sleep. Books. Fear. Fear fear fear. Death’s slow creep. The mind’s denial of death. The body’s understanding of death. My dad’s face. His exhaustion. His horror. My mother, still alive. My mother, dying. My mother, the last time I ever saw her.
Caretaking then and caretaking now. My sinew couldn’t distinguish between the two.
On the floor, Erica hugged me. I hugged her. We rocked back and forth. We let long cables of snot fall from our noses to the knees of our pants. I said I was sorry, and I was. I was sorry that I’d been so upset with her, sorry that my fear made me hard. I wanted to take care of her. I wanted her to let me.
I asked if she would call the doctor. She said she didn’t need to, that she would call if she really wasn’t okay. She said I needed to trust her. I relented – neither of us believed a telehealth consultation would do anything anyway. The doctors would never tell her to come in. They were too overwhelmed with more important things, like COVID-19.
But that was Sunday. This was Monday. Monday she stumbled out of the shower and told me she needed to call the doctor and my heart choked me when she said it. But yesterday! Yesterday she said she’d only call if she knew she really needed help, said she wasn’t sick enough to need it! My brain was like a helicopter, hovering over the helipad, threatening to take off without me on board. I asked why, what happened, what changed. I could feel my eyes wide and wild, even though I tried to keep it together for her.
She couldn’t stand up in the shower. She was too weak. She couldn’t breathe. The steam, maybe? But it wasn’t the steam, we both knew, because her breathing had been impeded since Friday evening. I’d asked her every question I could think of late Friday night, trying to get a picture of how she felt, trying to rule out shortness of breath and maintain our hold on the belief that it was just a common flu. She kept taking sharp inhales, running her fist down her sternum like she was trying to clear something away. She’d said she didn’t know how to explain it in English. I’d said, what is it in Korean then, and she said dapdaphae. She didn’t know the English word for it, so she put it in Google Translate: stuffy. Stuffy. An unwelcome word, because it could mean anything. Later, I looked up the word myself, and saw what she’d left out. Another word for dapdaphae is suffocating.
So she was in the shower and she was suffocating. I started to cry, I couldn’t help it, but I had to move from behind those tears. We got her in line for a call with a telehealth doctor. While she waited her turn, I pulled out my phone, frantically searching phrases like “symptoms of covid19” on Google. The last time I looked this up, the symptoms list was meager: dry cough, fever, shortness of breath. But this time, both her symptoms and the online lists had changed. Now, the two were almost identical. Pounding headache. Deep fatigue. Loss of taste and smell. Body aches. Wet or dry cough. Chest tightness. Difficulty breathing.
The doctor got on the line and Erica told him her symptoms. He listened to her, then he did what we never expected him to do: he told her to go to the clinic. So we went to the clinic, which required that Erica complete all paperwork and a pre-screen phone call from our car before entering the building. Erica spoke with the clinic doctor for twenty minutes, who did something else we didn’t expect: she told Erica to come inside and get tested for coronavirus.
I wasn’t allowed to go inside with her. I sat in the car and watched passing traffic and cracked my knuckles. When Erica came back, she collapsed into the passenger seat and reported what she’d been told. Her lungs were inflamed. Her symptoms were consistent with Covid. She was instructed to behave as if she was positive, even before her results came back.
The results did come back. She was positive.
In the evening, I cooked dinner while Erica slept. I heated oil and sliced vegetables and thought the same thing I’d thought all day every day – please don’t let her die. Please let her be okay.
Days passed. Each time Erica woke up, often not until twelve or one, I asked how she felt. Each time, she said she felt the same. She didn’t feel better, she didn’t feel worse. A week. Without relief, without reason to exhale or unclench.
At last, after many days of more sleep than consciousness, Erica roused, looked around, and said she felt a little better. Tension rushed out of my body like a waterfall; I half-expected to look at the place I was sitting and see a pool of murky water. Four words from her mouth and the very air in our apartment shifted, like a fairy-tale witch had lifted a spell cast upon our house. I still spent my days watching her relentlessly, annoying her with my knitted brow and my false-calm tone of voice. I still took her temperature and checked her oxygen levels and demanded that she swallow all the natural remedies my dad had sent in the mail. But we were lifting, we could both feel it. We were rising up out of the pit of this thing.
*
The pit of this thing. Like so many, we’ve been hurt by it. It’s weeks later now and Erica has fully recovered, to our immense relief. But the virus came to our home, it gripped us with its fist and squeezed. I told you about the fear, about the proximity of mortality. I hardly mentioned what it’s done to Erica’s mother, a small-business owner, an immigrant, with only a handful of English phrases to her tongue. Financially, she was reduced to nothing in a matter of days. She spends all her time now in one room, the bedroom she rents in someone else’s house, on the phone with Erica who is applying for loans and unemployment on her behalf, drafting letters to her landlord about rent deferment and calling companies to plead them to pause their monthly debits. Most days, Erica spends more time doing that than she spends doing her actual job.
Those are the bad parts. The things we never wanted to have to face. But I haven’t yet told you the nastiest thing of all. I haven’t told you because I don’t want to, don’t know how to. The thing that’s been vibrating underneath all of this, the thing I don’t know how to say aloud? I like quarantine.
I like the pace. I like the still moments in the early evening, when the cats are drowsy and the work-from-home day is over. I like experiencing the quality of light in our bedroom at 1pm. I like cooking a meal with my own hands three times a day; I like the cast-iron skillet frittatas Erica and I have gotten in the habit of making; I like baking breads and starting a garden. I like – no, I love – spending so much time with Erica. Now that she’s recovered, I like seeing her at work, hearing her on conference calls, listening to the ease and confidence in her interactions, watching the care with which she gives herself to her projects. I like exercising with her each evening before the sun sets, on my mat behind her in our little living room, tracking the sweat as it tumbles down her neck, letting her fierce movement motivate my own.
I like that we haven’t driven our cars in weeks. I like that I’m buying less. More specifically, I like that I’m consuming less. Living upon the earth more lightly. I like this new reach toward balance.
I don’t miss anything. At least not yet, and here in San Francisco we’ve been on lockdown for longer than almost anywhere else in the States. I don’t miss restaurants, don’t miss stores or exercise studios or coworkers. I don’t even really miss my friends – many of the people I love the most live far away anyway, so I learned how to maintain intimacy at a distance a long time ago.
Mid-quarantine, I caught up on some podcasts. The host told us that she heard a recording of a crowded subway station and sobbed because she missed it so badly. I listened to her talk and my throat seized up with dread. The idea of going back to normal, back to before, made my heart race. She missed it? I feared it. I’m fortunate to have a job, especially now. I’m grateful every day. But I’m also glimpsing the life I’ve always craved. The work I love to do, that I’ve studied and been trained to do, is make art. Trouble is, in this culture, making art is hardly considered work and it’s certainly not considered a job. How many times have I been told, both implicitly and explicitly, that if I love it enough, if I’m truly passionate, I’d do it for free? That it’s not about the money?
And so writing, making, creating – these have all been relegated to spare moments, scraps of time around the hours I spend in service of someone else’s dream, someone else’s business, someone else’s capital gains. But this lockdown has given me something: the opportunity to step outside the structure I keep trying to fit myself into, even though this structure and I aren’t a match. Before shelter-in-place, every morning when I drove to the office, I felt the ways in which I contorted, the ways I became less like myself and more like a puzzle piece. Each day when I came home from the office, I felt the time it took to settle back into the shape of who I am. This is not a commentary on working in an office. It’s a commentary on me. And it’s a commentary on what happens when a society insists that there’s only one way to work and contribute and have a “real job”, and that way begins and ends with consumer capitalism.
So even though I’m still working someone else’s job during shelter-in-place, I’m doing it at home, and at home I can belong to myself a little more fully than I can in the office. During lockdown, I’ve been writing. I’ve been reading. I pulled out my charcoal sticks and paper pads from storage and started drawing again. I’ve baked goat-cheese biscuits, rosemary & sea-salt sweet-potato rolls, banana chocolate-chip donuts, garlic & parmesan skillet bread. In other words, I’ve created. When my time is my own, I create. This is what I do. This is who I am.
Meanwhile, the headlines on my newsfeed say things like, “The pandemic could double how many people go hungry this year to 265 million worldwide.” How dare I enjoy it, I wonder? How can I even bring myself to like it, in the face of such suffering?
But it also seems to me that yearning for a society in which artists are valued and yearning for a society that provides for people who would otherwise go hungry aren’t actually mutually-exclusive longings. In fact, they’re two ends of the same length of string. Since the world as we know it has gone into hibernation, many of us are thinking deeply about the world we’d like to occupy in its absence. I already know what I want – I’ve been thinking about it my entire life. I want to live a small life, maligned though that concept is. I want to live disconnected from the sales in the box stores and strip malls and connected to the shard of truth at the center of myself, the one that contains the universal human impulse of creativity.
Some have experienced the shelter-in-place mandate as an impingement on their freedoms. I’ve experienced it, simply, as freedom. How do I continue living this way when everything changes again? I don’t know. As long as I need a paycheck, my creative life always will be secondary in terms of the time spent, even though it’s primary in terms of nourishment. The question, then, hasn’t been How am I coping with shelter-in-place? but How do I cope when it’s lifted?
I knew something was wrong with Polly the day she said the sun was dead. She was back at home propped up in bed, arm in a sling. She’d broken it when the car she was in crashed into a milk float and then a tree. The impact forced her into the road, smashed five teeth out of her head, cracked a clutch of ribs and left her with jagged lacerations that swooped all over the front of her. Sam, her boyfriend, stayed strapped into the driver’s seat; neck snapped. They’d been coming back from a party. Early. Late. Driving too fast. The milkman was dead too. There was a full-page obituary for him in The Chronicle. In the photo he had a wonky smile with a gold front tooth that looked rotten and black in newsprint. A wire crate hung from his fingers, six milk bottles slotted into the gaps. He had no wife. No children. I was glad to know that.
We spent days at the hospital. I held Polly’s hand and told her not to die. Told her I would kill her if she left me here all alone. But then a doctor called us into a room that smelt like fake vanilla and told us she was out of the woods. My mother cried into her fists while my father leaned over to whisper in my ear: “I always knew that boy had a weak neck.”
They let Polly come home after a couple of weeks. She was the same but different. Lay up in bed not saying too many words. She was looser in the hips and hair, heavier in the feet. I heard her stomping to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Everyone said she was lucky. Lucky she didn’t end up like Sam or the milkman. But then Polly said the sun was dead. Dad ignored her. Mum put another pillow underneath the broken arm and I got the bus to my summer job at the supermarket.
The next day she said the trees were dead. So was the dog next door.
“How can it be dead? It’s barking.” I laughed, looking out the window at the sideways rain taking out Mum’s dahlias.
“Trust me. It’s dead.”
The day after that Polly was dead. She sat up in the bed and said, “I am dead.”
Mum didn’t have any more pillows stacked in the hot press so she got in the car, drove to the shops and came back with a four-pack of hypoallergenic ones. As if pillows could fix whatever was wrong with Polly.
Then she started talking about herself in the third person. “Polly is dead,” she said when I sat her on the toilet and told her to go. “Polly has no brain,” she trilled when I pulled her hand off the candles stuck into the cake I baked for her nineteenth birthday. “Polly needs to leave this place.” She sounded like a kid figuring out how words work, no understanding of the I, the me, the my. Like an alien, just landed.
When Polly kept asking why we hadn’t buried her, Mum started going to mass and Dad sat in the pub. They started to wish Polly had died in the crash. Because where we come from, dead is better than losing your mind.
I tried to convince myself she was playing a trick on us. Polly had made herself a drama queen because she knew people loved drama. She created scenes and acted them out. Kids at school followed her, phones rang for her, everything tilted toward her. But I knew it wasn’t a trick when I got back from the late shift and found her black-handed in the dahlias. I scrubbed the soil from under her nails and put her to bed.
“Polly’s dead,” she said. “We need to bury her.”
“How can Polly be dead when she’s talking to me? You’re talking to me.”
She reached over and put my hand on her chest, “No heartbeat. Duh.” Her heart juddered under my palm. “This place isn’t real. Nothing’s real.”
“You’re telling me our mother is not real?”
She shook her head.
“Are you sure that’s not just wishful thinking?” I waited for a smile. There wasn’t one. “What about me? Am I real?”
“No.”
“Who am I if I’m not Maeve?”
“You’re a fake. You’re pretend.”
I wanted to knock more teeth out of her head. “You know Sam dying isn’t your fault, Pol.” I watched her face when I said his name. I waited for her to come apart, to show herself.
“We need to bury Polly. Her insides are melting.” She blew green snot out of her nose onto the bedcovers. “Polly’s brain is slipping out. We need to get her into the ground.”
*
“It’s a delusion. And this delusion makes her believe she is dead and that she’s living in a sort of purgatory.”
“So, she’s mad?” Dad’s eyes are on the ceiling.
The doctor winces. “It’s most likely post-traumatic stress disorder from the accident. She’s struggling with her grief. And surviving.”
Mum cries, gripping onto the knock-off bag she got from the market the day before.
“How do we bring her back?” I ask.
“You need to keep Polly rooted in reality.”
My sister is a tree.
“We’ll set up some sessions for her to talk to one of our specialists but it’s important we all work together to help her get better. Keep telling her that what she’s experiencing is a delusion. The medication should take effect soon.”
“And what if the tablets don’t work?” Mum asks, looking down at my shoes and scowling when she sees I didn’t run the cloth over them like she’d asked.
“She’ll have to come in.”
“In?” Dad’s eyes are still on the ceiling.
“To the hospital.”
I hear my father’s thoughts career across the desk and around the doctor’s neck.
To the loony bin.
*
August is the same as July. Polly barely gets out of bed. She used to move fast and far but she has slowed to a stop. I move instead. Swing my body into action. She hardly eats so I eat more. I go running at night and don’t avoid the cracks. I pierce my tongue. Revel in tuts at the dinner table when the soup spoon collides with the bolt.
Polly’s cast is removed. The arm underneath is milky white and weak, a newly born thing cracked out of its shell. A doctor talks to Polly twice a week. Alone. We go to a dentist who sedates her and plugs fake teeth into the gaps, builds others where they have broken apart. Polly keeps telling me she has no teeth. I say she has, put my finger inside her mouth. The ones that didn’t shatter are sharp from grinding. I tell her to bite, but she doesn’t.
Mum catches Polly climbing out her bedroom window in the middle of the night. She puts locks on everything and starts going to mass twice a day. When Polly’s friends come to the door she tells them Polly needs more time to heal. She doesn’t say that Polly thinks she is dead. She doesn’t say that she wears a key to Polly’s room around her neck. She doesn’t tell them about how she finds it hard to look at her eldest, the one who tore her from “front to back” during a storm that took trees out of the earth.
When I say it’s time to take Polly to the hospital, she shakes her head. “Not yet.”
I start going to the storeroom with Aidan. He’s the year above me. Always asking if he can drive me home or take me for a drink. A week ago, he turned seventeen and there was a cake for him in the staff room, one shaped like a football. No candles but he’d pretended to blow. “Make a wish,” I’d said, and he’d winked.
“Are you ok?” he asks.
He smells like an empty swimming pool. I pull down my jeans and knickers, bend over stacked boxes of rubber gloves and nappies.
“Somebody died,” I say, counting as he moves in and out of me.
*
I sit on the bed and paint Polly’s nails. She’s wearing a green sequin jumpsuit. She calls it her “burial outfit”. She’d bought it to wear last New Year’s Eve. I’d been working at the pub when she came in, all skinny arms and perfect pink pout, acting nice. “How about some free shots for your big sister?” That Polly is not this Polly.
“What’s it like to be dead?” I decide to play along.
“It’s like being somewhere you don’t belong.”
“Like you’re lost?”
“You have to get me out of here. If you were a good sister you’d help.”
I put down the polish and hold her fingers up to my mouth. “I am a good sister,” I say, blowing on her nails.
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re not fucking dead, Polly.” She doesn’t flinch when I hit her. I watch the blood rise across her cheeks. I am rooting her reality.
*
I see supermarket boy again. And again. Summer is almost over. We skip work. We go to parties and lean against walls. Everyone asks how Polly is. I say she is getting better and we leave. He has a car. We drive and then lie down. There’s enough space for me to dodge most of the questions he asks, enough space to shift and turn. To be held down. To hear him say my name.
“Tell me what you want, Maeve. Tell me what to do.”
I want you to suck the air out of my body. To sink your hands inside and run your fingers over my bones. I want you to break apart all the parts of me and plant them in the earth.
“Can you just finish,” I say, closing my eyes and starting to count.
*
Polly is all angles and edges; a tangle of scars. Mum can’t look so I have to wash Polly. I want to reach into the middle of her, to pluck out her heart and show it to her. I want her to watch as the beating slows and stops. “See! Now you are really dead.” The water would turn pink and she would fall back, a hole where her heart used to be. But instead she pees and a bloom of orangey-yellow floods the water.
“Remember when we were wee and you peed in Mum’s yucca tree? You called it the Pee Tree. Do you remember?”
She shakes her head as I rinse the soap out of her hair, careful of her eyes.
“What about the outdoor pool? When we would play pretend? You would push me under and I would act dead.” We did it almost every day during the summer holidays when we were kids. Even when it rained. I always went first, slipped under with her hands on my shoulders. I only lasted a few seconds before the thrashing and screaming started. She’d let go and I’d bob back to the surface. Then it was her turn. I’d count until the bubbles stopped rising. Until I couldn’t stand it and had to let go. Her body would float up, drifting away from me and I’d imagine her really dead. Close my eyes and see her moon-face in a box. Everyone in black. Stacks of cups, silver teapots and trays of ham sandwiches, crusts off, cut into triangles. Eventually she’d resurface, pushing her hair out of her eyes. Her laughter would shoot off the white tiled edges of the pool and into my bones. “How long was I dead?”
Once she went a different kind of limp and the lifeguard had to fish her out. I was sure that was it, but her eyes flicked open: “I’m not dead, you dolt. Not yet.”
*
I walk Polly up and down streets near our house. Like a dog. We go out when the sun is low. Mum is too embarrassed to be seen with her. Embarrassed by the trail of green sequins a shoeless Polly leaves in her wake. I hold her hand and drag her along, hoping she will break free. She never does.
“Look at me!” I shout one night, dropping her hand and running ahead into the road, tapdancing, thinking the embarrassment of it all will make her angry enough to come back to life. But she has turned away and pushed a gate into a garden. Her hands in the earth. Digging. There’s a girl in the window of the house looking out at Polly and I must be moving slowly because suddenly she is in the garden on her knees beside my sister, digging with her own little hands. She is five, maybe six. In a striped nightie and bare feet. She laughs and leans into Polly, says something. I am too far away to catch the words. But I hear Polly. I can always hear Polly. “You’re not real,” she says, a blackened hand striking the little round face. Blood rising.
I push the gate and am on my knees, pulling the little girl into my arms. “Are you OK?” She squeals and wrestles away. “I’m so sorry.”
A man you could climb appears in the doorway of the house.
“She smacked me, Daddy.” Her feet are black and she is pointing at Polly, but he thinks she means me because Polly is already out the gate, walking away.
“How would you like it?” He raises his hand and I wait for the crack to ground me. But it doesn’t come.
I run and find Polly two streets over in a different garden. She’s on her knees. Digging. The green sequins are almost gone.
“You’ve got to help me,” she says.
I pull her up by the arm and out the gate. I hold her onto her hand as tightly as I can as we walk away.
*
The gap in the fence surrounding the pool has been there since we were kids. I push her through and follow. On the grass, I help her out of the jumpsuit. I take off my jeans and boots. Fold my T-shirt and leave it on top of the pile of clothes.
I lead her to the pool and sit her down. We dangle our feet over the edge.
“Remember when we used to sneak in here at night?” Nothing. I shuffle next to her. “Here, lean on me.”
She rests her head against my shoulder. I wave at our reflections in the water and watch myself wave back.
“You taught me how to blow smoke rings. You called them little halos. Remember? You said we were making them for baby angels.”
“We look the same,” she says, her eyes on my reflection.
“That’s because we’re sisters.”
She wasn’t ready for the weight of the water. The reality of it.
I count and wait for the bubbles to disappear. For her to stop kicking.
I wait for her to break free from my hands that are holding her under. For her to push the hair out of her eyes. For her laughter to shoot through my bones. For her to say, “I’m not dead, you dolt.”
I wait for her to come back to life.
I am travelling north to celebrate my friend. She’s getting married in two month’s time, and twenty-one of us, her women, are gathering in Northumberland to cheer her on in a glittering haze of cake, booze, and flower-crowns. That’s right: I’m going to a Hen Do.
I’m very nervous. Aside from the Bride, her sister, and the Head Bridesmaid, I won’t know anyone at this party, and my capacity for new people is low: my brain is having a Bad Day. Also, I haven’t had a drink in over six weeks (an attempt to ward off the aforementioned Bad Brain Days) and alcohol is famously de rigueur at these things. Although I do intend to imbibe just a tiny bit this weekend, I’m worried that my relative sobriety will mark me out as some kind of unsporting naysayer, only serving to underline the obvious differences between me and everyone else present. I’ve no doubt about it, you see: they – uniformly gorgeous, talented, successful – will see me in my unruly body, my ill-chosen outfit, my underwhelming career, and immediately deduce that I have no place among them.
I tried to get out of going, but my husband wouldn’t hear of it: “You’re going through a rough patch, and its shit, I get it,” he says. “But I really think that if you look back when you’re feeling better you will regret not going. She’s one of your oldest friends; you’ll probably feel a lot better when you get there. It’ll be good! The countryside! Fresh air! Exercise! You can go on a hike!” I grimace at this last suggestion, but he does make a good point: I haven’t seen the Bride, who lives in Scotland, for a while, and it’s true that I would likely regret it if I cancelled now. And there are other aspects of the weekend that I am looking forward to: I’m eager to get out of London; the dinner will be catered (fancy); a yoga teacher is booked for tomorrow morning; the Head Bridesmaid is bringing her Tarot cards.
Tarot is huge now. Why? I’ve heard a few different explanations, the least generous of which argue that, like selfies and social media and the irrepressible preference for avocado-on-toast over saving-for-a-mortgage, our reignited fascination with the spiritual realm is borne out of a characteristically millennial self-obsession; as with the dark-glass screens of our many mobile devices (call to mind Charlie Brooker’s Black Mirror, Jia Tolentino’s Trick Mirror), tarot cards, astrological charts, and healing crystals simply provide a fresh surface to let Generation Narcissist gaze upon their own reflection. This kind of argument has always struck me as preposterously underdeveloped: I’m reminded of the times at school when, periodically, it would surface that someone in our year group had developed an eating disorder, or taken up some other form of self-harm. “She’s just doing it for attention!” the prevailing consensus would wail, and somehow that meant that the scars on her arms weren’t really real, her sadness was a merely a sign of her repulsive self-involvement, and the best thing to do was ignore her. But surely, someone who would deliberately hurt themselves is in desperate need of attention? So if a generation is obsessed with defining and divulging themselves, what is it that they need?
My train was delayed, meaning I missed a connection in Newcastle, and I am late. By the time I arrive at the house it is already dark, and the ground-floor windows are glowing. The warmth of their light should mean welcome and comfort, but instead I feel a sick dread at the sight of the women inside. I briefly consider buying myself some more time, slipping round the corner for a cigarette, but I’m too late – someone has seen me arrive, and is running for the door. I nervously approach the garden path. Luckily, it is the Head Bridesmaid. She envelopes me into a hug and I feel a little better.
The house is undeniably beautiful; old and grand, with tasteful rugs and lovely patterned wallpaper; the sort of place the BBC would film a domestic thriller in which the glamourous matriarch acquires a morally dubious toy-boy. There is a rolltop bath upstairs, and in the kitchen a gorgeous, rustic, wooden table, and an Aga. It’s all very Instagram, but no one will be posting pictures, at least not yet: there is no Wi-Fi, and barely any network coverage. Only one spot in the whole house – a window at the back of the sitting room – seems to pick up signal. Everyone’s phone is there, propped against the pane or stacked on the sill, in hopeful offering to the technological gods. Under flickering fairy lights, their screens’ dark mirrors create the illusion of movement – an iPhone murmuration.
Somehow, I have been assigned the second-best bedroom in the house, which I am sharing with the Head Bridesmaid and the bride’s sister. It is delicious – a big comfy bed, ornamental cushions, an en-suite bathroom, a window seat (my favourite, favourite thing – a window seat to read in!). There are gift bags, too – an organic bath-bomb, some artisan chocolate, a tiny candle shaped like a rose. Suddenly, the loveliness of it all overwhelms me and I start to cry: I don’t deserve this; I shouldn’t be here. I breathe, put on some lipstick, slap my own face, hard, and go downstairs. I put on my best show: quick with a line, outrageous, gregarious. I am secretly sick in the toilet, twice.
Another often-cited explanation for the rise of modern spirituality is an urge to cultivate the illusion of control in a world that feels like it is rapidly spiralling out of it.
I wake up with a horrible hangover: I have a headache and I feel nauseous, but by far the severest of my symptoms is the inevitable anxiety fizzing through my brain and veins. I don’t go to the yoga class, and I feel like the most enormous, pathetic failure in the world. I don’t go for a walk (not a hike! I’m assured, but I still don’t go) with the rest of the girls, because I’m certain that my unfit, oversized body will slow everyone else down, that they will feel embarrassed, frustrated by the incongruity of my presence. Instead, I stay behind at the house, and help the bridesmaids set up for the rest of the day’s activities: afternoon tea in the lounge, followed by flower-crown making in the garden, then dinner. Sorting through great armfuls of foliage, I attempt to conceal the tell-tale tension in my mind and body with a somewhat maniacally delivered monologue on the mood-altering benefits of carnations (people can be awfully snobby about carnations; I think they’re lovely). Everyone returns from the walk, and we begin our tea – tiny triangle sandwiches and gin fizz in coffee-pots – when suddenly, unprompted, the tingling wave of my anxiety finally crashes into despair. I excuse myself early and slip outside.
In the daylight, the garden is breath-taking: the house is perched on a modest hill, and backs onto nothing but vibrant green and trees and a distant river. Birds sing. I want to bury this place in my soul. I take a gentle stroll across the lawn, find a tiny gate that leads into the graveyard of the neighbouring church. I like graveyards; I find them peaceful. I tour the stones, and eventually come to a great, old tree, a yew. It is enormous and ancient, its massive trunk held in place by a complicated mechanism of chains and belts, yet undeniably, irrepressibly, pulsatingly, generously, alive. I am moved to tears.
Inside the church, I learn that the yew is thought to be more than nine hundred years old. There is something about very old things; an energetic wisdom, a grounding energy. I wonder if this might also have something to do with the appeal of Tarot; the safety-net feeling of doing something that has always been done. Only, it turns out that Tarot isn’t all that old, after all: some practitioners will argue that it goes as far back as Ancient Egypt, but there is little evidence of this. Originally used for playing games, the earliest Tarot cards are thought to date from fifteenth-century Italy; they weren’t used for divination purposes until the eighteenth century. I am unsurprised when I learn this: there are so many things, from fairy tales to a Ploughman’s Lunch, that style themselves to appear more ancient and traditional than they actually are. Still, it begs the question: if that feeling of groundedness, of elemental wisdom, can be conjured just as easily by pretend ancientness as real, then where is it really coming from? Is it that we simply project what we want, or need, to see and feel; something that was inside us all along?
The theme of the dinner is “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”. We are all in flowing floral dresses, hair left long, our homemade flower-crowns the perfect accessory. One girl is sporting a pair of shimmering fairy wings. Another, equipped with tiny pots of glitter, moves from person to person, highlighting cheekbones and widening eyes with a sweep of silver-gold. She gently applies the shimmer to my face, as if I am just the same as everybody else, as if I belong here, as if I deserve to be adorned, to gleam. Perhaps I do. We go outside for photos and it is the golden hour, and the light and the mood and my bare feet on the grass feel like magic. I take lots of pictures; I always offer to do this, to avoid being photographed myself. But the Bride wants to capture the whole party together, and has asked that the waiter act as photographer. The rest of the group have already assembled themselves on a small flight of steps, and the natural place for me to insert myself, the space that’s most obviously available, is in the front row, next to the Bride. This feels profoundly wrong: it is not for me to be front and centre. I tentatively attempt to articulate this: “Shouldn’t it be someone else, at the front with you?”
“What are you talking about?!” The Bride laughs, and she pulls me into the fold.
After dinner, I finally sit down with the Head Bridesmaid and her Tarot cards. This is how the ritual goes: a question is asked, the cards are shuffled and laid, past, present, future. Each is different and beautiful, either depicting one of twenty-two archetypes (known as the “Major Arcana” – Strength, Death, Justice, and so on), or else falling into one of four numbered suits – cups, swords, wands, and pentacles. Every card represents something different, and its meaning can change based on the cards that surround it. We have books with us that list the seemingly endless possible interpretations, which we will consult to construct an answer to the original question. Really, the cards are just a framework for thinking – or talking – something through.
When she turns over my final card (representing the future), my friend the Head Bridesmaid smiles: “I am so pleased she turned up for you!” she says.
The High Priestess sits on a throne, serious and still, her gaze fixed directly ahead. Either side of her are two pillars (balance), a gesture to Solomon’s Temple, the first to be built in Jerusalem. They are not the only religious iconography: around her neck, the High Priestess wears a cross (Christianity), in her hands is a scroll reading “Tora” (Judaism), at her feet is a (starless) crescent (Islam). Another image of the moon, this time full (femininity, emotion, reflection, restoration), provides the centrepiece to her crown (power, governance). Behind her hangs a tapestry (boundaries, concealment, the unknown), decorated with pomegranates (fertility, sexuality, the Underworld), and behind that, though we see just a glimpse of it, is a large body of water (the unconscious, emotion, self) – the movement of which is reflected in the flowing folds of her blue-green robes. The High Priestess is mysterious, wise, calm and powerful. She challenges us to look inside ourselves; to discover our own meaning.
More and more of us are joining in; the atmosphere is warm, safe, nurturing. We take it in turns to ask a question and lay the cards, then all chip in with potential interpretations of the various symbols, collectively stitching together a narrative. I realise something: the Tarot may not be ancient, but what we are doing is. Storytelling has always been a domestic (and therefore female) art: in folk and fairy tales, the almost-consistently female teller engages symbol, metaphor, and archetypal characters (just like those used in Tarot) to communicate to her sisters and daughters important, otherwise unspeakable, and oftentimes life-saving information – about sexuality, about motherhood, about male violence. Stories are how women help women, how we show ourselves, and the world, to each other, and how we help each other see ourselves. Tarot is not about divination: it is an interactive fairy tale, in which the story-parts we need are taken and gently rearranged until we are soft and open enough for the healing to take place.
The next morning, I wake up tired, but comforted. I sit in the window-seat in the second-best bedroom with a warm mug, looking out across the fields and feeling sad we need to leave. As I bid farewell to the house, I press my face against the bathroom wallpaper and silently promise that one day my own bathroom will be as lovely as this; in this moment, I believe I deserve a nice bathroom. The Head Bridesmaid drives me to the station in York, and in the car I bawl out my eyes to her, uncovering long-held grievances and insecurities and stories. I cry and cry and cry. She is patient with me, kind, and afterwards I feel cleansed and calm; a weight, lifted.
I am by no means cured of course. My Bad Brain Days are as many as they ever were, and my arsenal of defences is varied, and varies in its success. But I have a new place of retreat now, a space inside myself, beyond my brain. It is peaceful and green, and I am not alone: I see them laughing in the gentle breeze, ivy woven through their wild hair, barefoot. High priestesses, all.
Dear M,
I’m guessing you’re part of the universe now, or eternally part of the past. How’s it going wherever or whenever you are? I’m doing OK. Still stuck to this Earth thankfully, but we both know that won’t last forever. It’s snowing as I write this even though it’s April 17th. What the fuck, hey? I’m finally getting my shit together and doing one of those things therapists say is good and writing my best friends who have died. There’s a pandemic going on, which means we all just have to sit around and watch movies for at least another month until they learn how to track it, kill it, or make people better once they have it. The Coronavirus is what I’m talking about. That is for real the name and no one will ever drink Corona again.
I hope this letter gets to you. I’m going to burn it in hopes that it does. I’ve missed you a lot over the years. Sorry this is the first time I’ve wrote. If you’re a ghost stuck in the cemetery then you’ve probably seen me at your headstone a couple times. Sorry I haven’t been there in awhile. I haven’t gone to any cemeteries in awhile if that makes you feel better.
I can’t give you many updates on your daughter, unfortunately. I haven’t seen her in years. Last time I did, she still looked like you, and was very quiet. We tried pretty hard at first to keep things together with D, me and the rest of our friends, but it didn’t last. Most of them live in the suburbs now, but I’m still here in the city. Well, sort of. I live in Cudahy where I bought a house with my wife. We were married in 2018. It’s funny, well not funny really, but I had one friend who couldn’t make it to be a groomsman. C, you would’ve liked him, he couldn’t make it and died a short while after. So I’ve got that hole forever shot through my bridal party for the one who couldn’t make it. You could be that one too because if you were around you would’ve been standing up there with me.
There have been new Star Wars movies, Marvel movies, Tarantino movies, books, comic books, streaming services, music. A lot has come out in the last nine years that you’d probably like. If you can ever get your ghost ass in front of a computer then I think you should check some of it out. There are other things that exist too, that you would like, and I don’t even know what they are, but I’m sure you would’ve told me about them.
I teach English now, and write. I’ve gotten a couple stories published. It’s actually a depressing subject to get into. Not that the stuff about you being dead isn’t depressing too, just that writing is a thing I’m constantly putting an effort towards and getting very little in return from. It still feels weird being a teacher, and I’m always trying to figure out how to get my students to just chill and realize I’m one of them – or they’re one of me? Maybe that’s the way I should look at it. The other teachers also seem strange. I’m leery to get too close to them because I’m afraid they might tell me I’m doing something wrong. I know I know, just a bunch a shit I need to get over, but these aren’t like new things, they are things that have been rolling along behind me for a long time. I don’t know how to get over them. But I’m working on it, or thinking about it, and I guess thinking about it is working on it?
Anyway, I’ve got a few other letters to write, to more people, and one cat, that are dead. I’ve missed you. I love you, buddy. I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places and all that, just like old times. If you get this send me a sign. I’ll be looking for one. I’ll try to write again a little sooner next time.
Love,
S
PS. Only send a sign if you can. If you’ve got limited ghost magic then don’t bother.
*
Dear C,
Sorry this is the first time I’m writing you, and that I’ve never been to your headstone. I’m also sorry I didn’t go down with those friends to Lake Charles. I’ve got a few excuses if you ever want to hear them. I’m still stuck on this Earth, but we both know how permanent that is. I’m writing my best friends who are dead because I miss you, and maybe I’m feeling a little lonely.
First things first, was that you fucking around with the streetlights outside my place after you died? I like to think it was, but unless you give me a sign, I can’t know for sure. I’m just kidding about the sign, unless you feel like you can manage one without damaging your spirit, wherever you are. Things here are pretty weird at the moment. We are having a full on pandemic, but it’s not too dangerous, so mostly all we have to do is stay home until they figure out how to track it, kill it, or make people better from it.
I’ve been writing a lot yet, and recently got a story published. I’m still looking for that big project, but haven’t found it, everything is a short story. If you can, pop over my shoulder and take a look at some of this stuff I’ve been writing. I’ll look for a sign of what you think, if you can manage one. I know writing is a silly thing to bother a dead person about, but how don’t I know you’re not really bored or something, and don’t just want to be a part of people’s lives in trivial ways? Anyway, I’m going to burn this letter in hopes that it finds you. I will save a copy though. I hope that doesn’t diminish the magic at all.
I don’t know what else to tell you about. I still miss you a lot. I spent a lot of time in Spain (the two times I went, sorry to rub it in, and sorry about the parenthesis, I know you hate them) walking around the olive groves at the foot of a mountain and thinking about you. I would’ve liked you there with me. How’d you get so worldly here in Wisconsin? I’ve wondered that quite a few times. Sometimes out loud to people that knew you.
J came out to Spain the first time I was there and then we took a ferry to Italy. Rome, C. I’m so sorry you never got to Rome. We found ourselves in many places, saying C would love it here. One was a bar in the basement of a bookstore. I can hear you in my head saying “OK, just stop” but I won’t. The bartender was a perfectly disaffected Italian girl. She put her feet up on the bar when she wasn’t serving anyone. There was a movie playing on a screen and little metal tables. There was also a wine place we thought you’d love, and yes, it’s Italy, so technically every place is a wine place, but this place had bottles stored along the walls, and a case in front with tobacco for sale where the cashier was watching soccer on a small TV. I feel like I’m doing a bad job describing it. It was like if Fuel Cafe was a wine bar, but also if Fuel looked the way it did without intention. Like if Fuel was only being what it could be because of where it was. Does that make sense? I’ve always felt Fuel is very intentionally more than just a Milwaukee coffee shop, a lot goes in to making it look like it’s more than what might have just sprang up naturally, but things are different in Italy. No one is trying, everyone has their shirts tucked in, and are drinking wine and eating pasta like that’s what they were born to do.
There’s much more I could tell you about, but I think I’ll save it for another time. One of these nights when I’m drunk why don’t you pop into my head, if you’re able, and we’ll talk a bit.
Love,
S
PS. I was thinking about communicating with things we can’t see, and I was thinking it was sort of like how when we’re young we’ll write a message with our finger on the back of a friend’s hand. Is this like that? Sorry for all the questions, especially if you get this and have no means to respond. I will look for signs, but not be disappointed if I find none.
*
Dear Dad,
Woo boy. I’m so sorry it has taken me almost ten years to write. I hope you never thought I don’t miss you because I do. Wherever or whenever you are.
I never thanked you for the effort you put in to stay close to me after the divorce, and for nudging me along a path that wouldn’t lead to total ruin. You saved my life about a thousand times in those thirty years you were there for of mine. Thank you.
I turned out OK. I think you’d be proud. I’ve probably been taking it a little too easy for the last year and a half, but I feel like the break is somewhat earned. I quit LC and only teach now. Yeah, I’m sort of a professor. I think technically I need a professorship to be a professor, but some people consider anyone who teach at a college a professor, so if you’re one of those, then yes, I’m a professor. I started teaching in the optician program and now I teach English. In other words, that whole going to school for writing thing you only got a glimpse of kind of turned out. I haven’t had much published, but I still work on it a lot. Maybe too much. Maybe this letter is even that. I kind of wish it wasn’t, but to be honest, I don’t even really know how to shut it off anymore.
Remember that time at breakfast when you asked me, why do people write? I ask my students that at the beginning of every semester, and I hope you’ve seen some of the answers.
I hope you’re doing good. I hope you’re only a ghost if you want to be. I’m still stuck on this Earth, but for how much longer, who knows. I’m not dying or anything, but there is a pandemic going on, and it probably won’t, but it might kill me. If you’ve got any ghost magic to spare you could send some to protect me a bit, but I know you got three of us, so do what you think is best with it.
I’m going to burn this letter in hopes that you get it. If you are able you can send me a sign. I’ll look for one, but won’t be disappointed if I don’t find one.
I’m going to take a drive over to your grave soon. Hopefully you can hear my thoughts when I’m there because I’ll say more then. I’ve travelled the world a bit since last time I’ve been to your marker. Anyway, I hope your eternal rest has been peaceful.
Love your son,
S
*
Dear O,
I’m writing this in hopes that you can understand the entirety of the English language now that you are deceased, and not only the few words I know you knew as a living cat.
It was really hard finding you dead and stiff that morning after you died. I know you were dying and I couldn’t handle being there when it happened, or I would’ve slept on the bathroom floor with you. I hope you understand.
I know it’s been almost six years, but I still miss you quite a bit, even if I’ve never wrote you before. I hope your rest has been a peaceful one, and that you’re only a ghost cat who understands English if that is what you want to be. If you know I live with two other cats and a dog now, I hope you’re not jealous. You have forever sectioned off a piece of my heart to call your own.
Have you ever come to me in dreams? I feel like you have a couple times, even finding me across the ocean, when I needed a companion. You were always exceptional at that, and I especially felt like when I was lonely you were the one creature on this Earth I could count on. I’m still stuck here, but you probably know by now it isn’t permanent.
Anyway, I’m going to burn this letter in hopes that it reaches you. I’m sending all of my love. If there really is a Rainbow Bridge then one day I’ll see you there.
Love your forever companion,
S
Brothers
When her father was drunk, he’d say, ‘I used to have a brother, you know’, and get this faraway look in his eyes. When he was sober there was never any mention of a brother and if questioned about family history, her father would quickly change the subject. She adored him and did not want to press or annoy him too much. On several occasions when he was out of the house, she rummaged looking for any photographs of him as a young man in the hope that this brother he kept mentioning when he was drunk, really did exist. There might be a couple of snaps somewhere, – even just one – of the two brothers posing. She found nothing. When her mother was alive, she hadn’t mentioned a brother-in-law. Vicky had asked about a wedding album but her mother said they couldn’t afford one back in the fifties. If there was a brother, he might have been best man. But neither parent confirmed anything. They were tight-lipped about this part of the past.
Guinness and gin loosened her father’s tongue enough for her to assume that he had something to hide or that his imagination was playing tricks. But why would he say such a thing? Vicky even booked an appointment at the register office to search birth, marriage and death records. She found documents about her mother and father but after following clues and links and trying to guess at possible dates, she found nothing in the official archives about an uncle. She only had a surname to go on and that proved not to be enough.
Then, as often happens, in the early hours of one morning, she woke suddenly, sat up in bed and pondered a possibility that had not occurred to her. She put the notion that no such man existed to one side for the time being and considered the idea that a person seemingly airbrushed from family history might have been some kind of embarrassment, a criminal perhaps.
Vicky spent hours online searching old newspapers for any scrap of information. Old court reports were interesting generally but there was nothing specific about this phantom brother. She even wrote a short piece and posted it on Facebook asking if anything clicked with anyone. The mystery man was always on Vicky’s mind. So she stopped searching for a few weeks and got on with her life. On a coffee break at work some time later, she checked her social media accounts. There was a message waiting on Facebook. She clicked it and read: ‘Hi. I read your post about a possible uncle. I think I know the man you are looking for. He ruined my life. I was only thirteen. He ruined my life. Him and his brother.’
A LEADERSHIP CASE STUDY
How To Hand-over your No. 2 to the Right No.2 In The Middle Of A Pandemic
by Ash Kaul
So Young Horus Johnson – what else will you call a fifty-five year old hyper hormonal protoplasmic assemblage with a straightened blond pubic top and shoulders hunched for a rugby style roll in the hay every damn day – lumbered out of bed in his beautiful home at 10 Frowning Street in the city of Undone, the famed capital of the Blighted Kingdom, in the glory of which a poet with an undernourished version of a borisian hairdo was notorious for having said back then in 1802 unknowing at the time that his words will hold true in 2020 though for sadder reasons: ‘Breathes there a man with soul so dead who never to himself hath said . . . this is my own my native land’ and so on and so forth. Because a lot of water has flown under the London Bridge since then. So much so that ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ is now in 2020, like a damning metaphor for the bridge if it was ever meant to connect the eking electorate with their elite representatives.
Too bloody much has happened since March 11th when WHO declared Coronavirus a pandemic Or since even earlier for that matter. Though Horus couldn’t be bothered way back in January 25th when his cabinet buddies saw the virus as a little twerp that was deemed to be locked down in its alleged native land or at best be seen flirting at airports. Only that can explain the right noises that the cabinet made then starting with the now fashionable claim to stirring statesmanship by grandiosely vowing to pick up one’s citizens from an affected geography and making it sound like a personal expedition to Everest in the head-stand position. Then there followed the whole melodrama of travel advisories especially to untouchable communist and third world geographies and of course the ritual of making the national civilian air carrier sound like a bugle call for war with a sizzling headline like Blighted Airways suspends all flights to the People’s Republic of Hyena. And then coughing gently as two meagre laughable cases were confirmed in the Blighted Kingdom – gentle coughs to mimic a Ha! Two frigging exceptions, maybe Hyenese for all we care.
And soon it was February.
A bit of snow, a bit cold, a bit of relative warmth, this was Horus’s month for really hard erections. The others were January, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November and December. Much like Mark Twain’s October – by his reckoning, a dangerous month for investing in stocks, the others being the rest. But these dangers, Horus has always scoffed at. Like a veteran marine of the 69 Coitus Rifles, his bayonet will not be deterred. And so he spent the whole of February fighting for the honour of his native land because as the great poet said, ‘Breathes there a man with soul so dead who never to himself had said, this is my own my native land.’ Tut Tut. Not Horus, the patriot. He would never take the risk of ‘breathing’ in that unpatriotically indolent way. He would pant and pump, the way soldiering patriots do, never allowing place and time to come in the way of a patriotic bang. Outside of course, they coughed again as a third case was reported, and then a fourth and soon a ninth. The coughing by some of Horus’s colleagues was now beginning to look more inadvertent than scorn and that is what made them seek testing, a privilege easily available to them. Imagine. Had they not first scoffed in scorn, they mightn’t have got that timely check, and so we might have been luckier. Not because we the people wish ill will on highly deserving bastards but because they act only when they wake up to a rocket in the arse. You see in a crisis of this kind where a virus hits your native land, you are better off with no government if what you have in the name of a government is a catalyst to the virus. To figure this better, replace the word virus with the word NATO. If the virus could talk it would wink while confessing its impotency and say that its incremental fatalities only turned exponential when managed by the sincere elitism of NATO governments.
And so February rolled on while cases were still reported in two digits and one had succumbed. But that’s not bad given that testing was still in single digits and it was probably happening when the patient was asleep. And now of course one case was reported in the national afterthought and the Brexit pastime of Northern Ireland. Northern Ireland, its unification and Scotland of the Scottish independence fame, these parliamentary hiccups claimed their column for peripheral news as always. Otherwise, February, which for Johnson is a snowy month for flaky sex, some ten thousand Blightons had been tested by mistake it seems because there was every sign that the plan was to test ten. You see the trouble with cunning is that it is a laboured attempt at elusive intelligence, and is about as convincing as free market pretending to be a considered and controlled thought. Free. Controlled. Antonyms, remember? Resorting to number management because that is the art of counting crumbs to convince yourself you aren’t hungry, or that A and B aren’t hungry because C has overeaten. And so in the chronic quest for number management, worldwide, the nationalist right wing fell in love with this new word called ‘contact tracing’. Another antonym. The opposite of ‘pandemic’. Besides obviously slowing down reported cases, it is based on the sound scientific principle that one African can infect one Blighton but that one Blighton will not infect any other Blighton till Horus Johnson gives him the permission to do so. In other words, when you travel from Wuhan to London you are certain to be infected but nowhere on the way and at home will Horus Johnson allow you to infect anyone else despite that there was no real lockdown at the time and the virus was as well figured by Johnson as the institution of marriage. Which then should beg the simple question that when the infection didn’t spread, then how did it suddenly spread. The answer is that this virus, like others which go by names like Dominic Cummings or Priti Patel, report to the great Johnson. Such is the might of the Blighted Empire and of its valiant leader, the bayonet charging horny (sorry I say! This typo I tell you!) Horus Johnson. As though it’s bloody different. But regardless of Johnson’s confidence in the virus’s acquiescing subordination to him and to his right-wing cousins like Hump, the President of the Disunited States of Blamerica, some 442,675 Blightons called the emergency line in panic. All hell had broken loose. Horus would have seen it, if he was not rolling in the hay that is. So March was threatening to be a month of reckoning. But only if you are not a privileged Etonian or a member of Bullingdon Club that is. March would roast the hell out of you. But only if you’re not the same frivolous chap who was once a London Mayor doling out sponsorship advances to pole dancing American women that is. March would be a wake-up call, but only if you weren’t convinced that viruses wouldn’t dare touch the white race because you were so fucking Islamophobic that you actually said the burka was oppression and that the women who wore them looked like letter boxes. March 2020 would have been March 2020 if you had the sense to not joke at a funeral, if you had at least a grain of decency and didn’t use swear words in the position of a Foreign Secretary simply because business leaders thought Brexit was conceived in the rectum but didn’t literally say so, but you heard it, because you knew that indeed it was. ‘Fuck business’ indeed. Your words. March could have been brutal in your vagrant head too just like life which has routinely shown you the mirror, a mirror your voters have no view of because you are blocking the view with your awful clumsily looming hunch that is weighed down by your bursting overweight ballocks. And if the voter doesn’t see it, you didn’t do it is how you process the shite. Yet this March would have been this March if you had an iota of sensitivity, which went conspicuously missing when you recited Kipling’s “The temple bells they say, come back you English soldier” in the most inappropriate place, the most sacred Buddhist temple in Burma. You had to be stopped. You are always stopped. But you never stop. Your mouth is like your dong. Because this incident was just about three months after you blabbered about alcohol in a Sikh Gurudwara. And this was a year after you spoke derisively of Africa and talked of the Turkish President where your limerick on him spoke of him having sex with a goat. Did you realise what the Turkish President must have done besides ignoring you, you intractable boner. He might have googled the images of the women you’ve been with and had a good laugh. Goat indeed. Goats. Plural. Some were even hybrid. Take that, you racist, for a change. Where all you sowed your own ‘wild oats’ he would have seen. March would indeed have been a March galloping with a virus claiming lives if you weren’t still busy sowing your wild oats and missing COBRA meetings.
But in the same March, Horus lumbered out of bed in panic, but only towards the end.
Meanwhile, before that day, outside 10 Frowning Street, the world was increasingly agitated. And so the first COBRA meeting was held on March 2nd when the cases had jumped to a laughable 36 only. Naturally Horus with his arse finally catching up with his swollen head wasn’t going to waste his time especially when Jennifer Arcuri had been threatening to cook him in Corona oil since November because he wasn’t taking her damn calls. On March 3rd the government published an action plan with everything detailed to the tee except for two things; action and plan. And the cases were now inching to three-digit numbers which is commendable detection, ostensibly by the MI6, Blighton’s Secret Service, since the testing was still barely happening. No wonder MI6 Chief Alex Younger got that “KCMG” (KGB Culled Maimed Gutted). Horus would need this suave talent soon. Meanwhile the action plan was so detailed that in the middle of a crippling dastardly pandemic it actually included a scenario called ‘milder pandemic’ thereby giving a subtle hint to stubborn recalcitrant Blighton voters that Horus was clearly out of sorts and rolling in the hay again. And of course he had bunked the COBRA meeting, and so all said and done May might have sounded like an uncertain something but was certainly better than Hay. But bemoaning Brexit at the time of permanent exit is like fearing sex fatigue while being treated for erectile dysfunction. Especially since the cases now crossed a hundred and Chief Medical Officer, Chris Shitty needlessly informed the nation that the Blighted Kingdom had now moved from the ‘containment stage’ to the ‘delay stage’ thereby proving that he himself had moved from the asinine stage to the bovine stage. Bloody mumbo jumbo and semantics as though union budgets aren’t enough. But in March – you have to give it to the blighter – taking a break from rolling in the hay, PM Horus did something bloody visionary. Bypassing the elementary stages of masks, PPE and smoothly enforced lockdowns, he jumped straight to announcing £46 million for research into vaccine research. That this vaccine will resurrect those who died to Covid is the only way to fathom this brilliant move in the absence of basic preventive measures and equipment. This may have been on the advice of Priti Patel whose qualifications are known to be restricted to PR unlike her disqualifications which are unrestricted. And while that makes her seem like quite a promising successor to take Great Blighton into any century as long as it is in the past, it doesn’t help frantic lungs on ventilators, and much worse, those gasping in the absence of them. And to that came her homily, ‘I’m sorry if people think there have been failings’. This is like mythology being recited to the dying and dead. How utterly Hindian. Yet to those in the know, this is a typical Patelian malaise but there’s still time enough for that Far Right thinking as that fluff is pretentiously called.
But this virus has a crafty left-wing bias.
It bloody well knows that the cretins (leaders) resorting to socially sanctioned dacoity (right wing ideology if you please) will do bugger-all for others. So it directly goes for their balls. That’s how they got the wake-up call when the FTSE 100 plunged, something that a hundred deaths couldn’t achieve. The hyper capitalist is a capitalist only, a man, if at all, who stops to douse the fire only when it goes either for his balls (his vault) or his arse, and this one had started to go for both. And so alongside the FTSE, the Hyenese virus opened its account by infecting Health Minister Nadine Dorries. The cases were now touching 500 and galloping. The vaccine research was on in earnest, the PPE sourcing project was abandoned like Horus’s women. In the middle of this, young Rishi Sunak was sent by Horus to present the budget, and also by God, to balance out country cousin Priti Patel. You see the Hindu pantheon is no less than a pandemic with 33 Mn Gods and so whenever they see some Hindian making as ass of himself, they panic and send a better sample to neutralize the slur. Funnily they do it the other way round too. They created Gandhi in Gujarat and then sent Modi. But what Modi is undoing is far in excess of what Gandhi did, and faster and worse. And so good boy Rishi Sunak, son-in-law of his pious body-shopping South Indian Pa-in-law, may do what he will with his face scrubbed and hair oiled, but Priti Patel will open her mouth to undo Sunak’s £30bn to protect the BK in March much like how the public memory of good boy Sunak’s grades in college will yield to another FTSE collapse, this time its biggest since 1987. Frankly it was this, rather than reality that made Public Health stop contact tracing thereby finally conceding that blowing off birthday candles and clapping happy birthday to NHS is a hare-brained idea when you arse is screaming for a bloody fire extinguisher.
But something stunningly hare-brained was afoot secretly.
The great strategist and Johnson’s buddy Dominic Cummings had cracked the strategy. The only problem was that the strategy was needed for saving lives and so when Cummings thought herd immunity was his eureka moment, two things became clear. One that Cummings didn’t know whether he was coming or going. And two, that Horus was still cumming only and doing little else. Not only that, Cummings even edited his old blog post to make it seem like he was like the bloody Nostradamus of Coronavirus. That the egghead is poached out of his bloody mind is not the point because then you may sadly and blasphemously find that the only way to handle the pandemic is by replacing Horus Johnson with Xi Jinping. Serious. Imagine if Undone, the capital of the Blighted Kingdom was Wuhan of Hyena. Cross your heart and say it would still be lapping around in the shit it is today. Ah. That must have been a wordy blow to the anti-communist solar plexus, no? Reality my dear. Like the sun that gave up on the British empire. Bottomline: barring Hump, the President of the Disunited States of Blamerica and Dominic Cummings, there isn’t another arsehole whose solution to pandemic deaths is herd immunity. But then it wouldn’t be the first time Cummings came with a strategy on which only he would be cumming. He usually cums alone. At best Johnson has cum with him. But that’s because all that Johnson ever does is to cum.
By mid-March the cases had crossed a thousand and the death toll had crossed a score. Not fatal enough for Johnson. But suddenly on March 14th Donald Hump’s Deputy Disaster Mike Tuppence announced that the travel ban would include flights to the Blighted Kingdom while the latter was fretting over travel advisories to Spain. This was quite a blow and even though no flights would come from Hump-land, Johnson’s ego was so bruised that he still banned flights to Hump-land in retaliation!
More trade has stopped due to right wing egos than has ever been created – Old jungle saying on laissez-faire.
On March 16th, Bonking Johnson took a break and rolled out of the hay and announced a lockdown in as clear terms as asking a naked man to wear his underwear on his head to cover himself. For some time, his cabinet tried clearing his shit but ended up contradicting each other. You see the blighted constitution is bound to churn out such talent. Political chaos is the womb of parliamentary charlatans, of which the Blighted Kingdom is now a shining example. May needn’t have resigned as per the constitution, but gave way to convention. And see what you got. Because while the parliament of Blighton is supreme, the constitution is but a jumble of precedence and convention only. And so whether it is Brexit or a fixit of any kind, chaos is inbuilt. So you cannot blame the sun for not rising on the empire anymore. It simply cannot locate the old empire of the Attlee, the Churchill, the Lloyd George, the Harold Wilson, the Tony Blair or even the Thatcher.
The kingdom is blighted now.
So now in March ‘20, when the Sunak announced a princely £330bn of loan guarantees to businesses the cases were now crossing 2000 and the deaths were approaching three digits. Then came another capitalist jolt. The pound sterling breached its 1985 Thatcherite level. And just then MP Lloyd Russel-Moyle tested positive. The virus was coming closer to 10 Frowning Street. Slowly but surely. And on March 20th, Johnson broke down a little bit, but in private, when he announced among other frivolous things, the deeply moving lockdown of nightclubs. It felt like a part of him was shutting down. Such a personal loss. He felt older. Intuitively he knew – he always relies more on the spinal cord than the brain – that something was not right. Two days later, on March 22nd, Johnson woke up to a sore arse.
March 22, 2020.
The very point where we’d started this fairy tale of the sex kittens of heads of state or the fable on how celibacy or loyalty makes Johnson a dull boy, or how orgasmic panting is far more patriotic than breathing like a man with soul so dead. But this big boy felt bloody dull. Not because he was fifty-five, which he was. And not because the sun had set on British Empire. No it hadn’t set. It had actually gone into its arse.
Horus’s arse was swollen.
And not from kinky experiments. Being a realist, his first reaction even in the middle of the pandemic was that he had contracted AIDS. But it didn’t feel so lousy. So it must be some venereal disease, he thought. He had always believed he was immune to the Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. And that all venereal diseases venerated him given his unblemished record and daring. Sheer respect for a fearless fucker. But there was complication now. His almost-wife Carry Symonds was carrying. He had to figure a secret way of getting diagnosed without his nearly-wife getting to know all that she was certain to know about him anyway.
Ah, the fighting marines of 69 Coitus are not so unsung!
But soldiers wounded in battle must hand over command, even if reluctantly.
But that he did only on March 27th after privately thanking the Hyenese upon testing positive to Covid instead of being diagnosed with the African AIDS or the cosmopolitan VD which would have left him suicidal given that bonking the opposite sex in many plurals was all he lived for besides bonking a nation whose name rhymed with the word Britain. And so from March 22nd till 27th when they admitted that he had tested positive and would self-isolate in 10 Frowning Street, he took the time to figure a No. 2 to hand over the No. 2 of the nation to, just in case. And this is what this case study of interim succession in a crisis is all about.
So he quickly considered his options from the aces in his Rt Dhon (Right Dishonourable) team – which ol’ bastard to deputize this shit to. He called the head of SIS, the legendary Secret Service MI6 of the Blighted Kingdom, who was responsible for the covert collection and analysis of ‘human intelligence’, so naturally Priti Patel, his Home Secretary was outside their purview. But still. So Alex Younger arrived. The Chief of MI6 who signs letters with a ‘C’ in green ink. Rumour has it that it took a long time for the CIA to convince President Hump that C doesn’t stand for Cunt and that this is the Intelligence Chief accountable to Blighton’s Foreign Secretary Dominic Raab. Then it took even longer to explain the meaning of the word ‘accountable’ to Hump who had forgotten it since the onset of the pandemic. Younger and his MI6 are deadly guys. Johnson trusted them blindly. Younger was the one who had confirmed to him that the virus was not a Hyenese conspiracy.
‘They didn’t do it,’ he had said.
‘Who told you?’ Johnson had asked.
‘Very reliable source,’ smiled Younger. And looked at his notes and named him. ‘Guy called Xi Jinping.’
‘Okay,’ said Johnson, rolling a joint.
And Johnson called Hump, the President if the Disunited States and passed on the intelligence report.
Hump called and asked, ‘Source?’
‘Xi Jinping,’ replied Johnson.
‘Okay,’ said Hump, and rolled a joint.
Just then Toady of Hindia called and asked, ‘Jaansunn Bhai! Namaste! Bhat newj you habe on Hyena?’
And Johnson told him.
‘Okkay,’ he said, and resumed his make-up.
And now the same talented Alex Younger on whom the anti-Hyena world relied on, stood before Johnson with a file on all his direct reports. Johnson had called Raab to whom Younger reported and told him he was calling Younger. Raab didn’t care two hoots what it was for. He was wondering about his own swollen arse.
Younger’s file this time was full of sparing truths and Johnson read them one by one:
Rt Dhon Dominic Rennie Raab: ’74 born Secretary of State and Foreign Affairs. At ‘affairs’, Johnson gulped as always, but continued. Raab was promoted by May to a cabinet role and for exiting EU but he resigned in four months on an agreement he only was negotiating. Subterfuge! Johnson smiled approvingly in spite of his frowning arse. Then he read about how Raab paid a bomb in an out of court settlement to silence a b…. Good. So there’s enough dope on him to keep him on a tight leash. And he’s stood with Johnson on Brexit even though he had contested against Johnson in the conservative sweepstakes. Johnson liked such men. He could relate to them, figure them out, and even be a step ahead. Because Raab is actually quite an ass. Nearly lost his own Conservative safe seat despite a Tories surge, and also struggled under sharp shooter Cameron. This seems like the guy to deputize the shit to.
Still Johnson glanced out of interest at a couple of more file notes.
Rt Dhon Rishi Sunak: educational pedigree but playing second fiddle to Raab, too staid for today’s Blighted Kingdom, a joke to be pulled down by a laughing Satan at will, capitalism poster boy scrubbed daily with its commode brush, hair pasted even in bed, grin practised in a concave mirror so that it delivers better. Quietly butters his toast but is well past his Nirvana. This guy cannot rule, cannot represent, cannot usurp. Was only good for releasing Sajid Javid, a scary Islamic careerist who had nothing against Islamophobia. Dangerous. Which is why Johnson had used Dominic Cummings to get him out. Cummings replaced him with Sunak. But Sunak is okay. He’s happy to be under someone’s arse. And he’s qualified too. Typical American desi Ivy league type. Only an oily Finance, Economics and Banking guy would pay money to dead bodies lost to herd immunity crafted by Godfather Cummings.
Rt Dhon Michael Gove: he scanned through fast but was left with one thought. There’s something about a man who comes third all the time. And a man who can’t choose between Labour and Conservative. And of course the disloyalty comment on him by Cameron. That was still haunting Johnson. But May’s enemies became his February friends. Something so sexy about promiscuous February.
Rt Dhon Alok Sharma: too staid, too stable. Why on earth is he in politics. Worse, he might just solve the damn problem and take it over. Johnson needed a guy who would screw up while he was away so that when he returned, he would play saviour.
Rt Dhon Priti Sushil Patel: PR and tobacco lobbyist, washed in honey till honey is all there is. Failed in the 2005 general elections but Cameron saw some promise. Johnson winked. Cameron and he had much in common besides even Bullingdon Club. Patel was involved with a book (couldn’t have been co-author. Ballocks!) where they spoke of the British being the worst idlers in the world. Hasn’t she been to native Hindia, Johnson winked at Younger. Got a Jewel of Gujarat award in Ahmedabad! Younger and Johnson cackled uncontrollably till Johnson began to cough. He read on. She supported Cameron’s plan to bomb targets in Islamic Syria. How predictably Patel is that. Met Modi a few times. Naturally. Had secret meetings in Israel without telling Foreign office. Bloody Pateli. Wanted to give aid money to Israeli Army. Holy fuck! Defended herself – how can Johnson forget – by saying he, as Foreign Secretary then, knew about it. Scary that was. Theresa May called her and roasted her and made her go even after she apologised idiotically. How bloody Patelian is that. He liked her. When she made an idiotically insensitive statement that implied Blighton should take advantage of Ireland’s fear of food shortages, he was clear he had found his Home Secretary. A bagful of misdeeds and controversies – how bloody Patelful – this one is easy to control, he thought. But to hand over the reins to her is like handing over the bridals and reins of the horse to the horse itself. And you have to have one heck of a humour to import the Gujarati brand of austerity which when Patelite, can actually be seen when you zoom in to a miserable looking fellow’s face with drool dripping down his lapel and when you zoom out you will see his misshapen belly like that of stuffed kangaroo and as you zoom out more you see that bedraggled moneybag full-length in a check shirt with striped trousers and green shoes, seated inside a Phantom bought from a State Bank of India loan availed for business. And by his side, you will see a gigantic lardaceous oval with a small circle for a head, dripping in gold with diamonds on the ears that at first seem like spotlights, as they head together – hippo husband and whale wife – to the Jain temple of austerity. Ah yes, the Patels are technically not Jains, but the Jains are pretty Patelian, as are Modis and Shahs. Hmm, said Johnson to himself. Will keep her on the bench for now. These Patels I say. And that Sunak. Banking and vote-banking that’s all they’re good for. No. 2 my arse. I go with Dominic he decided. And he called. Hi there ol’ chappie! he half-boomed in his cracked voice. And Raab croaked back after recent recovery. And that’s how Raab became the Deputy Disaster in Command.
Ten days later, on April 5, Johnson was admitted to St Thomas hospital and on the 6th he was in the ICU. Hump offered to help him as though he didn’t need help himself. Hump is like the last Mughal who will pay income tax without income so that no one knows. And as though he had anything even close to NHS! Even though what Johnson and his capitalist predecessors have done is to hump the NHS and attempt to privatize it till it resembles the tattered underwear of Hump’s own disastrous health delivery. And no amount of applause will alter the fact. Anyway. But after Hump, Toady called from Hindia and offered to send Lotus flowers (also the symbol of his looney party) with roots forgetting they grow in shit, some Gujarati sweet rice laced with Hydroxychloroquine. Before he offered to send cow dung and cow piss, Johnson, on the pretext of coughing, hung up. So scared was he now with the quality of right-wing benefactors, that Johnson made a speedy recovery while Raab and his cronies made sure he met his goals by screwing up such that he looked like a saviour on his return. On April 9th, they pulled a pipe out of his arse, spring cleaned his genitals for spring and shoved him out of the ICU before he infected the nurses. On April 12, they quickly discharged him to keep the nurses safe. And off he went to Sucker’s Court in the country side (the 1500-acres country home that only a sucker of a tax payers would fund for a supposedly serving Prime Moron of the Blighted Kingdom) to recuperate with his pregnant wifi (rearranged to mean almost-wife) while the death toll in the Blighted Kingdom crossed 10,000. On April 27th he returned to work, if you want to really call what he does – work.
Stop laughing.
There’s a pandemic on, dammit.
Because the shoe is now on the other foot.
Dictators are benevolent now and democracy a machinating farce.
Imagine, singing this one today:
When Britain first at heaven’s command
Arose from out the azure main;
This was the charter of the land
And guardian angels sang this strain:
“Rule, Britannia! rule the waves
“Britons will never be slaves.”
The nations not so blessed as thee,
Must, in their turn, to tyrants fall;
While thou shall flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
“Rule Britannia! Rule the waves:
“Britons will never be slaves”
Well, well.
The Queen is following the lockdown. And Dominic Cummings is beyond it.
Still.
No.
No, the sun has not set on the British empire.
It has gone two steps further. Let’s not repeat how deep inside it has gone and where. Only that pipe in St Thomas Hospital knows. But Johnson will not let it rest, the sun, I mean. For orifices are things he knows better than the back of his hand.
So let the sun be where it is.
He will create another one.
Hope will sing everywhere again.
Soon will be one more son. Oh blimey! This typo!
‘Horus’ is inspired by Egyptian mythology. He was the son of the goddess Isis and she created him after assembling all the body parts of her dead husband Osiris except his penis which was eaten up by a catfish in the river Nile. Other accounts say she fashioned a phallus by resurrecting Osiris and used it to give birth to her son Horus. However, on ‘Horus’, the urban dictionary is more direct. And since it is all about the immortal penis, the sun and the son, the author had a Eureka moment and chose this name for the hero of the parody.
Set in the years following the Mexican Revolution, El Llano in Flames is a collection of stark and violent short stories translated by Stephen Beechinor.
It’s the first book to be published by Structo Press and was recently longlisted for the Republic of Consciousness Prize. You might at first think it’s an unusual choice for a first. It’s not an easy read, but it is worthwhile.
It’s not by a famous or living author, although it turns out Juan Rulfo came highly recommended by Gabriel García Márquez, who compared the timelessness of his writing to that of Sophocles. And these stories have, I’ve been told, earned their place as classics in Latin American literature.
I’m not surprised.
In the collection, originally published in 1953 in Mexico City, Juan Rulfo tells the stories of the rural poor – those who didn’t benefit from the Revolution which took place between 1910 and 1920.
It’s the story equivalent to a dusty old gummed-up photo album, where nameless dead people stare out from moody sepia, eyes flecked with panic.
The book begins with “They gave us land”, which follows a group of people making their way through the desert…
“…out walking since dawn. By now it must be about four in the afternoon. Someone cranes up at the sky, strains his eyes towards where the sun hangs…”
We’re not sure where they’re going or why. But we’re dragged with them, with each laboured step, as the prose pulsates like blood pressure rising in the hot sun.
This is one of the recurring features of these stories: vivid scene setting and atmosphere, told in a simple sparing style that reminded me of early Ernest Hemingway short stories, except these had more colour.
There were many moments while I was reading that I felt compelled to pause, go back and reread and relive. Many pictures from this book that I can still see and believe will stay with me.
This is Juan Rulfo’s only collection of short stories, and while they are unified by time and place, they differ hugely in style and structure.
“Paso de Norte” is written mostly as a script. A kind of bookended symmetry wraps around “At first light”, where the beauty of nature and simple rural life is tainted by incest and violence.
The title story, “El Llano in flames” sits at the centre of the book depicting a battle in a rhythm that pushes you forward and echoes the sharp shooting of war. “Remember” lulls you in, confides in you with small town gossip. While “Macario” is a matter-of-fact account of being “jammed full of demons” told by a psychopathic child.
Many of the stories border on torturous, and this collection is never an easy read. Apparently The Guardian said you could read it in two days. I wouldn’t advise that – especially not in lockdown. It might give you nightmares. And anyway, why rush a good book?
Take your time and savour it. Let it drag you along with its sepia characters, and jam you full of demons as you follow their laboured steps.
El Llano in flames is published in the UK by Structo Press.
Liberty Inn, Room 42
Once alone, you wedge a cigarette in your mouth, the room still your domain for the next fifteen minutes. Because it’s paid for the hour. Because you deserve it.
Like every Thursday, loose change hitting the glass ashtray chimed the start of your forty-five minutes together, because even if he was there to fuck in a seedy motel he still had to carefully drape his trousers over the back of the chair first.
Told you his name was Mike, but you’d peeked at the driver’s licence in his wallet, his lie on display, tucked next to the picture of his wife and kids.
Because he always wanted it the same way you knelt in the space he’d created for you – the parting of the pasty flesh he called his thighs. Ready to receive him you looked up and opened wide; his gaze lifted to the ceiling. As you took his warmth in your mouth your knees pushed against the boxers bunched around his ankles, and you wondered if his wife ironed them for him.
Because he’d told you once, I don’t love her anymore, but you’ve never believed any words men say whenever some part of them is inside you.
As you swallow the smoke, your lungs constrict around it like the orgasm they never give you. Your free hand dives under the line of your underwear, brushing the soft flesh apart – they always prefer their women smooth like girls.
As you wipe your fingers on the covers afterwards, the face of Mike’s wife floats in your mind with her pinched smile and fifty-dollar haircut, who does everything right and still ends up with a husband who opens his legs for you once a week. Because if there’s no prize for good girls then promiscuity is a legit money-maker.
What do we say, Mallory?
It’s a hundred bucks. For ten more, I’ll call you Daddy…
*
Girls Bathroom, Lincoln High
Amid the smack of lips slick with reapplied gloss, Janine and Kelly called you a slut, knowing you sat in the locked stall behind them.
Because last week you’d slouched on the fake leather sofa in Scott Delano’s basement among all the toys to entertain teenage boys – giant TV, PlayStation, weight bench, booze. Because you’d drunk from a bottle of vodka which had travelled between you, him and two of his friends. You didn’t really know Scott, he was your brother’s friend, but it’d sounded cool when he invited you to hang out. You just hadn’t expected the other two.
Because the bottle always swung back to you too quickly, because the vodka was too warm, and because the world of the basement shrank with every sip until all that was left was the sofa on which somehow all four of you were slumping on. Because you leaned in to reach and the sag of your low-cut top smiled at them.
What do we say, Mallory?
…
Because the words, stodgy with alcohol, stuck to the roof of your mouth. Because they hadn’t asked so you’d never had a chance to say no. Like the dummy in that first aid class last month, you were just a warm body to practise the porn they’d watched on their computers. Because saying no isn’t a long enough word anyway to capture the attention of teenage boys.
Because you’d been drowning inside the blaring hits from MTV, you’d tethered yourself to a crack slithering across the ceiling, a fault line amid the earthquake. Maybe if you were lucky, the shocks from their inexperience would collapse the ceiling, bury you under rubble. Because you were never that lucky, the ceiling stayed put, and Scott stayed on top of you, and his breath stayed in your mouth and his hands stayed under your shirt. Because you closed your eyes so in the makeshift darkness they’d blurred until you couldn’t tell when one finished and the others started.
You swung the stall door open, but instead of tears you showed Janine and Kelly your teeth and middle finger. Because girls like them would waste a lifetime learning what you already knew – that the good grades, the say-please-and-thank-you, the keeping-your-legs-shut, it was all BS.
Because back that night in that teenager cave, Kurt Cobain had whined through the speakers “Here we are now, Entertain us…”
What do we say, Mallory?
Load up on guns, bring your friends…
*
2544 Ridgemont Drive
You didn’t believe in God but that day you had faith.
Because you’d done everything right. Because you said, thank you, Miss Hannigan, before going back to your desk, the paper gold star shimmering in your hands. Because your mom smiled as she stuck your badge of good behaviour on the fridge.
As soon as your daddy arrived you pulled at his sleeves so he wouldn’t miss the proof you were a good girl, and he wouldn’t have to remind you anymore. Because he only grunted in response as he grabbed a beer, the star disappearing behind the swing of the door.
Because when everybody watched TV after dinner, you snuck into the kitchen to retrieve your talisman and pin it to your bedroom door. Because cowboys had stars in the movies that always stopped the villains.
But it didn’t work. Because he still tiptoed inside your room after the house was lost to sleep. The whine of the door, the creak of your single bed as he climbed on top of you, the only sounds in the darkness. Because movies lied, not even a gold star could stop the Lion swinging on its chain above your face in rhythm with his whispered “You’re a good girl”. Because with nowhere to go you fled inside yourself. There was a trick to it. Like the magician’s assistant who stepped into that shiny wardrobe on stage, you climbed into the little one you had built inside your head.
What do we say, Mallory?
It doesn’t fucking matter.
Femi stood at the door quietly, his wife was having tea with the Queen again. The room oozed wealth. The curtains were of solid linen, the furniture was off the finest wood. The jade green Persian rug complimented the bed frame with its king sized bed.
There was his wife, dressed in a gown with white pearls around her neck. It was a gift from him on her last birthday. The curtains were drawn open which let in light from the hot sun. Femi stepped in to see his wife sitting with tea cups displayed on the table. Another chair stood beside her that she continuously talked too. The chair was empty, there was no Queen.
He coughed to catch her attention. She looked at him then back at the empty chair before standing up . They ended up in a tight embrace in the middle of the room. He knew something had shattered in his wife’s head, the drugs that filled the cupboard testified to that.
He could not blame her, losing three children in a car crash had not been easy on him either.
It might be a surprise to Europeans or any citizen of a developed country, but it shouldn’t be to any Brazilians. Last night, the video of a major cabinet meeting of president Bolsonaro was revealed and what it really showed was an unequivocal intent, from the president, to apply an armed coup over my nation. In his own words, Bolsonaro is arming the population for a civil war. He said it with every word. There were many signs before. He recently revoked the need for tracking large amounts of ammunition sales.
The video was, aside from all the profanity being said – which isn’t the most important aspect at all – a shocking display of hypocrisy, egocentrism, and most of all, of a vicious and authoritative government agenda. Every part showed its real intentions. Bolsonaro, to arm the population – aka his militias and extremist supporters – for an armed coup; Ricardo Salles, the minister of environment, to “take advantage of the pandemic” – in his own and every word – to pass out decrees to destroy the Brazilian Amazon forest; Paulo Guedes, minister of economy, “to profit from money-lending to big companies and not help small companies, cause that would make us lose money” and a few others, including the minister of education urging to arrest every supreme court minister.
My country is under siege and I fear it has already been taken, because I woke up today and they are all in the same exact place. Like it’s been happening for a long time. A war of information, via social media, has made millions of Bolsonaro zombies that can’t be brought back, just like “walking deads”. Bolsonaro claims he wants to arm the people to avoid a military coup. What a joke! The great fallacy in his argument is that no one else wants to launch a coup, but himself and his allies!
His ratings were diminishing and the supreme court and the media finally decided to make a stand against him – which are the only hope we have left. But his outrages grow by the week and so far even the more than twenty thousand deaths that had fallen from the virus haven’t been able to stop him. They have become involuntary martyrs against Bolsonaro and there was absolutely no concern for them in the dreadful video we saw. None. We are ruled by a group of psychopaths with no empathy for human life.
Once more, Brazil is on the verge of a dictatorship.
I’m going on a date for the first time in twenty-five years. The last time I went on a date it was 1993: pre internet, pre craft-gin, pre avocado-on-toast. I hadn’t even heard of Judith Butler.
I’m not sure what I want out of dating and my inner feminist is nervous. She’s been very much in charge for the past four years and she is threatened by this unexpected development: “You’re going to go all man-pleasing,” she nags. “You’re going to start adapting your personality to his.”
“I’m not,” my inner heteronormative-man-pleaser wheedles, “not this time. I’ve learned a lot. It’s more like taking on another hobby: choir, running, dating. It’ll be fun.”
I’ve excavated a date outfit from the mid-life crisis of my wardrobe: I’m going for understated cool and effortless glamour. I’ve moisturised and applied all the makeup I own (six pieces). I’ve blow-dried my hair with a brush and I’m looking pretty hot. My inner feminist rolls her eyes at our reflection in the mirror. “You’re internalising the male gaze, you sell-out.” She’s very wry. But we like to win and we’re storming the patriarchal stronghold of heterosexuality. We need to be fully armed.
A week ago, I created a profile on a couple of popular dating sites. All the advice tells you not to mention previous relationships, religion or politics. I described myself as a politically engaged atheist, a left-leaning, environmentally conscious mother of three, four years out of a two-decade marriage who enjoys reading, fell walking and singing in a choir. I’d date me: OkCupid would give us a 93% compatibility rating. I struggled to find any photos of myself, so I opted for two taken at bootcamp and a third from Christmas last year. I’m wearing one of my favourite fair isle winter knits. My inner feminist encouraged me to view my profile as a filtering opportunity.
Despite my best efforts, an attractive, single man of my age has volunteered to meet me at a local pub with a garden and craft ales. He manages, for an entire three hours, to be charming, adult and funny. And so do I. We rock the date. But the biggest surprise of the evening is that, for the first time in many, many, many years, I feel that unmistakable quickening of the pulse and the dopamine rush of biblical lust. At the end of the night, as we say goodbye, he leans in and kisses me. I’m forty-four and I’m being kissed under a sky full of stars on a summer’s evening. I seem to have fallen into yet another brilliant activity open to single people in their forties.
“I told you this was a good idea,” I crow at my inner feminist.
And it really was. I dated a few men over the summer and what I discovered is that dating as a wizened forty-something feminist is much more empowering than dating as a shiny anxious twenty-something. This time round, I’m less worried about whether they like me (that’s for them to puzzle out) but I am curious and open to what I feel about them, whether we connect, who they are, what their perspectives are on politics, family, Brexit, running, veganism, #MeToo. Happily, all the men I meet are interesting and flatteringly interested in me. My inner feminist protects me from inauthenticity because she is seeking connection: she doesn’t need a relationship, but she’s interested in the possibility that she might want one. And I need some protection from the truism that life is “better together”. Although the heteronormative catechism has grudgingly accepted that it’s preferable to be happily single than unhappily in a relationship, it still recoils from the idea of happily single. Having been single for nearly half of my forties, I’m baffled by this. In most ways being single is much easier than being in a relationship, even a good one.
Whether or not the dates lead to another date, they are all time well spent. After all, how often do you get to trade stories with men whose lives parallel your own while flirting with the delicious possibility of sexual connection?
Don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate what makes mid-life dating so terrifying. We know how dark human beings can be; we know we are making ourselves vulnerable to further rejection and disappointment; we know how hard we can fall and how long it can take to pick ourselves back up and limp on. Yet this is precisely what makes them such luminous acts of courage and hope.
As I navigate this anachronistic landscape of middle-aged dating, it begins to dawn on me that the marriage-and-kids narrative of relationships has no place here. At first this is disorienting but then liberating: there is an opportunity to unshackle our relationships from what is, after all, a patriarchal construct. If we have learnt little else by now, we understand that life is an uncertain process and the “soul mate” discourse dominating dating stems from an ideology which aggressively and effectively annexes the uterus for male reproductive purposes. So rather than seeking definition and certainty in these familiar narratives surely, it is more adult and egalitarian to embrace contingency. To enter relationships in a respectful spirit of creative negotiation, to bring kindness, humour and gentleness to this most intimate and exposing of human interactions?
Who better to drive this than our inner feminist? Women are great at relationships: it’s our domain. So if you are fortunate enough to find yourself sipping a decent tempranillo across the table from some man who is engaging, respectful and makes the blood sing in your veins, perhaps view it as an opportunity to spark a bolder, brighter story of relationships, whether they last two hours, two months, two years or two decades. And don’t be afraid to make the first move, because I don’t think any of us really understand why we show up; these are new stories, waiting to be written.
I passed a flatbed truck on I-81 a few hours ago, a truck that bore on its flatness this monstrous piece of, I assume, equipment. The thing was massive and rusted and flared out in all directions with endless sprockets and gears and springs, levers, turbines, bolts.
I wondered about its possible use, no doubt industrial, maybe military . . . it almost resembled the skeleton of some ancient alien beast, the sort of thing space travelers encounter in the movies when they move in to explore some erratic blips on their oscilloscopes.
If women ruled the world, I thought, no such behemoth would have been constructed; or if we had remained proto-human, the thing, sunken in some bog, might be worshipped. I glance over at the driver of the truck as I passed. He wore a baseball cap and a cigar butt dangled from his lip as he thumped the dash with his free palm to some music I could not hear.
Why do I presume country?
He seemed an ordinary enough fellow hauling a cargo of pure evil to a hive of clandestine saboteurs— merely the delivery boy who, if questioned, might snap I don’t know nothing.
And at this moment I spin backwards in time to a cave in Cumae where the sibyl, enshrouded in incense and smoke, intones gibberish we once took as wisdom.
We dismiss such muttering as superstition, magic, primitive, worthless babble; we deem the monstrosity as progress. We flick on the lights and our houses shine.
Thursday, March 19, 2020
For the last two days prior to the start of spring break, my mom and I frantically worked to cancel our flights, hotels, and Airbnbs in Italy and throw together a new trip. A couple of days before, we discovered that the coronavirus, which originated in Wuhan, China and had since only spread to several other Asian countries, had broken out in northern Italy. Though we were planning to travel to southern Italy where there were no confirmed cases, we feared flying into Rome and the possibility of any restrictions returning to the United States. And so, on the morning we were set to depart for Italy, we called United Airlines, were able to receive a refund on the flights despite the airline’s policy of denying refunds for economy tickets, and booked new flights to Madrid departing the next day.
That was when Italy had 330 cases of COVID-19.
Now, the total number of cases in Italy has surpassed 41,000.
Flying into Madrid Airport, I felt chilled as I spotted numerous travelers wearing blue and white masks on their faces. Nevertheless, Spain only had around sixteen cases of the coronavirus, and most were concentrated in the north rather than the southern region of the country where my mom and I were headed. Though I obsessively checked the growing number of cases in Spain, as we explored the country’s southern cities and remote beaches, I felt somewhat detached from the threat of the virus (well, that’s not completely true, as I did experience anxieties when we were in crowded areas). I saw very few Spaniards and tourists wearing masks, and the historic sites of the cities were still attracting hundreds of tourists.
After we had spent about a week in Spain, we drove to the southernmost point of the country, Tarifa, parked our rental car, and boarded a ferry headed to Morocco. Although the cases of coronavirus had risen steadily in Spain and in other nations around the world whilst we were in Europe, it seemed that during the last week of our travels the numbers shot up. While we felt safe knowing that Morocco only had six active cases of the virus, it was frightening to watch the total cases rise, especially near Madrid, where we were supposed to depart from.
Phone calls and messages from family members increasingly streamed in, their voices laced with panic and uncertainty. Videos revealing empty shelves in grocery stores throughout the United States were streamed on every social media platform. Schools across the country announced that they would be switching to virtual learning. True chaos erupted when the President announced a travel ban on Europe, and family members panicked that we would not be able to return home, unaware that the ban did not apply to American citizens. And, the day before we were set to leave from the city of Marrakesh and return to Spain via ferry, where we had left our rental car to drive back to the city of Madrid, we discovered that Morocco had banned all travel to and from Spain.
After countless unsuccessful attempts to contact our airline and rental car company due to their being bombarded with calls relating to the virus and also difficulties with international dialing, desperate to get back to the United States and to quell the anxieties of family members anxious for us to return (even though quite frankly we felt safer in Morocco than the United States due to its low number of cases), we booked a flight out of Casablanca and back to the United States.
The airport was packed with travelers, many of whom wore masks or covered their noses and mouths with their hijabs, and a few who donned plastic gloves. A frenzied mob crowded behind the AirFrance counter in reaction to Morocco’s ban, and many sat on their luggage or lay outstretched on the hard floor. The acerbic scent of hand sanitizer permeated the air. Aboard the airplane, passengers vigorously rubbed their tray tables with disinfectant wipes. A single cough or sneeze incited nervous looks among nearby travelers.
Upon arriving at Miami airport, my mom and I were part of a large group set aside by customs officials since we had traveled to Europe in the past fourteen days. What we thought was going to be “testing” actually meant being escorted into a small, overcrowded room full of travelers and airport security guards and being asked about our travels while a man slowly typed the information into a computer. It involved no temperature taking, no questions about any possible symptoms, and no information regarding any need to self-quarantine. It seemed to me to be quite counterintuitive, since drastic measures have been enacted to limit gatherings of people, to have so many recent travelers squashed into a tiny room simply to gather information about where they have been and as opposed to their health and to not provide suggestions regarding self-isolating.
Now, as I sit in my bedroom typing, I am filled with a myriad of questions that no doubt hundreds of other individuals across the globe are pondering as well. How long will these draconian measures last? When will things return to normal? Will the virus subside within a few months and ‘social distancing’ come to a close, or is a greater period of time needed to ensure that the virus poses no threat to society? Only time will tell.
My doctor’s office quietly shut its doors, sending out letters to all patients that it had been absorbed by a local mega-healthcare company with a not so hot reputation. They had recently rebranded themselves with the fancy, sanctimonious sounding French name, “Bonne Santé”, and proceeded to improve their brand by buying up all the reputable local doctors and putting them under their single roof. They built a new building to house these doctors, shaped it in that typical neo-geometrical, baffling modern style with mostly glass walls, resembling a square building block with a sphere sitting on top of it and a triangle laying on its side for a roof. I could no longer reach my doctor directly, and instead had to go through a switchboard of numerous individuals dwelling somewhere in that glass maze to even make an appointment.
So when Covid-19 hit, I started having symptoms. It was like the worse cold I’ve ever had, with bouts of breathlessness once or twice a day. I secretly hoped to just die so that I didn’t have to deal with this merged, corporatized health care company that I knew was always a confusing mess to accomplish anything with. It was a brave thought, but like most brave thoughts it was quickly abandoned when I actually faced the real fear of dying when the breathing trouble increased. So I sighed and called the healthcare conglomerate.
There was only one other person in my county who had Covid-19 at the time, he was prominently featured in the local paper. He was an older man, a total shut-in who rarely left his house, who had no idea how he caught it. That, oddly, sounded just like me.
I called my doctor’s mega-office, only to be told by a nervous, distracted, and somewhat insecure sounding receptionist that no doctors in the company were seeing any patients who had any cold or flu like symptoms due to fear of spreading the infection. She said that in a few days a special flu and cold center would be opening to handle all these cases. She suggested I call them. I asked if there was anything more she could possibly do, and she basically gave me a wavering answer that amounted to, “Well, I don’t know.”
“But … there’s only one person in the county who has it,” she tried to assure me, “and you said you don’t go out a lot, and haven’t come into contact with anyone who had it, right?” she asked, trying to sound optimistic.
“Yeah but … the guy who got it didn’t go out a lot, or have contact with anyone who had it either,” I countered.
“Yeah, so, you should be fine!” she said quickly, and then ended the call, either oblivious to or purposefully ignoring my point.
I sighed as I hung up the phone and began immediately dialing the cold and flu clinic. After waiting on hold for an hour, I got through to someone who told me to contact my local doctor if I needed treatment.
I explained I can’t contact my local doctor, for one, but my local doctor’s mega-conglomerate corporation that lords over him had told me to call their number.
She simply repeated that I needed to contact my local doctor. I hung up the phone.
I dropped the matter for several days, once again reasserting my desire to just die rather than have to deal with any more corporate healthcare bureaucratic runaround. That idea was dashed once again, when I woke up one morning, completely out of breath, and feeling like I was going to faint.
I immediately called the doctor’s conglomerate. They told me to call the cold and flu clinic again, even though I explained I already had, but it was no use.
I called the cold and flu clinic again, and was on hold for an hour and a half. Somehow, probably totally unintentionally by the health care company, I think my breathing got easier as I listened to Crocodile Rock on a loop, for dozens of times, playing from the recorded on-hold system.
“Hello, the is the cold and flu clinic hotline,” somebody finally greeted me, “I have no information on Covid-19 or any Covid-19 testing, how may I help you?”
“Um,” I said, “Well, I’m pretty sure I have Covid-19.”
“I have no information on Convid-19 or Covid-19 testing,” she repeated robotically, sounding very bored and irritated by having to repeat herself.
“Well … I just want to know what I should do…” I said, unsure how to phrase what I meant. If the fever, lack of sleep, and breathlessness wasn’t enough to affect my coherence, then the heavy dose of narcotic cough syrup I’d been taking had amply made me a stammering, awkward mess.
She repeated again, “I have no information on Covid-19 or—”
“Ok! Ok!” I cut her off. Then sighed. Then hung up the phone.
I looked around on the health care company’s bloated, colorful website, and eventually found a number for a Covid-19 hotline, advertising that it should be called, “For Covid-19 concerns, information, and if you think you’ve been infected.”
Strangely, the on-hold system to this number sounded exactly the same as the one for the cold and flu clinic, playing Crocodile Rock over and over again, this time I think my breathing got worse as I listened, and my head spun as I was growing slowly furious.
I was on hold for an hour, when I was greeting by the exact same voice, “Hello, this is the Covid-19 hotline, I have no information on Covid-19 or Covid-19 testing, how may I help you?”
I was silent for quite a while, as I don’t think I ever heard anything as blatantly contradictory as that before. “I’m sorry…” I said, “I thought I dialed the Covid-19 hotline,”
“Yes, this is the Covid-19 hotline,” she affirmed, “But I have no information on Covid-19 or Covid-19 testing.”
“Ok…” I said, unsurely.
“Now, how may I help you?” she asked.
“I don’t know…” I said, my face straining into a confused, red grimace, “…how can you?”
There was a long, almost stunned silence, lasting several seconds, only broken by slight static on the line.
“I can give you information on Flu A, or B,” she suggested, finally.
“Ok,” I said, “sure.” At this point, anything would be progress.
She proceeded to take me through a checklist of flu symptoms, the sort of thing you can (and I had) find on the internet, which already told me that I didn’t have flu symptoms, but rather, textbook Covid-19 ones. She seemed to focus in on the fact that I had a fever, more than anything.
“Well if you’ve had a fever for this long, you need to get some treatment!” she finally said, almost chastising, almost accusing me of not taking my health seriously.
“Well … yeah, I know. That’s why I’m calling,” I said, overtly sarcastic.
“Have you called your doctor?” she said.
I closed my eyes, squinted them hard, shook my head in frustration, and loudly sighed into the phone.
“Don’t be sighing at me like that, motherfucker!” she suddenly growled into the phone, her phony polite attitude dropped, and her inner-city accent burst into the phone with a fury; my sigh apparently hitting a raw nerve. Throughout this call, throughout my many calls, I suppose it didn’t occur to me that she might be just as frustrated with this dysfunctional health care system as I was. I mean, here was a lady who was being asked to staff a Covid-19 hotline with no information on Covid-19 whatsoever, I’m sure she probably had boisterous and openly rebellious things to say about it around their lunchroom.
“Just answer my question!” she demanded. “HAVE-YOU-CALLED-YOUR-DOCTOR!”
“Yes! Yes!” I defended myself. “Several times! They keep telling me to call you!”
“Mmm,” she grunted contemptuously, as if she knew exactly what sort of game was being played here. “Well I will put a flag on your file saying you need to be seen immediately.”
“Ok, wow,” I said, suddenly amazed that somebody was actually doing something for me. “Well, thanks!”
“That’s no problem,” she assured me, “Now you just call your doctor tomorrow and say you called the triage nurse and she said you need to be seen right away, and don’t let them tell you any different!”
“Oh, are you a triage nurse?” I asked.
“Hush, baby,” she said.
“Ok,” I said.
“Then you make sure they see you right away, I got your file updated now,” she said. We exchanged closing pleasantries, and I hung up.
The next day, sure enough, when I called to see my doctor, they immediately suggested I call the cold and flu clinic hotline. I explained to her the days long phone tag I’ve been playing between they two, not the easiest thing to do when short on breath and whacked out on syrup, by the way, and that I finally spoke to a triage nurse who insisted I needed to be seen.
She told me I still had to call the cold and flu clinic, in order to be seen.
In a somewhat short breathed, fever hazy, and manic way, I think I insisted to her that this was the last phone call I was going to make, and she needed to figure this all out for me, right here, right now. Then I started crying.
“Well … I mean, I could preregister you at the clinic and you could just go down there,” she suggested.
“Yes! Good! Fine!” I exclaimed. “That works!”
“Alright, well let’s just do that,” she said and I heard the clicking of a keyboard.
“Was that really that hard?” I asked, wiping away the angry hot tears from my eyes.
“No, I mean, but…” she said, and I swear I could almost feel her shrug through the phone, as she trailed off and didn’t give any further explanation.
She took down my information, and gave me the clinic’s address. I drove down there, noticing that driving isn’t as easy as you might think when you’re short on breath and seeing fractal trailing hallucinations from cough syrup. I pulled into the clinic’s lot, and noticed it wasn’t any sort of purpose built hospital or clinic building, no modern baffling all glass architecture here, but rather looked like a dingy foreclosed house that they hastily had turned into a medical building.
I stepped out of my car, walking towards the clinic door, when I was suddenly halted.
“Stay inside your car, please!” a powerful,
authoritative voice suddenly shouted from across the lot.
I looked over. There was a
security guard. Armed. Looking right at me. His body tensed, his hand resting
on the butt of his pistol. He was wearing surgical gloves, a breathing mask,
and a plastic face shield. It dawned on me they were really taking this
pandemic thing seriously.
I dashed back inside my car. The security guard came over and asked my basic info through my halfway down window. Standing a good five feet away from me, he passed a blue and white surgical mask to me.
“Blue part, in! White part, out! Metal part up!” her barked out with a routine military cadence. “You will wear your mask at all times! Do you understand?” he demanded.
I nodded, and he disappeared.
Half an hour later, he appeared again, and hastily motioned to me through my windshield to get out and follow him.
“Don’t touch anything!” he said, “Don’t open doors, I’ll open them for you!”
I wordlessly agreed as I followed. He quickly ushered me into the building, we passed directly through a waiting room, which was really just an old, vinyl floored living room with a picnic table set up as a reception desk. An elderly woman was in here, arguing with a receptionist that her husband was unable to wear a breath mask, because he was dependent on a ventilator to breath. The receptionist kept repeating that he simply could not come in without a mask, no exceptions.
We cruised right through this room, into the tiny cramped hallways of this small ranch house. Darting around this cramped space were nurses and lab workers wearing fully body purple and yellow paper suits, made out of the same material of the little bib that the dentist straps to your chest, along with purple surgical gloves, and face shields with goggles underneath. They hastily moved up and down the hallway, me jumping out of their way, afraid to touch them, as they bounced from room to room with antlike speed and direction. We passed through what looked like a small lab, full of testing machinery, which was set up in the kitchen area, and the guard pointed me towards an open door, that looked like it used to be a bedroom. I walked in and sat in an old wooden kitchen chair resting there. The floor in this room used to be carpeted but it had been ripped up, bare plywood now, the carpet tack strips still lining the room’s edges. Aside from my kitchen chair, an old, outdated looking doctor’s chair was in one corner, and a desk with a computer was in the other.
I only sat for a few seconds before a fully paper clad nurse came in, and said she was going to swab my nose. “I ain’t gonna’ lie, it sucks,” she said and motioned for me to lean my head back. She jammed an alcohol soaked q tip up my nose, and it felt like she shoved a burning match in. Then she bottled the swab, and left.
Minutes later, a doctor appeared, wearing her full body paper outfit, gloves, and goggles along with plastic face shield. She didn’t greet me, and hurriedly went over my symptoms as she typed into a computer.
“We got to wait for the flu results to come in, officially, but you don’t have the flu,” she told me.
“Yeah, I mean, I wasn’t worried about the flu…” I said, trying to lead her to my area of real concern.
She ignored me, then picked up her scope and stethoscope and examined me. “Definitely something viral,” she said as she sat back down and started typing again.
A nurse peeked her head in and said my flu results were negative.
“Ok,” the doctor nodded, “Definitely something viral,” she repeated, and then looked at me as if I were supposed to say something. She only waited for my response for a second,
“Ok!” she said in that familiar doctor tone when they’re about to wrap the appointment up, “Any other questions you had?”
“Well…” I said, “I mean, I kind of wanted to know if I had Covid-19.”
She only looked at me, not saying a word, for several seconds. I couldn’t gauge her reaction due to the face mask.
“I mean, that’s why I came here,” I said.
Finally she shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she said, in an impassive, matter-of-fact, and yet somehow honest tone.
“Well, I mean if I have it, I at least want to know,” I said.
“Ok, you have it,” she said, shrugging again.
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Or you don’t have it,” she said, shrugging yet again. “There’s nothing I can do, there’s no test we have access to. You’ll be better in a week, or…” she trailed off, “Either way, there’s nothing I can do for you that will make a difference.”
I nodded. I suppose, if I were honest with myself and if I could think clearly passed my fever and sleep deprived thoughts, I already knew that she was going to tell me this before I ever went to the clinic. Even if I had it, there’s no treatment, there’s no drugs. They say there isn’t going to be any for months, which really means years.
“Your oxygen level is fine,” she said, “The breathing trouble isn’t good, but you’re not dying. If it gets worse, and I mean way worse, then go to the emergency room,” she said.
I only nodded again, knowing she was just saying what I already knew.
“Ok!” she said in the wrapping-up tone again, and immediately stood up, not waiting for my response, as she went to a corner of the room and ripped off her paper outfit, throwing it into a cardboard box with a biohazard sticker pasted on it that was functioning as a makeshift trashcan. She opened the door, then slathered her bare hands and the doorknob with sanitizer, and disappeared into the hallway.
Two nurses appeared and handed me paperwork, containing information about Covid-19 that I suspected, and later confirmed, was directly copied and pasted off WebMD, urging me to quarantine myself for a full fourteen days. They ushered me out of the dingy home clinic, one behind me, one in front of me opening doors, and I could tell they were both watching me like a hawk, ready to pounce and correct me if I made a wrong step or tried to touch something, as they rushed me out the back door.
Smoke wafted passed my face as I walked outside. I look to my left, and saw the armed security guard, his face protector removed, and his masked pulled down around his neck, as he leaned against the faded slat walls of the clinic/foreclosed house and puffed on a cigarette, his guard totally down now in the erroneous, yet understandably natural assumption that the people leaving the clinic where somehow less infectious than people going in.
“How’d it go?” he nodded to me, in between puffs.
“I don’t know,” I said, “good?”
“Alright,” he nodded. “Well, good luck,” he said, and looked in a different direction away from me, signaling the conversation was over.
As I left, his words stuck with me, and I figured out why on my drive home. That would make a great fancy French name for a medical conglomerate in times like these: “Bonne Chance!”
Here are 10 of the best theatre and dance to stream on the world wide web this month under lockdown and how to tune in (times are GMT & Eastern Daylight). Some are small projects and some are big-budget, multicamera ventures. Some are free and some are not, but they all remind us why the arts matter.
SIGNIFICANT OTHER
by Joshua Harmon
Starring: Gideon Glick, John Behlmann, Sas Goldberg, Rebecca Naomi Jones, Lindsay Mendez, Luke Smith and Barbara Barrie, Directed by Trip Cullman
Jordan Berman’s best friends all are setting a date…and he can’t even get one. Now when he needs brunch plans, emergency dating advice, or just someone to commiserate and eat carbs with, he has to compete for attention with their new significant others. He’s so happy for them, but Jordan struggles to keep up with how fast everyone else is changing.
May 14, 2020 at 8pm ET
NOVEMBER
by David Mamet
Starring: John Malkovich, Patti LuPone, Dylan Baker, Ethan Phillips, Michael Nichols, Directed by David Mamet
Set a few days before the election, NOVEMBER follows the misadventures of a day in the life of U.S. president Charles Smith.
For one night only May 7, 2020 at 8pm ET
Sally Field and Bryan Cranston
LOVE LETTERS
By A.R. Gurney.
Starring: Bryan Cranston and Sally Field, Directed by Jerry Zaks
An unforgettably funny and emotional portrait about the powerful connection of love. A finalist for the Pulitzer Prize for Drama. The play centers on two characters, Melissa Gardner and Andrew Makepeace Ladd III. As they defy a fate that schemed to keep them apart and lived – through letters – for the one most meaningful thing, their undying love for each other. One night only livestream on May 21, 2020 at 8pm ET
The Homebound Project, starring actors such as Uzo Aduba, Orange is the New Black- will run for five weeks starting May 6 and will feature three editions of new, short theatre pieces that will air for four days. Each edition consists of 10 short pieces (two to five minutes long) on the same theme — starting with “home” then moving to “sustenance.” Future themes are yet to be announced.
Tickets start from $10 per edition, all proceeds will go to No Kid Hungry.
The Lincoln Centre opens its vault to explore its sterling theatrical catalog with Dominique Morisseau’s 2017 drama, “Pipeline,” which will be presented free via BroadwayHD, May 15 to 22.
BroadwayHD May 15 to 22
The National Theatre presents its At Home program, streaming shows on Thursdays at 7pm and then available for seven days. Right now, you can catch both versions of Danny Boyle’s “Frankenstein,” with Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller alternating the roles of Victor Frankenstein and his creature. On Thursday, it will be replaced by “Antony and Cleopatra,” starring Ralph Fiennes and Sophie Okonedo.
At Home program Through May 14
The Oedipus Project
On Thursday at 7 p.m., Frances McDormand, Oscar Isaac, Jeffrey Wright, Frankie Faison and John Turturro will read scenes from the Sophocles tragedy “Oedipus Rex,” in which a mad monarch confronts both a plague and thorny family issues. The performance — presented by Theater of War Productions, which specializes in drawing connections between classic texts and contemporary issues — will be followed by a moderated discussion with audience members.
The event is free but registration is required. 7 May at 7 p.m ET
Sadler’s Wells
Sadler’s Wells presents an online programme, Digital Stage, offering Friday night performances on Facebook that remain available for a week. On 15 May it showcases stunning choreography and design, Moon Water a beautifully meditative work from founding director Lin Hwai-min.
Available on Facebook – see Digital Stages for Guide and Times.
Rosie Kay’s Fantasia
A dance show made for watching during lockdown. Fantasia’s, choreographer Rosie Kay has set out to find pure joy and beauty through movement. Created with input from neuroscientists, the one-hour show is available online on 8 and 13 May on YouTube. You can watch alongside the performers and creative team, with a post show Q&A.
8 and 13 May on YouTube
Ingoma
Ballet Black’s atmospheric 2019 creation Ingoma was inspired by the 1946 South African miners’ strike. Choreographed by dancer Mthuthuzeli November, it’s an enthralling production that was nominated for an Olivier award. Available on YouTube until 10 May.
The Swan
Carlos Acosta reworks The Dying Swan (originally choreographed by Mikhail Fokine for Anna Pavlova), BRB principal dancer Céline Gittens performs the piece from her living room. Camille Saint-Saëns’s Le Cygne, from Le Carnaval des Animaux, is performed by pianist Jonathan Higgins and cellist Antonio Novais.
Watch our very special performance of The Swan. Introduced by Carlos Acosta, this “dance about life, about hope” features pianist Jonathan Higgins, cellist António Novais and Principal Céline Gittens.#HOMEFROMHOME #CULTURE IN QUARANTINE pic.twitter.com/RwlCXTZQNN
— Birmingham Royal Ballet (@BRB) April 8, 2020
“I am puzzled by narratives of belonging,” Vesna Main said in an interview with Elsewhere magazine, “I don’t think of home as a place, or a geographical region. Therefore, it can be anywhere and nowhere,” which is a good an introduction as any to her new novel, Only a Lodger … And Hardly That. The title’s borrowed from the eighteenth-century writer and composer Charles Ignatius Sancho, who gained notoriety as the first British African eligible to vote in a general election. Asked by his friend, Laurence Sterne, for an opinion on a particular political issue, he declined to comment, saying he was: “Only a lodger … and hardly that.”
Billed as a “fictional biography” (real or fictitious, we’ll come to that), the novel unpicks the lives of Main’s paternal and maternal grandparents in five separate stories. In the first, “The Eye/I”, the narrator reflects on what it means to retell one’s story. Is it possible to reduce pivotal moments from one’s past to explain personality: the kneeling on a sheet of white paper, a dislike of street urchins, an inability to memorise a poem? Were these the reasons the narrator ended up being a writer who fell in love with the dead Croatian poet, Antun Gustav Matoš?
The second story, “Acrobat”, is a lovely magical realism poem which tells of Maria’s encounters with the circus that did or did not come to town, the tightrope walker Fabrizzio she fell in love with (who flew or did not fly), and the wealthy older suitor she rejected in favour of marrying Francis.
The stories in “The Dead” and “The Poet” belong to the two grandfathers, Pavel and Francis. “The Dead” takes the form of a conventional memoir, describing Victor’s reinvention as Pavel, a home-schooled scholar, who derived pleasure from selecting and sending books anonymously to his granddaughter, the narrator of “The Eye/I”. Borrowing from Sebald, “The Poet”moves seamlessly between personal history and the wider cultural context through a series of family photographs Main compares to paintings by Leonardo Da Vinci and Edouard Manet.
In the last story, Gustav Otto Wagner, Maria’s spurned suitor, offers an outsider’s view of the Ondruš family. Besotted and beguiled, he sits with his apple strudel in the same café where Maria fell in love with the famous dead poet, Matoš, pondering the origins of Maria’s mysterious illness; whether it was caused, as her father said, by an incident at the circus which did or did not come to town.
Throughout the novel, Main employs recurring motifs to connect and deepen the narratives – Matoš’s famous poem, “The Consolation of the Hair”, white collars and white gloves make their presence felt down the years. Fact and fiction blur: the paper, the poet and the gloves are real; Pavel’s identity is borrowed; the acrobat exists only in Maria’s mind. The past cannot be pinned to a singular narrative, it belongs to many voices, has many interpretations, and many ways of telling. And this is the novel’s beauty: a fictional biography that belongs to a fictitious narrator who grew up, like Main, in Croatia; who, also like Main, loves the English language and studied Shakespeare. What difference do facts make to history? Main appears to ask.
Only a Lodger… And Hardly That is both a search for identity and a rebuttal that such a search could yield any meaning. Belonging and alienation exist side by side. In the Elsewhere interview, Main also said: “None of the characters I create in my novels or short stories is me, but I share with them their sense of alienation, the feeling of being citizens of everywhere and nowhere.”
The language is playful, sometimes dense, but always intelligent and original as Main dips in and out of the authorial voice, subject and observer. The stories can be enjoyed in their own right, but sequentially, they form a substantial work; a book which travels far beyond nineteeth-century Mitteleuropa to probe the meaning of our place in the world today; the fragile foundations that shape identity, whether chosen or inherited.
Only a Lodger . . . And Hardly That is published by Seagull Books.
You might also like these short stories written by Vesna Main, My Sinister Side and Live and Let Live.
“My name is Clementine. On the outside, I’m a blond orange. I have silicon lips, I have a Brazilian hairstyle, I drive a two-seater Mazda MX-5 convertible, gold, but inside I’m a black orange. Full of black juice.”
It is with this face-slapping introduction that we meet the flamboyant soap-opera writer Clementine, narrator of Savičević’s English Pen-award winning, Singer in the Night. Love infuses this singular tale and the lover in question, Nightingale (“‘No shit!, Nightingale and Clementine, that’s a sign. Freud would be beside himself.’”), is a poet who writes his lines on the streets of Split (quite literally – on skips, walls, etc). It is to the occupants of one of those streets – Dinko Šimunović Street to be precise, after the Croat novelist who despised urban living – that he addresses a number of letters. These letters, written one hot summer night during which the cries of an impassioned couple reach the poet’s ears, provoke disgust from the neighbourhood. Nightingale, though, is an absent figure for whom even his own mother cannot account, and so Clementine sets off in her aforementioned convertible and wantonly into the past. Because before their lives diverged into the radical (his) and the superficial (hers, though as she points out, “…gunk has moved the vast majority of people and filled their thoughts probably more than the best work of art ever could. Oh no: oh yes. That’s the way it is.”), Nightingale and Clementine made their own love on a boat which they never sailed.
This is a story about love, but it is also about making choices. Savičević’s disjointed narrative is, at times, challenging, but it becomes evident that this is exactly the author’s intention. The shifting, subjective nature of memory is examined here; perspectives are plentiful and the pages glitter with offbeat humour and playful dialogue. Clementine, for all her faults, is unfailingly likeable; hers is a tragedy that will exercise compassion.
The spectres of war haunt the landscape, unavoidable reminders of the Balkan fallouts, and death in the novel – be it the death of a relationship or of memory, is wrought with poetry (Savičević has published a number of poetry collections). Singer… could also, in some ways, be read as a critique of capitalism, a morality tale which teaches against the pursuit of the commercial, the financially lucrative. On a personal level though, it speaks to our own anxieties – forever present, presently magnified – of a breakdown of meaningful connection.
Sophie van Llewyn’s Bottled Goods also takes its reader back in time, to totalitarian ’80’s Romania. The works, while variant in theme and place, both experiment with form; Bottled Goods is a novella-in-flash, in which is contained a table detailing sacrifices necessary to flee a despotic country, and a title which is longer than its subsequent story.
The tiny tales belong to Alina, a young teacher whose brother-in-law defects to the West, leaving her and her husband vulnerable to suspicion from the authorities. The language is sensuous and magic also plays a role – the strigoi, a destructive spirit from Romanian folklore, present but not visible, could perhaps double up as metaphor for living under state control. Leaving the house, let alone leaving Romania, becomes an impossibility for Alina, dogged as she is by the Secret Service agent who invades her home weekly, expecting cake. The fear that he might demand something else is more frightening than the strigoi that disturbs her aunt’s home. Terror in a domestic setting is coupled with betrayal, with mother-daughter tensions at the heart. The magical realism element of van Llewyn’s writing comes into force here, when Alina performs a ritual that will alter the nature of that particular relationship forever.
It could be argued that van Llewyn’s magic is not given enough space in Bottled Goods, that it is secondary rather than central, but it is this quiet nod that gives it potency. Folkloric belief here is as much a part of everyday life as furniture – or the fact that your colleagues, friends and family members could at any moment hand you over to the authorities.
What is striking about these books is their treatment of life under restriction, hope on the brink of collapse. Themes of isolation – from community, family, a (n ex) partner – appear in both, be they painted bright orange or a darker shade. Like two fictitious memoirs, neither flinch from the anguish of uncertainty, from sadness or frustration – and whilst they don’t offer the kind of wishful escapism a reader might currently seek, they do capture the disorientation and fear brought about by living through crisis.
I dry flowers in the afternoons. I hang them up by their tails, let their heads droop down, plump and bulbous. The water will diffuse into the air and leave behind the dried husk: pale, brittle memory of a petal.
I pick them fresh, the flowers. If I wait until they are already past their best, when they dry the colour is already too faded and they struggle to hold their shape. I go out in the mornings, wander among the meadow and past the hedgerows. I look for all kinds. I take lavender from the garden, and from the wilder places I pick gypsophila and pampas grass.
I was a fresh, plump flower once, until you picked me and hung me up until I was dry. I think of you when I gather them, though I wish I didn’t. You often walk into my thoughts unbidden, unwelcome, just like you would walk into my bedroom. Why did you like to be in places where you were not wanted? You would think a person’s confidence would be affected when confronted so often with a woman on her knees, begging them to turn around and leave.
I use the cupboard under the stairs for drying. It needs to be cool, not warm, and dry of course. Best if it’s dark, too. Light makes the colour fade further and faster. Sometimes I sit in there, crouch under the bristly fingers of the wheat, and I inhale the sweet smell. I do not close my eyes, instead I sit and concentrate on the darkness as hard as I can, until I begin to see darker spots within the black, and darker spots still within those, and if I keep going long enough I forget myself.
The day we first met, you were carrying roses. Five of them, wrapped in a piece of brown paper. You told me you had bought them on a whim. You said that you had noticed me working in the shop before, and that when you saw the roses for sale outside the station it felt like fate. You bought them and walked as quickly as you could down the hill so that you would not have time to change your mind and turn for home, fling the roses over a hedge. Oh, how I wish you had abandoned those roses.
I, silly girl, took them with all the red cheeks and averted eyes that suited such a bold approach. I was flattered, naturally, and as soon as I got home I put the flowers in a glass vase and placed them on the window facing the street. I had seen you once or twice before, too, but until the roses, I had not noticed you.
Knowing when the flowers are dry is a bit of guesswork. I am no expert; I take them down when they feel rigid at my touch. You have to be gentle, so as to not break off a flower head, or crack a stem. I arrange them in tall, glass bottles, or create a hanging to go above the mantlepiece. Truth be told, I dry far more than I need, but somehow I cannot abide the thought of fresh flowers rotting, trampled down into the wet mud of Autumn.
I remember carrying the bouquets you gave me to the compost heap. Apology bouquets, begging bouquets, returning home drunk bouquets, seduction bouquets. I came to learn what a bouquet in your hands meant, and it was never something nice. It was never again like that first bunch of roses. Whatever sad occasion had prompted you to buy the bouquet would then hover in the house with us for as long as the flowers lasted in their slowly putrefying water. If I tried to throw them out too early you would accuse me of being ungrateful.
I hear that you gave her roses, too. At first, can you believe, I was jealous. That was before my mind cleared, and I came to feel sorry for her and the floral tributes she had inherited. In the last weeks, the flowers stopped. Empty vases dotted about the house, pregnant with threat. What threat, I was unsure. The threat that you would leave, the threat that you would stay. Then you came with the last bouquet of all: an explosion of colour. Freesias, snapdragons, alstroemeria. I did not know all the names, then, I just saw orange and yellow and red. They stayed alive for near three weeks. Fate’s joke, perhaps. Insisting that even after you left your scent remained.
I used to be fresh roses: swollen lips around the pistil. But I prefer now that I am dry flowers: they are far hardier, their beauty more dull but longer lasting. Dry flowers do not beg to be picked and, if trampled, where fresh flowers are smeared in the dirt, dry flowers only crumble into dust and fly.
Here are a few of the best events we found happening on the world wide web this weekend and how to tune in (times are GMT & Eastern Daylight).
Nothing could be more of an enemy to the live arts than social distancing. Cinemas may be closed, film festivals and live art happenings cancelled left and right, but that doesn’t mean lockdown cultural lovers need miss out on the latest and greatest happenings and film festivals. The live arts seems to be fighting back with a creative outpouring many available for free to stream online. The sort of performances and events many of us can only dream of catching and being a part of in real life.
SXSW Film Festival just got a reprieve the once-cancelled festival will now be hosted by Amazon Prime Video, a welcome treat for moviegoers as well as a relief for those filmmakers hoping to showcase their latest works. Through – May 6
Greenwich International Film Festival
Festival organisers are have put together a full slate of narrative, documentary, and short subject films during the four-day festival.
Through May 3
The Royal Opera House is bringing a programme of fine art into our living room. As part of its #OurHouseToYourHouse initiative, a major opera or ballet will be streamed every Friday at 7pm for a month.
Visit www.roh.org.uk
Maryland Film Festival Highlights.
The Baltimore-based event has launched many daring and accomplished low-budget films by young filmmakers, including Anna Biller’s second feature, “The Love Witch,” which had its U.S. première there in 2016. (It’s streaming on Kanopy, YouTube, and other services.) Through May 6th
200 stars, 24 Hours: The Call to Unite Covid-19 fundraiser. Starting Friday evening, and running for 24 hours, more than 200 celebrities and leaders — including Oprah, Julia Roberts, Quincy Jones, Common, Naomi Campbell, Questlove and President George W. Bush — will gather virtually for “The Call to Unite,” Participants will offer messages in their own ways, whether through a performance, story or prayer.
Through to Saturday at 8 p.m.EST – Midnight GMT
Where: The Call to Unite’s website and its Facebook, Instagram, YouTube and Twitter pages. Spotify will have segments available on demand during and after the event.
We’re all in need of a little levity right now, and Friday’s “Covid Is No Joke” a virtual comedy benefit might just do the trick. Will Ferrell, Chelsea Handler, Patton Oswalt, Bryan Cranston, Kerry Washington, Elizabeth Banks, Jack Black and Tenacious D, Mindy Kaling and many others will put on sketches, perform stand-up sets and more, as well as offer personal messages, to raise money for the Americares Covid-19 efforts. Sia will close the show, which is hosted by Tony Goldwyn. The first $100,000 in donations received during the event will be matched by an anonymous donor.
When: 8 p.m. EST – Midnight GMT
Where: The Americares YouTube channel and the “Covid Is No Joke” website.
Virtual Summit for Gens X, Y and Z on Rebuilding After Covid-19 the 92nd Street Y will host its first-ever virtual summit about global recovery and social transformation in the aftermath of Covid-19 — focused on generations X, Y and Z. Senator Cory Booker of New Jersey, the model and activist Emily Ratajkowski, and the comedian and actor Ramy Youssef will participate, as well as speakers from politics, journalism and entertainment. Some topics include “Leading in the Times of Crisis,” “Coping Beyond Covid: Empowering Ideas to Manage Anxiety and Stress” and “Social Media as a Tool for Good.”
When: Sunday 3 May 11 a.m.EST – 15:00 GMT
Where: 92Y Online. Register here.
Syd Shelton: Rock Against Racism – Online at Gallery Oldham
Gallery Oldham presents a UK touring exhibition of photographs by Yorkshire-born Syd Shelton capturing the legendary Rock Against Racism movement.
Rock Against Racism, online, Until 30 May 2020 Visit www.gallerygoldham.org.uk
Ongoing: The Holt/Smithson Foundation, which celebrates pioneering American land artists Nancy Holt and Robert Smithson, has kicked off Friday at The Movies, with a weekly feature film or series screened via Vimeo.
Reggie “Regg Roc” Gray, a pioneer in the Brooklyn-born street-dance style called flexn, and his dance crew the D.R.E.A.M. Ring will perform a new work, “Revelation of Proverbs,” as part of the digital program Up Close from the Shed. The dancers have filmed themselves while enclosed in different rooms to reflect the video format, which encloses them on the screen, the Shed said. The production is set to original songs by Epic B, a longtime collaborator of the D.R.E.A.M. Ring.
When: 6 p.m.EST – 22:00GMT
Where: On the Shed’s Instagram, YouTube and Facebook pages, as well as its website.
Every time I stride into the Green Room after the Leader speaks, I’m met with envious looks from lesser Lie-Makers. The “We’ve Got the Best People” guy with the bad tan, the flat-chested, unfuckable “Fake News” chick? Amateurs. I’m the biggest, boldest Lie-Maker in the room, and everyone knows it.
Jones in International Relations greets me with his usual assessing stare: How did you get so lucky? I nod, offer a quick smile. What a boring loser. He’s got the easiest job of all. Just repeat the same line over and over about “danger at the border.” My lies are poetic, subtle, slipping out between the Leader’s oily lips, a daily dose of fatherly reassurance. The less I believe my words the more everyone buys them. Best job I’ve ever had, better even than insurance underwriter. I was born for this work.
The barman pours a scotch and I settle into my leather wingback by the fire with a sigh. I’ve earned my rest. Usually a gaggle of interns wait for me, eager to pick my brain, bring me another drink. But today people are gathered around a new guy I’ve never seen before. The younger Lie-Makers hang on to his every word. What’s the big deal? Tall, stoop-shouldered like some dried-out scholar, he speaks in a thin, pinched voice. A pygmy pipsqueak. But I see danger in his eyes, creeping like some volatile germ.
“Who’s that bozo?” I ask Rivers from the Enemies Department, reading across from me.
“Him?” Looking up from his New York Post, Rivers smiles, and I glimpse rot in his mouth. “New hire.”
I look over at the new Lie-Maker. His suit is poorly-cut, his tie too narrow. “Which department?”
“The Leader’s Health.” Rivers lifts his glass in a fake toast.
“Oh yeah?” I give a half-salute with my scotch like I give a shit. “What’s his line?”
“You’ll love this,” Rivers chortles. “It’s pure genius – ‘I am perfectly healthy.’”
Genius is right. With a clean bill of health, no one will question the Leader’s rambling non sequiturs, the unprovoked attacks. The Mother of All Lies from which every other falsehood grows. For once I am in awe. My heart skips a beat, and I struggle to take a full breath. Smiling at Rivers, I raise my glass and squeeze out a feeble, “Now that’s a good one.”
The new Lie-Maker says something and the group around him erupts in laughter. I study the thin man’s face. It may take some time, but I will root out this man’s weakness. After all, I made the Leader, and I can unmake this rival.
I signal the barman with the call, “A round for the house.” Raising a glass to the sea of flushed faces, I smile. I was made for this work.
I moved to Mississippi when I was eighteen. This was in 2012, when people my age were just starting to articulate what the disaster of Katrina meant to them and their overall course of life. My best friends happened to be survivors of that storm, children in grown and growing bodies who woke up one day to find their house gone or begged to the god in the tv to let their fathers or mothers stranded to go free. I was born in Florida, and I’m familiar with the vernacular those who have survived hurricanes inhabit and habitually use and I’ve also noticed it has more than passing similarity for which the survivors of domestic abuse (which I also am) use too.
What I’m trying to say is what all survivors are trying to say in this time (this time bolded and underlined and everyone knows what that means) survivors have been preparing for this since we first shakily stood up after he hit us/the storm hit us/the realization hit us that natural disasters, pandemics, and violences to our bodies and hearts all bear the same terminology. When it comes. When the levee breaks. When they find us. When it comes inside us, inside our city, inside our bodies, inside our home. When the water rises and the trees come through the roof and you realize the place you shelter may not have been the safest place. This is what it feels like to be in Mississippi right now. We (and I use that we as a hard fought for we, I am constantly trying to re-create home in this state) are one of the fastest growing case areas of the COVID-19 virus. Like the mold or rot in our refrigerators after a storm or the hits and cruel remarks, the incidences seem to double every day. In fact, they are – they are multiplying 100%. This shelter may not have been the safest place to believe in – but Mississippi typically never was. I love this state with all I got – and I often joke that I really only have a passion for two things: my partner and Mississippi. (He would argue that perhaps the order should be reversed.) I don’t think I am really joking.
I am not afraid to die of COVID-19. (Maybe a little afraid.) Here is what I am afraid of: being separated from my partner. I am afraid to die and leave him. I am afraid of him dying and leaving me. There, I said it. I don’t use the word “afraid” lightly. I have survived (a constant state of survivor-ing) hurricanes, abuse, tornados, the traumas of alcoholic parents, and my own eating disorder. I have watched my state survive and watched others survive my state – since we cannot forget that Mississippi as a governmental machine has the mission to eat others alive.
*
I’m also afraid of anything that would take me away from Mississippi.
Like someone whose house has blown away or room has been flooded, I and they know the most important things are what you can take when the time to escape. I and they know when the door opens and it’s time to run, you have to be ready. Like any survivor, I have pared down my essential heart pieces and items to a list I keep at the back of my mind, I have never fully laid down my burdens, I don’t rest easy. I have asked the world that since I have endured so much, to just grant me these two wishes: to let me live my life with my partner and to live it in Mississippi.
When I was a little girl and more honestly a teen, I used to wake up in the morning feeling like I had survived some great ordeal in my sleep, walked far and long, and overcome what would kill me. I was in the process of surviving myself and my surroundings every day and I didn’t realize it until recently. Every morning I wake up now, I am afraid to check the infection count but I do. I am afraid to check the deaths but I do. We poke the bruises even though they hurt. We drive by our old home even though it hurts to see the waterlines. We live in Mississippi even though Mississippi is a storm.
This is just to say Mississippi is right now a sinking ship, an island nearing the eye of a hurricane, a child running towards the door. For those who have perfected the art of survivor-ing, (because indeed those who do not by adulthood do not live to see it) for everyone my age who grew up with their childhood demarcated by the binary of storm/pre-storm, when it happened/when it did not, when he moved out/when he lived with us, this is nothing new. We are ready to lose so many things. We have already have it happen. Inside all of our hands is clutched one essential thing we need to regrow our lives whole, and though it sounds simple I really do mean it: I hope we never lose it.
From the age of nine, my life has been severely impacted by obsessive-compulsive disorder. Almost twenty years later, I can still remember my first intrusive thought as clear as the hymnals from the tone-deaf choir. My family attended our usual April mass at the local basilica, and all I wanted to do was go home and re-watch Space Jam. Waiting outside the bathroom after mass, I saw a woman carrying a baby, both covered with a sheen of baby powder that flew through the air and got up my nose. I watched in horror as she handled a dirty, discarded diaper with her bare hands. The entire ride home, I thought about the scum of the fecal bundle, the chemicals in baby powder. What if either could travel on the air, and that somehow make me sick?
Once home, I did not watch the movie, my interest discarded as my itchy Sunday best. I spent the better part of my night bent over the sick, scrubbing my hands and face raw with the Dial soap by the sink. My mind was occupied with germs and the damage they could do.
This was the first, but not the last time I asked myself, “What if I die?”
Hindsight has not given me perspective on this event, as my phobias have only multiplied. Like many OCD patients, contamination and illness – and the compulsions I do to alleviate my fears – are a constant of my mental health condition. While OCD is frequently characterized as a handwashing disorder or an affinity for neatness, there is more to OCD than soap and order. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, OCD is associated with “uncontrollable, reoccurring thoughts,” better known as “obsessions,” and “behaviors that [the patients] feel the urge to repeat over and over,” also called “compulsions.” The point of a compulsion is the alleviate the panic of the intrusive thoughts. For example, a person was exposed to something they deem to be contaminated. The compulsion that follows is to decontaminate with the hope of not only removing the germs but calming the distress. The OCD thought may vary from “I will get sick if I do not wash my hands,” to “I could die if I don’t wash my hands. Or someone else will die. What if I make someone else sick? If I don’t wash my hands, someone else will die.”
The cycle continues as the mind expands outward to the grab the hem of every fallacy possible. OCD will prey on any number of fears, from fear of causing harm, scrupulosity, relationship OCD, homosexual OCD, and the list goes on. Psych Central notes that among the many themes OCD can adopt, contamination and hypochondria are among the most common. While cleanliness can be a factor, they say, “People with contamination obsessions try to avoid what the considered potential … settings associated with germs.”
On the daily, I am guilty of giving into contamination OCD; frequent hand washing has left me with lizard hands, I will not touch public surfaces or even shake a loved one’s hand. I have endless visions of contracting meningitis on the bus, or E. coli from a fast-food burger. I’ve known illness my whole life; I watched my mother nearly die from a hemorrhagic stroke at the age of four. The years that followed exposed me to illness, and I feared the unpredictable nature of deadly things. My world was torturous and inconvenient, but simple. I learned about germs for the sole purpose of avoidance.
Then, a new virus spread swift as a psalm.
Being cautious was no longer enough.
The novel coronavirus, also known as COVID-19, has reshaped the lives of people all over the globe. The local news turntable spits out the same tracks of “six feet apart” and “wear a mask outside,” outlining cancellations and unemployment rates and stimulus checks that are not enough to pay the bills. There is a lot of talk, articles on the impact of social distancing and their impact on medical conditions such as depression and anxiety. And while these points should not be glossed over, the recent pandemic poses a unique threat to OCD patients.
As stated in a trending MSN Global News article, the coronavirus outbreak is “a worst-case scenario.”
While my fear of germs and contamination is not a unique OCD experience, it is one that that thrives on my overwhelming fear of uncertainty. Psych Central blogger Arash Emamzadeh says that, “people with obsessive-compulsive disorder find it more difficult to accept the reality of life’s unpredictability” due to a lack of or desire for control.
Dying as the result of an illness is one of my top OCD related fears, second only to losing my life in a natural disaster and being sent to prison and dying alone inside a cell. Speaking for myself, when a fear becomes overwhelming – no matter how irrational – I begin to dictate my life around the inevitability of my own demise. As much as I’ve given my life to the obsessive-compulsive cause, I am neither prepared nor equipped to face the dreaded Corona.
I am not just scared or living my worst fear; I am reliving the nightmare of the diaper on a larger, more massive scale.
The diaper that once ruined my nine-year-old life was never just a diaper. It was always a symbol; an image stuck in my mind long after I’d left the church, long after I’d gone home, long after I’d washed the invisible layer of filth from my hands and kept scrubbing anyways. That diaper is now several – thousands if not millions of diapers holding a host of excrement and paranoia. The diapers are stacked upon each other, and they are on fire; a shrill, deadly flame. I am being forced to dive face first into the pit even though it’s the last thing I wanted to do.
This goes beyond a simple fear because the concept of “fear” can be conceptualized into something rational and true. For an OCD patient, this is trauma in its rawest, most infectious form.
The fear of the illness, the “what if” questions that follow are more harrowing than washing my hands or wearing plastic gloves. The fear of contracting the illness is a constant beating to the chest, a pounding in the walls of lung – scarier in some ways for me than the illness itself.
Deep inside my brain, beneath the misfiring neurons and serotonin syndrome, logic is squatting in a corner, trying to scratch its way back into my lobes. I know I am being cautious, wearing masks and washing my hands, staying far away from others and bathing an unreasonable four times a day. Despite my zip code being the county “hot spot,” due in part to the local international airport, I know I’ve taken as many precautions as a person with pre-existing physical conditions possibly can.
Logic does not prevail in convincing me to follow its little gospel because being cautious brings me no peace, for more reasons than one.
In addition to the overarching threat of the virus comes an additional hurdle; in protecting myself from it, I am invariably worsening my OCD. While there are few viable treatments for obsessive-compulsive disorder, according to the International OCD Foundation, Exposure and Response Prevention is a useful tool in the management of contamination OCD. This type of behavior therapy entails exposing a patient to contaminants they fear and training the brain to accept the exposure without giving into a compulsion, such as hand washing, checking yourself for illness, or ruminating and researching the contaminant in question. In the face of COVID19, where constant hand washing and diligence is essential to prevent exposure and spread, this is a direct defiance of a potential treatment plan.
In the long term, this can lead to a relapse or “spike” in OCD behaviors.
Obsessive-compulsive disorder is often trivialized, reduced to the stereotype of using lots of soap and alphabetizing cereal boxes. Memes and Facebook posts will plunk a blue gumball in a sea of yellow and rashly declare, “Like and share if this makes you feel OCD!” I’ve heard it from the joking mouths of friends, well-meaning but misinformed teachers who think having an organized notebook surmises the experience of a complex psychological condition.
On a normal day, this stigma causes harm by falsifying the struggle that comes with this particular brain disorder. However, I think this underplaying of OCD symptoms is why there isn’t much conversation around the impact of a pandemic on a compulsion driven anxiety disorder. Especially when it’s worth noting the effect of OCD on its own is sobering. According to a study done by the Karolinska Institutet of Sweden, “OCD patients are 10 times more likely to commit suicide,” and are highly likely to have previous suicide attempts. I believe this is due, in part, to the persistence and even resistance OCD can be to treatment, especially in times of duress.
With the uncertainty of the year growing as society grinds to a halt, anxiety and depression are becoming more common among the general population. However, things will eventually find “normal” again. Vaccines will be created, Disney World will reopen, and our country will return to their old lives.
But me? This will be another diaper on the pile, the one I forget until I become short of breath one night after taking the bus to the airport. OCD will be in my ear; it’s not an illness, I fear. It is my God I will stay up and wash myself, scrubbing the skin until its sore and exposed and red. And then I’ll wash it again. I’ll wash until there’s no more to wash, all the while wondering, “if I don’t do this, what if I die?”
Well, what if I live?
I’m uncertain which alternative is more sinister.
The birds had arrived from the hatchery three days ago and had grown well in size. Their feathers had begun to come through white and scruffy. Petru had walked the house every hour during the day and every two hours through the night, to make sure the chicks were eating and drinking and the house was at the right temperature and the litter wasn’t wet. He knew them already and they knew him.
For the first time this cycle, he opened the pop-holes along the side of the house. The birds closest to the pop-holes looked through them but didn’t climb out until he squatted down into view and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Encouraged, they came outside. Some pecked at the ground, others came out as far as the saplings to bathe in the dirt. When he’d opened all the hatches, he went inside the house to hurry the last of the birds out.
He raised the feed and water lines from where they hung just above the ground so that he could turn the pine wood litter on the floor, loosening the shavings with his fork. A sweet smell rose from them. There were haybales scattered about the house for the chickens to perch on in the night. Behind one he found a bird that’d been pecked very badly. It moved a wing. It couldn’t raise its head from the floor. There were patches over its body that were missing feathers and were dappled with blood. Its cluck was strained, quiet. He wrung its neck, feeling its tendons trying to resist the opposing directions in which he pulled them. He lay it on the bale. Its body twitched as though it hadn’t passed the moment of death but was still approaching it and had some chance of redirection.
After he’d finished turning the litter, he took the dead bird by its legs, put it in the incinerator outside the house but didn’t turn it on. It was early and he reckoned there’d be birds brought from the other houses. He sat on the slope among the saplings where he smoked and drank coffee from his flask. Some of the birds came up to him and moved away but some settled around him and he stroked them along their backs.
At the end of the day, after he’d finished his other work, he walked to the fence beyond the saplings and back towards the house, the flock meandering before him. Inside, they jostled for space around the feeders. A few birds didn’t go in but wandered along the fence. He went after them, picked them up, carried them to the house.
The Poles were smoking and drinking lager outside their caravans.
“Only just finishing?” the younger one asked in English.
He nodded as he passed.
“Slow, eh,” the older one said. “But it is as fast as a Cygań can work.”
The younger sniggered.
Petru shrugged, unlocked the door of his caravan. Before he went in, the younger Pole called him. “Here,” he said, taking a few coins from his pocket and throwing them onto the ground. “That is for you, Cygań.”
Petru looked at the coins but didn’t move to pick them up. “Fuck you. I am not a Gypsy.”
The Poles laughed. The older one said, “You are from Romania. You are Gypsy.”
He lay on the uncomfortable sofa and called Sorina.
“What’re you doing?” he asked as he watched her move in and out of the frame, a constant reshuffling of pixels.
“Changing the sheets,” she said from somewhere in the room.
“Can you stop for a moment?”
She picked up the phone and he saw disorientating shapes and colours as his range of vision swung up and swung down and all he heard was muffled thumps. When the phone stopped moving and the pixels settled down, he could see her face clearly and the top of the sofa and the wall of their sitting room.
“Better?”
“Yeah. How’re you?”
“I’m OK.”
“Rita?”
Sorina blew her cheeks, rolled her eyes. “She isn’t sleeping at night,” she said.
“Let me say hello to her.”
“Well, she’s sleeping now.”
“Oh. Can I see her?”
“I dunno. I don’t want to risk waking her up. If she wakes up, she’ll be crying all night.”
Neither of them spoke. Her hair was tied back but around her ears there were loose strands floating outwards and she didn’t have make-up on which made her eyes look a little smaller and gave the impression of glistening nakedness. When he met them with his, she looked away from the screen. She had on her patient expression that he associated with supermarket queues and ironing. In the silence, he worried that he’d been rearranged in her feelings to exist alongside those mundane things.
“You look very nice.” The compliment felt awkward coming from his mouth, like the first one he’d given her, over-rehearsed and unconfident.
She rubbed her cheeks with her fingertips. “I look like shit today.”
“No. I think you look good.”
She refused the compliment with a shake of her head, unsmiling. She wasn’t the kind to look for compliments, he knew, and accepted them sparingly.
“What’s new, then?”
She shrugged.
He watched her, looking despondently at him and then at the floor. He rolled onto his side, scratched his back.
“This sofa,” he said, “is so uncomfortable.”
“Don’t sit on it then! Every time you call you tell me how uncomfortable the sofa is!”
“Alright, alright.” He stopped scratching his back and lay still and abashed.
Sorina rubbed the side of her nose.
“Has Vera cleared her stuff from the stairwell yet?” he asked.
She became frustrated. As she spoke, her movements slowed and lost time with her voice. One jarred against the other. All the details of her face disappeared into simply coloured pixels before freezing completely. She sounded electronic, stammered, became silent. He waited, staring at the screen. Outside, the Poles were talking. He didn’t understand what they were saying but envied the companionable tone they used. The colours on the screen began to move again, slowly then quickly. Then the sound of her voice returned, changed from electronic to organic. Her face and her words became clear again. The illusion of closeness was restored to him.
“Sorry,” he said, “the connection went bad. I missed what you said. Say it again.”
She was exasperated. “I’m not saying it again. I can’t be bothered. It doesn’t matter anyway.” She looked away.
When he’d been at home, silence between them had been comforting. But after he’d left it’d become pernicious and all he wanted was to dispel it before it took them over completely.
“This morning I found one of my chickens had been almost pecked to death by the others. It looked like it was in a lot of pain. I don’t like it when they do this to each other. I—”
“Why d’you have to tell me about it? I don’t want to hear about the birds. Every time we talk you find a way to bring up the birds!” Her voice wobbled and for a moment he thought she was going to cry but she didn’t.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realise I did that. I just wanted to tell you something.”
“It’s OK. It’s OK.” She sat thoughtfully and said, “I need to go now. Mihail and Zara will be here soon.”
“OK. Say hello from me.”
He kept the smile on his face until she ended the call. He put his phone down and thought he should move from the sofa but couldn’t get up so he lay there until it was time to shower and go to bed, where he smoked and hoped he wouldn’t have that dream again where Sorina’s eyes were the eyes of a chicken and her mouth was filling up with blood.
*
At the base of the fence, among the long grass, there was a mess of feathers. He looked around but couldn’t see the bird and knew that a fox had taken it. Two birds had followed him up to the fence and were pecking at the grass by his feet. It seemed to him that they had a nervous curiosity in their eyes. He shooed them away but they didn’t go far and had returned by the time he was crouched down. He picked up the feathers, untangling them from the long grass, so that there was barely a trace left of the bird that had been taken there.
The younger Pole arrived at the incinerator at the same time he did. “Hello, Cygań.”
Petru nodded minutely at him. The Pole had a bird in each hand, their feathers coated with green algae.
“Found them in the butt. Take up the lid.” He nodded at the incinerator.
Petru drew the Pole’s attention to the feathers that filled his hands.
The Pole shrugged and sniggered. “So what?” he said. “Throw them away and take up the lid.”
“I don’t want to. It will be messy and it will upset the birds.”
“Kurwa.” The Pole dropped a bird on the ground by Petru’s feet, opened the lid and slung the one he was holding in.
“The birds do not care about the feathers. They do not know these are feathers from a dead bird and they do not care about dead birds. They do not understand.”
“Yes, they do.”
Petru dropped the feathers in.
The Pole laughed. “Soon you will be fucking these birds.”
He nodded at the other bird he’d brought.
“Start with that one.”
“Why don’t you keep the lid on the butt? Then they don’t drown.”
The Pole shrugged. “These are only two chickens. Who gives a fuck?”
After the Pole left, Petru picked up the bird, weighty with water, dropped it into the incinerator. He waited for a few minutes in case the older Pole came with any birds. When he didn’t, Petru started the incinerator and left.
The Poles were outside their caravans and as he passed them the older one pretended that he was masturbating. “Did you have fun, Cygań? Are all of your birds well fucked?”
The younger one sneered at him.
*
When he called Sorina, the baby was crying and wouldn’t settle. She held her up to the camera and he tried to talk to her but he couldn’t keep her attention. They tried to talk over the crying but couldn’t and Sorina became frustrated. After she’d hung up, he ate and then lay on the sofa but couldn’t stand being on his own so he left and, in the dark, walked down to the house. Inside, the smell of wood and feathers comforted him. He heard the rustling of one bird against another, the clucking. He carefully shifted some birds out of his way with his foot, sat down and found a bird in the dark, picked it up and held it on his lap where it sat warm and still. In the darkness, the sounds seemed to come from above and below, as well as from each side of him. When he thought of the floor he was sat on, it became gaseous and mobile and for an instant he felt as though he were floating. The sound of the birds became more prominent. It altered the dimensions of the house, made it shapeless and infinite. The air seemed thicker so that he had to breathe it in deeply. It was warm. He fell asleep believing he was somewhere other than the world. When he woke in the morning, with birds congregated around him, he knew he’d slept well.
#
He let the birds out, turned the litter, sat with them beneath the saplings to drink his coffee and smoke. At night, he gathered them in. As they grew bigger and stronger, fewer of them died, though they were always vulnerable to the foxes and he’d sometimes find the remaining feathers of a bird. He avoided the Poles when he could and ignored them when he couldn’t. The calls to Sorina were infrequent and left him with a feeling of endangerment. Only occasionally, when he couldn’t stand to be alone in the caravan, he slept in the house among the birds.
*
The collectors came in a lorry at night when the birds were sleepy. Petru was waiting for them outside the house. Three men alighted.
“Howbeon, Peetro?” asked the one in charge.
“I am doing good, cheers. And you?”
“Not too shabby, mate. Alright to get started?”
“Yes. Please tell them to handle the birds gentle.”
“Course they will.” The man instructed the other two to start. As they unloaded the cages, Petru opened the house doors.
“You givin’ us a hand again?”
“I will help, mate.” Petru nodded.
The one in charge smiled. “Good man,” he said.
“Cheers,” Petru said.
They began filling the cages. Before long the flock was chattering, confused and fearful. Petru worked in silence, as quickly as he could, quicker than the other three who spoke among themselves as they worked, who no longer heard the birds. He wanted to handle as many of the birds as he could and wished he could’ve collected them all himself.
*
For a week he cleaned and disinfected the house and repaired the feed and water lines. Fresh litter came and he raked it evenly over the concrete. It was a lonely week and he took care to make sure everything was ready for the next flock. Sorina didn’t answer the phone the few times he tried calling. In the evenings, he looked at pictures of Rita and tried not to miss her. He was impatient for the chicks to arrive so he could walk the house every hour in the day and every two hours in the night.
*
When the chicks were delivered Petru helped the driver unload the trays and empty them carefully on the litter and watched the chicks orientate themselves and find the feed and the water.
“You got un be there, mind,” the driver said, pointing.
Petru looked at the chicks around him and saw one listing away from the flock, its eyes white. Its chirp was drawn out, weak, out of tune with the others. He stepped on it, picked it up, carried it out of the house. There were chicks that’d died on the way from the hatchery and he knew there’d be more dying over the next couple of days because the chicks were delicate and could die at any moment. He collected the dead ones up and put them in the incinerator. He and the driver loaded the empty trays onto the lorry.
“Alright, mate,” the driver said. “See yer in a couple of months.”
“Cheers, mate, ta,” Petru said.
After the lorry left, he sat on the embankment among the saplings and scratched-up turf, drank a cup from his flask and smoked. When he listened, he could hear the chicks in the house. He watched a lorry coming onto the farm, driving to another house and he watched a lorry leaving. The day was warm and he drank another cup from the flask, comforted knowing his flock was in the house before him. He looked forward to walking among them.
“Bunch of hooligans. Will you look at that? Broken glass and everything. This play park is for kiddies. Here, you hold onto Henry while I clear it up. Damn teenagers got no right – forgive my language – to be hanging out here, let alone leaving rubbish all over. Wouldn’t surprise me if there was syringes.”
“Careful, Gramps,” Daisy said, gripping Henry’s reins against his struggles to pull away to the baby swings. The twins were on the seesaw already, equally balanced, moving smoothly, shouting nonsense.
There weren’t any syringes, just cig packets, bottles and cans, which Gramps scooped between his gloves and carried to the bin, which was “Only this far away! Easy enough to clean up after themselves if they cared at all.” He sniffed at his anorak. “Smell like a brewery. I’ll have your Granny thinking I’ve taken you to the pub. If I ever get my hands on those little vandals…”
Granny knew as well as anyone can know anything that Gramps was at the play park with his grandchildren; he’d never be anywhere else at this time on a Sunday. After church, he always got them out from under the feet of the mams and Tony so they could make lunch, while Uncle Yunxu was back at the newsagent’s, paying the paper boys and girls and pulling the grill down over the window.
They had been Daisy’s Granny and Gramps for half her life now. She could barely remember the cold bedsit days when it was just her and Mam, before Tony came, bringing sunlight, a house and his relatives. Two years ago, Henry had made their family complete, though Daisy hadn’t realised it was lacking before. Daisy pulled him in close for a cuddle, but he twisted away. She let him go.
“They got nothing better to do? National Service, that’s what we need.”
Gramps eased Henry’s excitedly kicking legs into the holes of the swing.
On her way to the monkey bars, Daisy spotted a bottle lying under the seesaw, not broken yet, but it would be if Jaiden or Bella fell onto it. She tutted like her grandfather and picked it up. Rum. Not quite empty. She dumped it into the bin. It left a burnt sugar smell on her hands. Gramps nodded approval over Henry’s chuckling head.
Sometimes kids in her class asked why her dad and her brother were black when she wasn’t. At Primary school she’d never had a good answer, but now she’d just say “He’s my stepdad”, which was enough for all but the most racist or nosey.
She watched her upper arms twisting just in front of her face. She tried to judge whether they were getting any firmer. She wouldn’t want muscles like a boy, but she wished they wouldn’t wobble. She pulled herself up onto the top of the bars, and from there climbed to the top of the climbing frame. She could look down on the park from here, onto the top of Gramps’ bald head, the black squares under the equipment and the yellow grass between, the roundabout. She could only tell it was moving because the blob of flailing colour which was Henry was spinning like a teddy in a washing machine.
The twins were on the swings now, coming in and out of view, unsynchronised, dissonant. Auntie Louise had been pregnant with them when Daisy had first met her. Uncle Yunxu had frowned so often in those days that Daisy had thought he disapproved of Mam. Since Bella and Jaiden’s birth, though, he smiled at everyone all the time.
He’d promised Daisy a paper round next year. Mam was worried about traffic, but Daisy dreamed of cycling chilled morning streets, earning money of her own, getting on the school bus knowing she’d already done useful work, so she didn’t have to care so much about Science and History, which didn’t really matter and never made much sense.
She looked beyond the park, over the fences into people’s gardens she’d never have seen from anywhere else, saw a fallen, faded Little Tikes car, a neat washing line of towels, and an empty bird table, then she twisted to look up the road to Uncle Yunxu’s shop. The metal was down, which meant lunch must be nearly ready.
A gang of kids was walking down the road. Teenagers. Her muscles clenched fear. No, wait, she recognised that coat, a hair colour, then a face. They were kids in her year.
She hid her face in her lilac hood while she climbed down.
“Look where you’re going!” Gramps called.
She couldn’t shout across the park to reply to him now.
“You going on the swing?” he asked, loud as he could, with Cherry and her mates getting closer all the time.
Daisy reached him, pulled her hood even further forward, said, “Don’t feel like it. Should we head back?”
“Soon, girl, soon,” Gramps said. “Henry, choose your one last thing.”
“The grill’s down on Uncle Yunxu’s shop. He’ll get there before us.”
“Doesn’t matter. The slide, Henry? No?” He shouted to the twins, “One last thing!”
Cherry and Jack – and was that Lewis? – were walking past the tennis courts now, close enough to hear him.
“Daisy, sit on the other side of the seesaw with Henry, balance me out.”
“I’m not a baby.”
Gramps got distracted by a pile of damp cigarette butts sloping up to the central post of the seesaw. “Disgusting.”
Her classmates were dressed in sharp jeans or tracksuits. Silver sparkled at the girls’ ears. Their hair was done and, though they were too far away for Daisy to check, probably their makeup too. She kept her gaze low, on her Sunday leggings, which were too short, exposing dark stubble. She shaved in the bath on Sunday nights, because of Games on Mondays. Granny had bought her the hoody for Christmas. She loved the butterflies down the sleeves, but Daisy didn’t want Cherry and Madison to see them. She prayed they hadn’t spotted her sat on the climbing frame like a little kid. Especially not Lewis.
She waited at the gate, restless from foot to foot, listening for voices behind her, kept her head down and her mouth closed until they were inside Granny and Gramps’ house, which felt and smelled and sounded like every Sunday. Uncle Yunxu was pouring himself a beer; Tony was carving chicken. She shut herself in the downstairs loo, rubbing green soap foam over and over the backs of her hands, breathing deep, letting the familiar sounds carry her.
She set knives and forks either side of the faded river scenes on the placemats.
“Broken glass! No respect, no consideration. They must climb in over the fence at night. The words they write on the equipment! If one of my grandchildren gets hurt, I’m going to—”
“You’ll do nowt, Dad! Don’t be daft.”
“Henry could have cut himself, Tony.”
“I know, I know. It’s dreadful, but you can’t get involved. Look, I’ll phone the council in the morning, get them to tidy it.”
“No point. It’ll only fill up with rubbish again.”
Daisy gave Gramps a hug when he emerged from the savoury steam of the kitchen to sit at the head of the table, remembering him running his boot round the posts of the swing to check for glass shards.
She cut herself shaving that night. The blood dripped into the bath like paint into a glass of water. It stung when she rinsed it off, so she lifted her foot onto the side of the bath, where chill air bit into her leg, sending the pain bone-deep as blood flowed in lines down her calf to splash into the water.
Next morning, there was a long scab down her shin. Gingerly rolling her tights over her ankles, she spotted sprouts of dark hair which she’d missed. As she walked to the bus stop, the nylon snagged on the edges of the cut.
At lunch, Amy and Karina didn’t get chips, so she didn’t either. Amy lifted her sandwich to her mouth in both hands for a full central bite. Karina peeled off her top slice and selected a lettuce leaf, so Daisy did the same.
“You going straight home after school?” Amy asked, replacing her sandwich in its package.
Karina nodded. Daisy lifted and lowered one shoulder, waited.
“Thought I might hang out at the parade for a bit,” Amy said.
The parade was short row of small shops, set back from the road, with oversized plant pots full of crisp packets ranged along it. Last year, in Year Seven, when they’d been new to the school, they would cross the road to avoid the big kids smoking and lounging there, the boys spitting huge, foamy gobbets into the ridges of the concrete.
“Cool,” Daisy said. “I might go with.”
Half an hour later, she sat hunched over herself in the changing room, pulling nylon threads from the sticky scab trying to weave them into itself. Her hockey sock exposed the top of it. At least her legs were smooth between there and the hem of her skort.
She ended up walking out to the pitch with the stragglers, an unmixed group of the less capable and the too cool, keeping out of Cherry’s way without getting mixed up with those with spectacles and wheezes, who were too neat or too grimy, too fat or too skinny. On the field, she merged back into the middling pack where she belonged.
When Daisy and Amy walked out of school at the end of the day, Karina walked with them. She asked whether they’d heard the new Ariana track. Nobody mentioned that she’d said she was going to go straight home.
On the parade, they slipped behind the group of teenagers shoving and shouting, to lean against the plate window of the mini supermarket which displayed the backs of shelf units and a piece of card saying, No more than 3 schoolchildren at a time. They watched in silence, acclimatising. After half an hour they went for their buses.
When they stood in the same place the next afternoon, Jack from their form asked if they had a light.
“Quite right, too,” Lewis said. “Filthy habit.”
“I’m getting an e-cig,” said one of the girls from the year above. “Much healthier. Don’t start, girls. I wish I never.”
It rained steadily on Wednesday and they got loads of homework in Geography. Daisy decided to give the parade a miss. She couldn’t see the point in hanging out there anyway. But then, on their way out of Maths, Cherry was with her, and they joined Karina and Jack near the office, somehow streamed out of the school gates together, and merged into the rest of the group. It didn’t feel possible to break away.
Lewis perched on the windowsill of the bookies’ beside her as they pressed back under its scant awning.
When Daisy changed out of her church clothes that Sunday, she put on her best jeans and brushed her hair.
“I’ve washed your lilac hoody,” Mam said when she saw Daisy wearing her Urban Outfitters cropped jacket. “You’ll freeze in that.”
“It’s not cold out,” Daisy said.
“Granny likes to see you in the butterflies.”
Daisy sighed and rolled her eyes as though she thought her mam wasn’t serious.
Gramps brought a plastic carrier bag to the park, “To clean up after those delinquents. Bloody teenagers. Excuse my language.”
“None taken,” Daisy said.
“Oh, no, girl! You know I don’t mean you. I’m talking about the layabout trouble-making teenagers.”
Daisy lifted Henry into the only empty toddler swing. In the one on their left, swamped by the thick bars, was a baby held in place by a woman in a rainbow scarf. Daisy barely remembered Henry being so small.
The other swing was being pushed by a dad with a well-groomed beard and tight, faded jeans. Daisy stopped herself from looking at him by matching him push for push to get their swings in time with each other.
When Gramps took over from her, the handsome dad said to him, “You’ve been doing a good job there. I’ll bring a bag next time, sort out some of the litter.”
“It’s not safe for the kiddies.” Gramps pulled Henry back and up and back and up, so he squealed with anticipation.
“It’s not like there’s no bins.”
“Don’t care, do they? No respect.”
The park was busy today, probably because it was warmer than last week. Bella was under the slide, playing houses with a little girl Daisy didn’t know. They’d pulled out some of the grass which grew round the ladder and were laying it out on a big leaf.
Daisy wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t want Cherry turning up again and catching her on a climbing frame. She didn’t want to mess up her new jacket. She couldn’t see over the tennis courts from the ground, so she didn’t know whether anyone was coming down the road past Uncle Yunxu’s shop. She edged her bum onto the low, green railings.
Jaiden shot past, yelling, “Bet I’m fastest on the chains!”
It took a moment to process what he was saying, and a split second more to decide, before she was sprinting after him to the wobbly chrome bridge. He’d already crossed two wooden steps. She lurched and swung, laughing, to overtake him, cold links in her fists, pushing her foot against his foot, rocking the chains, reaching forward, shaking it to make him hold tight with both hands, turned, stretched, stepped, repeated her movements slower, to let him catch up without realising, then made it onto the end beam only just ahead of him.
“Next time!” Jaiden said. “I’ll beat you next time!”
That night she shaved carefully round the long scab. Greasy pork sloshed her belly against the lapping bathwater. She wished she’d refused the crackling. Arm lifted, she stroked off the soft hairs in her pit, rinsed the razor then did the other side, more awkwardly, with her right hand.
When the bubbles cleared, she saw red trails of blood in the water. She’d been so careful after last week, so aware, that she couldn’t see how she could have cut herself without even noticing. She lifted her feet onto the end of the bath. No cuts on her legs. The red trail floated between them. It was a relief to realise that she’d just come on her period. Then it was an annoyance.
Amy wasn’t in school the next day. She’d texted Karina that she was sick. Daisy felt bloated and nauseous, too, but knew better than to mention it because it was just her time of the month. They walked out to the hockey pitch with Cherry and Madison.
At the parade, Lewis sat next to Daisy on a giant plant pot. He talked about Cardi B. When she got home, Daisy listened to Invasion of Privacy on Spotify. She wished she had a paid account so she could hear it in the right order. There was no point asking Mam, though. She’d have to wait until she got the paper round next year.
On Thursday, Jack got laughed at by the woman in the mini supermarket when he tried to buy beer there.
“Never mind,” Madison said, “I’ve got some vodka we can take to the park.”
“What time’s your bus?” Amy asked Karina.
“Doesn’t matter,” Karina hissed.
It wasn’t the same park Daisy went to with Gramps on a Sunday. It was the one behind the leisure centre, with the rocking things shaped like ducklings. There were only two women there, leaning against double strollers, chatting to each other while kids climbed the equipment.
Cherry sat on one of the swings and pushed off. The rest of them ambled towards her, round the children. Daisy leaned against a post, thighs braced because it wasn’t really wide enough. Jack sat on another swing with Madison on his lap. Karina hitched her skirt up more than she needed to sit up on the seesaw. Two boys from the year above drifted towards her, so Amy went over there too.
Daisy pretended not to watch the childminders gather up their charges. Lewis squatted down near to where she was leaning. Neither of them said anything.
Madison shrieked. She was sitting on the ground in front of the swing. Jack was laughing at her.
“Guess I know who’s not getting any vodka, then,” Madison said.
Daisy checked that the child minders hadn’t heard, but they were on the far side of the park by then and didn’t look back.
“It was a joke!” Jack said.
“It was hilarious!” said one of the boys from the year above. “Never mind her vodka, I’ve got cider.”
Amy and Karina started laughing. Cherry lit up a cigarette.
Lewis stood up and walked backwards, quietly asking “Roundabout?”
Daisy followed.
“So,” he said, easing himself down onto the low bench seat of the roundabout, “I’ve been wondering something.”
Her heart did a little bounce thing. She hadn’t realised it could actually do that. She sat beside him, thigh to thigh in the child-sized space.
“It’s alright if you don’t want to—” he was interrupted by a loud clanking noise.
They both turned to watch Jack and another lad chuck one of the swings up towards the bar above it.
“It’s alright if you don’t want to answer,” Lewis said
They watched the seat of the swing heave through the air again, hit the bar again.
“But how come your dad’s black and you’re not?”
Oh. That.
He must have seen her face fall as clear as she’d felt it go, because Lewis quickly said, “It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. He’s my stepdad. That’s all.”
“Okay. Cool.”
They watched the other three boys chasing after the seat of the swing, Madison and Karina taking swigs from a bottle.
“What’s he like?” Lewis asked.
Daisy shrugged. “Alright.”
“That’s cool. My mam’s bloke is really boring.”
All at once, as the seat hit the bar again, Daisy realised what the boys were trying to do. She’d seen swings with their chains wrapped over and over the bar, seats raised so high the kids couldn’t reach them. She’d helped Gramps unwind them by throwing them back over, time and again, until they swung low and straight again.
“You ever see your real dad?” Lewis asked.
Daisy shook her head. “You?”
“Couple of times a year. Never know what to say.”
Karina brought a couple of cans over. She was sipping gingerly from one, offered them the other. “You mind sharing?”
“Cool,” Daisy said. She looked at the cider in her hand. Wasn’t sure. Handed it to Lewis.
The three of them watched Madison, squeezed into a duckling rocker, bending the springs back as far as they’d go until her back was on the ground, and pushing it back up again. It moved slowly, wobbling slightly.
There was a ting and then a slithering, rattling noise. The swing seat had made it over the top of the bar. Jack yelped.
Lewis’s smile was unsure. He looked to Daisy.
“Idiots,” said Karina.
Lewis kept watching Daisy.
“Yeah, idiots,” she said.
“Yeah, what a waste of time,” he said quickly. He opened the can and took a long swig.
Daisy watched his Adam’s apple pulsing as he swallowed. His neck was covered in fine gingery hairs. When he stopped drinking, she noticed that Karina had wandered off again.
It was dark now, proper dark beyond the reach of the white car park lights. She should text her mam. The houses and the street lights looked a long way away. The leisure centre didn’t have any windows on this side. She wondered whether it was still open.
Lewis handed her the can. She took a tiny sip. It tasted mostly of cold. She tipped her head back further, so it would look like she was drinking more than she was.
“New Marvel movie out next week,” Lewis said. “You watch them?”
“Sometimes. Look, I’ve just got to answer this text.”
“Yeah. Right.”
She held her phone up so he couldn’t see that she hadn’t received anything. Unsure what to tell Mam, she sent with friends, will be a bit late. They couldn’t stay much longer, could they? They all had school tomorrow. She had to finish those equations.
“You want to see the new one when it’s out?”
Daisy wasn’t sure what Lewis was asking. She waited for him to say there was a group planning to go to the cinema, so she could tag along. He didn’t say anything. He drank some more.
Jack and Madison were inside the tunnel on the climbing frame. She could see them kissing through the gaps between the slats.
Karina’s phone went off. She stared at its screen as it rang, said, “Shit!”
“That your dad?” Amy asked.
The ringing stopped.
Lewis passed the can back to Daisy. It was light. She tipped her head back, finished it.
He said, “Or we could go to MacDonald’s or ice skating or something if you don’t like movies. I’m not bothered if you don’t want to go with me. But just, like, if you did.”
“I don’t mind,” Daisy said. “When?”
The cider can was in her hand. Karina’s phone was ringing again. Daisy could see the litter bin over by the bench, just past Cherry, who was still swinging, still smoking.
Daisy looked at Lewis. He grinned. She grinned back. She felt the can slipping from her fingers, let it go, didn’t even hear it land.
All it takes is a quick stroll around central London to demonstrate that its history is etched in stone. Amble past Cannon Street station and you’ll come across one of the oldest examples of this, London Stone. Housed at number 111, the landmark has sat and watched Londoner centuries sail by. In October 2018 the stone was returned from the Museum of London to its rightful place following some building works. Now, those City commuters and passers-by rushing to and fro can decipher a Braille plaque highlighting the otherwise nondescript piece of rock sat on its plinth outside one of the busiest underground stations.
The stone is shrouded in myth; although there are a trickle of competing theories, nobody knows the purpose of the stone. We don’t know now and we didn’t know four hundred years ago, when the stone first became widely written about. It was notable enough in the late 12th century that the father of the first mayor of London was named after it. We see it turn up in the writing of Williams Blake and Shakespeare, from which we might glean some hints of its function. Shakespeare, in Henry VI Part 2, has Jack Cade strike the stone and proclaim among his followers his intentions to usurp the throne of England, leading some to believe that this is how historical kings announced their entry into the City of London. This idea is rooted in the Norman history of London as a guild separate from the authority of The Crown.
Blake conceives of the stone as the remnants of a pagan sacrificial altar from pre-Roman ages. In his poem Jerusalem, he depicts it as the site of human sacrifice where the founder of the city sits to dispense brutal justice. Both poets have hit upon the common theme of the stone being a site of grand public announcements. This idea also turns up in an obscure Anglican tract titled Pasquill and Marforius, where critics of the 16th-century puritan church fathers are invited to post their denunciations upon the stone.
As for its origin, analysis of the rock has demonstrated that it is limestone from the Midlands. Rock typically taken from Rutland, England’s smallest county, was used as construction material by the Romans and their Saxon successors. Building on this, archaeologists have speculated that London Stone was once a foundation piece of a Roman gate or administrative palace known to have lain on the site now occupied by Cannon Street station. Also to be found here are the ruins of London’s Temple of Mithras which was positioned on the banks of the lost river Walbrook. Mithraism was a mystery cult introduced to the British Isles by Roman soldiers posted in what is now modern day Turkey. Its rites aren’t known to us, though they involved ritual animal sacrifice, imagined by William Blake.
It is not too much of a stretch to imagine that the stone may possibly have formed a section of the temple, which was excavated in 1954. We know that the stone has previously been cannibalised for the production of other buildings of worship during its history; being inserted into the design of the now-demolished St Swithin’s church (also designated as St Swithin at London Stone).
My conception of the stone has always been in line with the conceptions of the writers Ernest Rutherford and China Mieville, as the heart of London. Rutherford has the stone set in the wall of the Governor’s Palace. Here it is the central signpost for all the roads in the city. For his version, Mieville takes a more mystical approach. In his fantasy novel, Kraken, the stone is the literal beating heart, whose low pulse is felt across the city and watched over by a mystic cabal of protectors. Those, like Iain Sinclair, interested in mysticism and sacred geometry, will be pleased to read that the stone sits upon several ley lines running through the city. No matter the conception, these passages, byways and alignments all converge on Cannon Street.
Positioning the dead centre of London is contentious. If you balance a map of Greater London on a pinhead, the centre of gravity sits near Frazier Street in Lambeth, a fact hard to swallow for anyone who lives on the Northern banks of the river. City and borough mileages are traditionally measured by their distance from Charing Cross, based on the funeral procession for the Plantagenet queen of Edward I (a.k.a. Edward Longshanks, the Hammer of The Scots). This focal point lies in the much younger City of Westminster, which is almost certainly predated by the erection of London Stone. Westminster was built in the mid-11th century, while London lay a ghostly ruin downriver. Eleanor of Castile, King Edward’s wife, died in 1290; over a century after the stone was a well-known landmark.
For me, the London Stone is the obvious nucleus of England’s capital. It lies adjacent to our oldest landmark (the mithraeum). Any ignorance of this is the typical neglect of London’s more affluent north-westerly looking population. If we do not know what its purpose was for a millennium, let us go into this next thousand years by giving London Stone a new lease of life.
To celebrate its restoration, I went to pay respects to the monolith. This was a muted affair; exiting Cannon Street station under a grim November skies. We navigated the bustling crowd and crossed the road to the reliquary plinth where the soot-smothered stone has been restored. The waist-high mount is fairly non-descript. Nearby, an artist has set up shop on the street to sketch several portraits of the stone. Dodging well-dressed businessmen, our eyes squint at the panel detailing London Stone’s known history and whereabouts. With this observation over, the crowd envelops us as we make our way down the road to the Temple of Mithras.
My name is Misty. I’m a manager here.
*
To my Associate who is trying to pay his bills:
I know you’re tired. I can’t call anyone else in tonight. Due to the pandemic, our sales aren’t high enough to have another person on the clock.
I know you and I are the only ones here, but we will have to do the best we can.
I’m sorry I have to send you home early today.
What time does your bus come? I can let you leave early to make the next bus.
Yes, you can take some leftover bread home tonight.
*
To the Customer that ordered delivery:
I’m sorry we lost your delivery order. The driver was taking multiple orders at once and might’ve mixed yours up with another order. He is currently on the road with three more orders. Once he returns to the restaurant, I can remake the order for you and send him right out with it.
The roads are slippery. It’s snowing outside.
I tried to call in another driver. None of them want to pick up shifts. It’s hard to find someone who wants to knock on a stranger’s door during a pandemic.
I understand you have to feed your family. Again, this is our fault. We made a mistake, and I apologize. I would be happy to refund the order for you.
*
To the Mom who’s home with the kids all day:
I’m sorry the cookies were not in the bag. That was an error on our end. I can send out a delivery driver with the cookies, and I will add a few extra for the inconvenience.
I understand that you have anxious children at home. I’m sorry that we made this mistake. I am sending the cookies with a driver now. It is just going to be a few minutes.
*
To another Essential Worker picking up his dinner:
Hi, are you here for the chicken salad sandwich?
I want to let you know that we do not have any croissants to put your chicken salad sandwich on. Is there another bread you would prefer we use?
I’m sorry our website didn’t give you the option to change the bread for your sandwich. I can let you know what breads we do have available today.
We are baking less bread and limiting our variety due to the decline in sales. I’m sorry we don’t offer the bread you are requesting. We do have some softer breads that resemble a croissant. Would you like me to select one of those for you?
I am not able to refund part of an order. I would have to cancel out the entire order. Would you like me to cancel out your order today?
I will bring it right out when it’s ready.
*
To the Impatient Customer:
Ma’am, you had no right to call my associate stupid over the phone.
We are required to take a credit card number at the time of placing the order. Otherwise, we are unable to process the order. May I take your credit card number?
Ma’am do you mind repeating that a little slower? I am having trouble understanding you.
Ma’am, I would like to place this order for you. I cannot do that unless I can process the credit card.
Ma’am, you cannot be in the café. We are not allowing customer access inside the building.
I understand that you would like to speak to the General Manager. She is on a conference call right now and is unable to speak with you.
Ma’am please stop yelling at me.
Ma’am I need you to leave the building now.
I can take your phone number and have the General Manager give you a call.
You cannot be in the building.
An associate has called the police.
You need to leave.
#
My name is Misty. I’m an Essential Worker during the COVID-19 Crisis. And I am tired.
For the first time in his hyper gonadal life, a florid-orange and proudly-white man strolling thoughtfully through the sprawling precincts of the White House with dark thoughts crowding the luxuriant void in his head, was planning his defense, not offense. His name was Hump and he was the President of the Disunited States of Blamerica, a great nation for whose follies everyone else was to blame including largely at this time the People’s Republic of Hyena. This man (man?) was no ordinary being, thing, bacteria or virus. He was solely and wholly responsible for all the new 4.7mn pre-pandemic jobs created in his first three years and not one bit responsible for the 22 Mn jobs lost in a few post-pandemic days till mid-April. Because the pandemic was not his doing, obviously not, as obviously as it was a conspiracy by an old tormentor of the capitalist world, the People’s Republic of Hyena which shrewdly waited for a few centuries before putting its skullduggeries into motion, starting bafflingly by infecting over 80,000 of its own citizens and killing over 4500 of them by April end besides obviously putting its own leadership in peril just to cover its tracks. An extraordinary conspiracy. Otherwise, the nation, Blamerica that is, was perfectly capable of flattening any part of the world by mere remote control under ideal non-viral conditions (provided – a subtle hint here – the name of the massive nation in question did not begin with the alphabets VIET and end with NAM) but was presently unable to flatten the curve that came from a series of man-made follies in tackling the natural disaster with its original epicenter having shifted from the Hyenese city of Vuhan to Few York in Blamerica where people were now becoming fewer not because Hump had managed to throw away all those who had black, brown, yellow and green and blue skins but because the yellow virus had now turned the heat on White. That there were enough yellows in Blamerica as well is an avoidable matter of small detail. Yet, strangely for Blamerica, the proudest white man (man?) on the planet – who was asked by God personally to choose the color of his skin before being born – Hump himself – had however tested negative. But that is not why he was strolling through the graceful interiors of the White House or strolling at all in the first place for that matter because this was a man (man?) who didn’t even stroll the golf course, a game he played for many associations that Freud could perhaps explain.
Balls. Clubs. Hole-in-one. And so on.
He was strolling through the graceful national heritage property like a few of his predecessors would whenever they contemplated some noble act of statesmanship like bombing some nation using fighter bombers piloted by brave men in the good old days and then as they turned braver, with pilot-less drones. This punitive action of ‘bringing them to justice’ applied to any nation that least resembled their own and where the leader of the nation in question, once flagrantly supported, brazenly watered and shamelessly fed by them, had now gone ungratefully renegade and in doing so, had enraged with his rebellion their democratic nerve which in matters of foreign affairs is universally republican.
But who doesn’t know all this about Blamerica.
What was new this time was that the tables had turned. National pride was looking for masks to hide in. The star and stripes blushed scarlet. Sanitizers to erase the shame were in short supply. Drones were used for lockdowns, planes for rescue, ships for quarantine and missiles for the Republicans to sit on. And Blamerica, led by the great nationalist Hump was looking as fluky as the 1-2-3 kid of WWE. And Hump, who could do no wrong because he was always Right, was now left alone in a world that dearly wished it had been more Left than Right for the simple reason that it was public health that was under siege and only as a consequence of that was the stock market, oil, real estate, industry, paralyzed and not the other way round. The ongoing economic debate on Cause and Effect was finally settled. But Hump was convinced that all this wasn’t his doing and it wasn’t even Hyena’s doing, at least on some good trade days, and especially when those carnivores were the only ones to turn to for masks, ventilators and PeePeeEee, and all such weapons that Mark Casper, his Secretary of Offense was friggin’ clueless about. So there wasn’t one enemy, there were many. There was the WHO for starters, living on Blamerican alms and charity, but had suddenly gone renegade the Saddam Hussein way – an organization whose officials lived the life of Imelda Marcos and sunned themselves on beaches with shoes on while Blamerica funded the bikini. But now that Hump had already cut the spend, besides WHO, who else is there to blame? Oh there are many. The media for one, who the Hyenese must have quietly taken over, including Neil Coyote and his Fox News that has also gone the Saddam Hussein way. Then there is Gobama, his predecessor, who was constitutionally evicted as a result of the Disunited States capping fun at two presidential terms after Roosevelt confused the White House for a four-term retirement resort. But Gobama continues to run his mouth. So while Gobama is gone, he is not gone, and while he once again reads beautiful books about the abominable history of freedom and democracy, can he deny that he lacked the vision to develop testing kits in time. But Hump is determined to have a second term come hell or high water, Gobama or Obama, WHO or Why, Hyena or China, or even Foe Biden for that matter, who is now making the hilarious mistake of talking nationalism to outdo him at a time when nations are wondering whatever happened to borders. You don’t have to defeat the Democrats. They know how to defeat themselves. Regardless, Hump was determined to leave no stone unturned to have his second term despite another bunch, the wolfpack of governors of the Disunited States who were hellbent on proving the unnecessary . . . The biggest nuisance here was Andrew Sumo the Governor of Few York who had now joined hands with Hyena, Gobama, WHO, Media and other governors and was challenging Hump’s absolute authority, zero accountability and deflected responsibility by forming pacts with other governors and taking all accountability, full responsibility and complete authority while treating him, Hump, like an effing purchase department of health supplies. Then there were also all these Inspector Generals who were behaving like media which was behaving like Obama who was behaving like WHO, which was loyal to Hyena. And it was in moments like this – though none had been as bad – he would rummage in his pants for his Deputy Disaster Mike Tuppence, the Vice President of the Disunited States of Blamerica, and actually find him. And that’s exactly what he had sought to do this time too. But it was these interactions with Tuppence, more than anything else that were making him stroll furiously today.
Tuppence was acting too bloody smart.
Even toilet paper can aspire in a democracy.
Hump’s mind buzzed agitatedly as he walked faster. He knew his wife Melanin was still asleep in another room in another wing on the opposite side because visionary that she is, she’d been practicing social distancing with him since Stormy Daniels first went viral. Advisor and son-in-law Putrid must be on the phone talking to Rasputin, the President of Russia, his favorite country. Only advisor and dear daughter Armanica would be working hard on something as deep as the foundation by applying Giorgio Armani Luminous Silk Foundation and figuring what not to serve to the mean media at today’s I-am-right-everyone-is-wrong White House briefing by dear Daddy Hump.
So Hump walked on, his mind buzzing honestly, yes honestly, because it suffered from honesty only when he was alone, because the moment he was alone with some male he wanted to do to the male’s mind what he was known to do a female’s body when she was alone with him. So when he was with men in private or public or with women in public, he mind-fu**ed them, he berated them, insulted them in fifty shades of black. But right now he was alone, at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, specifically at the White House, its Aquia Creek sandstone glistening white at this hour of dawn, disguising with foresight the dark deeds in its present resident’s mind. Dawn was when he was alone, just before breakfast after which he would head to the Oval Office which CNN may well start renaming Zero Office. He’d done up the office to suit his personal tastes. He’d retained the Clinton drapes, the Reagan sunburst rug and the G.W. Bush cream colored sofa with bloodstains from Iraq. But he had removed Clinton’s Queen’s Bed with its chains and in its place he had a Khajuraho statue depicting an orgy. This he felt, best represented a federation. When he sat with his back to the three south facing windows and therefore to the Blamerican public, he faced this statue and felt inspired.
But he was yet to reach office.
It was when the electoral side of him with its wily instincts stirred. This short walk at dawn in the North grounds always cleared his head of any little decency that remained inadvertently from yesterday and restored hideous normalcy. Now as he walked, he suddenly stopped. He cringed as he saw what he thought was a bat. That brought on a foul mood, a mood fouler than ever before, even for a man as foulest as him. Note how the word foul has to be stretched to its foulestest to describe a man (man?) as foul as Hump. And a fine team he had, though not fouler than him, and that too at such a time when the People’s Republic of Hyena had used a microscopic part of a dead bat to launch a war that would made Hitler look like a bloody bovine bullheaded braindead beast of burden. I mean just one bloody microscopic part of a dead bat! Anyone who ever waged a war with hundreds of missiles, thousands of warheads and weapons and millions of cheering ass**les should feel damn stupid today. What a bu**er-all input output ratio. Spend so much and destroy bloody nothing! And what a damn successful war this one is. And it makes the white man go black with shame thereby forcing the color yellow to appear shameless. As for the browns, they continue to confuse, not because, these perpetual migrants continue to make the migratory kind of news, getting caught at airports and cruises, but this time the confusion comes from their testing numbers per million that figure only after a decimal point and that too of a population where one South Delhi outnumbers Sweden and yet it seems the testing here is happening by mistake. But Hump was not reflecting about any of this, not because he doesn’t reflect, or because the browns were not on his mind – in fact one of them was – but because he was in a combative mood, not because he rarely is, because actually he invariably is, but because this time he had been surrounded badly, not because he is never surrounded badly, because he usually is, but he is like a lotus and not Potus who grows the best when surrounded by shit, but now he was so surrounded that the only space he had was at White House briefings where he was determined to hit back, but not at the virus, but media, especially women journalists and those who question his bullshit, not because he didn’t bullshit but because they spot-lit his bullshit, not because his bullshit was so small as to be spot-lit, but because there were so many pieces of bullshit spread so far and wide that each cute little lump of the bull-shit required a spotlight dedicated to it without which nothing would be lit.
Just then his phone rang. Son-in-law Putrid. At this hour? He heard him out and grew more orange with rage. Everyone was hellbent on spoiling his numbers. The latest is that Toady from Hindia has blocked exports of Hydroxychloroquine from his scorching malarial haven. Now Hump is irate. First thing he will do after the briefing is to handle the fellow. He will call him and say, “Howdy Toady” and will hear the reply, “Namaste Hump”. And then Toady will say “Haw Haw Haw”. In English. And then Hump will say, “that bloody drug Hydroxychloroquine . . .” And before Hump can finish, the blighter will say, “suar suar Hump Bhai. I yam sanding it immejiately.” Because Hump knew that Blamerica may not have the effing vaccine but can still flatten any part of . . . So when he keeps the phone, he will hear that vegetarian voice, “Gaad blayse the Disunited Ishtates of Blamerica”.
Resolved. Easy.
Interruption over, he turned his mind to the man responsible for his furious strolling.
Mike Tuppence. His deputy disaster. The Vice President of the Disunited States of Blamerica, who stanchly opposed abortions of all kinds, especially of bad plans. That’s what Hump always liked about him. It was Tuppence who he had picked as early as February 27 to head this shit. That was how early he had offered a target to Blamerica but that he was still himself what everyone went after was what now drove him nuts. And all this while Tuppence was getting seen like he was sorting the damn thing out. Because Tuppence is a changed man now; the virus has changed everybody. But the one time Hump wants Tuppence to leave it to Jesus, he won’t. Though when Hump appointed him the head of f-all task force where even Surgeon General Gerome Adams is more a fawning general fearing own emasculation than a surgeon empowered to do one, even there, Tuppence seemed to be taking Anthony Saucy’s views more seriously than Hump wanted him to. And the thing about Saucy is – the reason Hump hadn’t thrown him out of both the task force and as Director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases despite the fact he stinks of Science – is that he is seldom wrong. But his truth is leftist in flavor and so he had to be kept quiet in briefings. And Science had to be neutralized by Religion. The other day when Saucy predicted a ‘fall relapse’, Hump jumped and was struck by its many meanings. Fall. Elections. So that’s why he has decided to keep Saucy, but behind his ass. And that’s also why he put Tuppence in front, because Tuppence functions best when Hump is behind his. But Tuppence used to always unconditionally agree with Hump. He still does. But nowadays he agrees with some hesitation. While agreeing, he adds a little ‘BUT’ in the end. The kind of BUT Hump doesn’t like. BUT with a single T. Time to get Nikki Haley as running mate! Hump thought, rubbing his pink hands together.
See you got to have an able Deputy Disaster before fall relapse.
Come to think of it, even that Toady has a better deputy disaster, who simply bumps off fellows when they don’t fall in line. Look at Toady now, he thought enviously. The old fart is doing no testing, has no masks, no sanitizers, no PeePeeEee, no hospital beds, no ventilators, no money, no social distancing, only slums and sadhus. But look at his cowboys in Hindu underwear. They ensure that he goes on and on. Thanks to parliamentary democracy.
Got it!
With that Hump found his eureka moment at dawn, like at every dawn.
We need parliamentary democracy here, I tell you, he muttered to himself. Or at the very least a major change in the existing. I bet Toady will rule Hindia like a Hindu emperor because poor fellows can’t remember the last time they had a Hindu emperor and they finally have one. If something can be curtailed, then something can be expanded – this much Science even I know, he thought. The cap on two Presidential terms for example. So let’s see if we can bring a constitutional amendment to bring Blamerica to justice. It’s the constitution, not the Bible for heaven sake.
Done.
The dawn musing was over. The sun was rising once again over the great city of Corruption D.C. At peace with himself now, he walked fast to the war-room for the daily press briefing on the Hyenese virus.
It was time to return to realty.
Oh sorry about the Freudian typo.
The snows that had melted in the day made the roads of Drumlin a flowing thing, but now that the evening had come the waters were beginning to freeze. The paths shone like mirrors of lambent ice, and there was a mongrel dog, a kind of mangy but handsome dog, that was gliding along such a path with a dirty red bandanna tied around its neck. In its effort to stay balanced, the dog appeared to be dancing, at least that’s how it seemed to two boys who watched it glide along with a sorrowful expression on its face.
“That’s class,” said Dave, spitting through a gap in his teeth.
“It was okay,” said Jamie.
“We follow it?”
“The dog?”
Dave shrugged. Jamie looked up at Ciara Lawler’s house, at the yellow light in the top-right bedroom, Ciara Lawler’s bedroom, the blinds drawn, and a Ciara Lawler-shaped silhouette.
“Ciara Lawler,” he whispered, fiercely, as if the words might summon her. “Ciara.”
“It’s freezing here. Will we move at least?”
Jamie turned away from the window with reluctance and looked at the dog receding into the distance, still gliding.
“Okay,” he said.
They followed the dog into Riordan’s field, and there was a burnt-out car in the field’s centre that the dog pissed on so that, for a few wonderful seconds as the street lights caught the swirls of steam, the car looked on fire, then only misty, then nothing. The dog trotted off indifferent to its magic, and the sparkling grass parted under its paws. The boys followed. Why, they didn’t know. It was something for the evening. They’d been to the shops twice and had no money left. The dog led them towards the church. For a moment it seemed it might actually go in, but then it stopped, sniffed the air and set off at a run towards the car park. At the end of the car park there stood a concrete shed. The shed was built a few feet from a wall so that at its back there was a kind of narrow lane. The dog went into this narrow lane, and the boys followed. This is what they saw: graffiti on the walls, mostly names in bright jagged lettering, empty soup tins, cigarette butts, cider cans, a glowing torch, and a man in a sleeping bag, who held the torch and a thick book. The dog barked and walked up and onto the man, who in turn smiled and said: “Croesus!”
The dog licked the man’s grey stubble, and the man rubbed the dog behind the ears and along the neck. It was then that he noticed the boys.
“Christ,” said the man. “You gave me a fright.”
“Sorry,” said Jamie.
“Any craic?” said Dave.
“You lads bring Croesus back to me?”
“Who?”
“He means the dog,” said Jamie.
“Oh.”
“I was worried sick about the little shite.”
Saying this, the man attached a bit of rope to the red bandanna, tied a knot and kissed Croesus on the nose. The boys said nothing. Jamie felt a strong impulse to run away, or at the very least walk briskly away, but seeing the homeless man kiss the dog and seeing the dog lick and paw the homeless man, he felt more at ease, and there was the book too: the torch held over the book, in raw-red fingers and the way he’d been peering at the words and the way he smiled when he saw the dog. It gave Jamie confidence. Dave didn’t notice the dog or the book so much, but he noticed the graffiti on the walls and the broken glass.
There were shards of glass at the end of the sleeping bag from a shattered whiskey bottle, and the torchlight shivered off each shard so they looked like knives or god’s teeth. It excited Dave, and so both boys decided for different reasons that they would stay and talk for a while, kill a few minutes with this man and his dog.
“You live here?” asked Dave.
“That I do.”
As he said this, the man took a dark green bottle with no label from his sleeping bag, sipped from it.
“You seem like clever lads.”
“Thanks.”
“You do. Croesus says he likes you.”
Hearing his name, the dog barked.
“You know why I called him Croesus?”
The boys shook their heads.
“Familiar with Herodotus?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame. That’s a real shame, but I was ignorant of him too when I was your age. What age are you boys?”
“Ten,” said Jamie.
“Eleven,” said Dave.
“Had no notion of the father of history, when I was ten or eleven.”
“You cold?” asked Dave.
“What?”
“You get cold out here?”
“Don’t ask that. It’s rude.”
“It isn’t. Your mate’s asking a fair question, and I shall answer it. I’m not cold, but I’m not warm. I should be colder than I am, but I’ve a secret weapon. You know what it is?”
“Croesus?”
The dog barked, and the man rubbed its ears and neck.
“Good guess. God knows he helps, but the real reason is this. My sleeping bag. You see it?”
The man ruffled it up so that a white label protruded.
“Read that. It says ‘polar’. That means this sleeping bag is good for polar conditions. This is what explorers use. It’s no joke.”
The boys nodded.
“It was a gift. An old lady came up to me last Christmas when Croesus and I were on Ha’penny Bridge, and she gave me this. Said it was good for polar conditions and Merry Christmas. She gave me a sandwich and a cup of tea too, but the sleeping bag was the main thing. Wasn’t that a lovely thing for someone to do for a stranger?”
The man’s eyes looked shiny.
“So, thanks to this I’m not so cold, though not so warm either. But I was talking about Croesus. Wasn’t I?”
Dave shrugged. Jamie said, “Yes.”
“The original Croesus was the king of Lydia? You know where Lydia is, lads?”
They didn’t.
“Well that was an unfair question as Lydia’s long gone now, but back in the day it was a huge kingdom, the richest kingdom in the world and Croesus was the richest king in the world. Croesus was so rich that he could forget about money. It didn’t matter. It was imagination, not cash, that decided what he had. Do you lads know what I mean by that?”
“No,” said Dave.
“Ha, you’re honest. I like that! What I mean is that he had so much money that whatever he could think of appeared. He thought I want a new palace, and it would be built, he thought I want a new harem … he thought I want a hundred white horses with saddles of gold and they would soon be there gleaming and snorting in front of him. You know what I mean? The only limits where his imagination – you see?”
“But,” said Jamie, “he couldn’t buy things that didn’t exist?”
The man blinked, held his dog tighter.
“Explain.”
“Well, he couldn’t buy the impossible. You know? I mean Croesus couldn’t buy a car, because they didn’t exist yet. Right?”
The man smiled.
“What’s your name?”
“Jamie.”
“Jamie what?”
“O’Keefe.”
“Jamie O’Keefe? I’ll remember that name. You’re right. Croesus could perhaps imagine, but not buy what didn’t yet or never would exist. This was his one limit. But I think Croesus was okay with this. He accepted it. He could do pretty much everything else.”
The man took another long swig of whiskey. His breath was misty. It reminded the boys of just how cold it was, and they dug their hands into their pockets, stamped their feet. Dave wanted to go home. Who cares about Croesus, he thought. Jamie didn’t think this. He wanted to hear more about Croesus.
“But lads, was he happy?”
“Sorry?”
“Croesus, was he happy?”
“I reckon so.”
“He thought he was lads. He thought he was the happiest man in the world.”
At that moment the man looked up at the sky and blinked, and the boys looked, too. It wasn’t a starry sky. It rarely was around Drumlin on account of all the streetlamps, but there were still a few up there.
“I’m not going to lie to you, boys. I’m not right in the head.”
The two friends glanced at each other, but neither moved.
“It’s a strange thing knowing that, and I hope you never have it happen to you, but I see things that other people don’t see. Like there when I’m looking up at the sky, I see a woman up there.”
“What’s she look like?” said Dave.
“She’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen, and she’s made of black and silver, and she’s crying. I see things like that all the time.”
The boys looked at the sky, squinted, then they looked at the homeless man, holding his dog, and staring wide-eyed at nothing, and each at that moment felt they should leave.
“You really see a woman up there?” said Jamie.
“I do. She’s there, lads. And the thing is I know she’s not there, and you’re probably right not to see it, but I can’t help it. It’s always been this way with me, and it’s made my life harder than it ought to have been. I’m hopeless.”
Jamie felt sorry for the homeless man. Dave did too, but less so.
“What else do you see?”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“Only her.”
The man took a long sip of whiskey, then he told them how it all started. It happened when he was about nine or ten years old, and he was coming home from school through a park, and all of a sudden the trees started to move.
It was a windy day so at first, he didn’t notice it so much as feel it, but then they were rising up from the soil: oak trees and beech trees, all trees, walking alongside him. He felt that the wind was alive, and not like they say in books but truly alive, violent and filled with breathing and blinking things, and when he opened his mouth, he could feel these things inside him. It was like he was swallowing whole worlds and he felt he was going to burst with it all, yet along with this, he knew, even as a boy that he’d become mad, terribly mad, and it was the loneliest feeling in the world. He ran out of that park. He ran all the way home and cried. When his mam found him and saw his eyes red and wet she asked him what was wrong and he said nothing, and she rubbed his cheeks and told him he was a silly boy, and that if there was anything wrong, he could tell her and they’d sort it out, but he knew he was mad and his mam couldn’t help him anymore.
The man’s voice became very faint, and he kissed Croesus on the head. He told the boys they should probably start making their way home now because it was getting late, and they didn’t have a polar sleeping bag like him, only coats that looked flimsy. The boys said yes, and walked off. When they were nearly out of the churchyard, Jamie looked up at the sky and tried to see a woman, but it was hopeless. There were only a few stars and a bit of moon.
A classic of Black literature, Corregidora was originally published in 1975 and reissued in 2019. It follows the story of Ursa Corregidora, a Kentucky blues singer. The novel opens with Ursa recounting a violent attack at the hands of her husband, Mutt, which leaves her with life-changing injuries. After a shift singing at Happy’s Café Mutt, who is drunk both on alcohol and jealousy, pushes his wife down some stairs as she is leaving the club. She is seriously injured and loses both the baby she is carrying and her womb.
This loss is pivotal to the rest of the novel because, for her entire life, Ursa has been charged with making future generations in order to keep alive the stories of rape, prostitution and brutalization that her great grandmother and her grandmother suffered at the hands of Portuguese slave owner, Corregidora. As well as having Corrgeidora’s patronymic, Ursa also has his blood because he fathered both her grandmother and her mother, and she in turn is driven by the inherited, inescapable hatred of the man who abused her relatives.
Ursa has heard these stories from a very young age, told over and over in stark detail by the older women, and they have been drilled into her until they become her own story too. It is vital for these women to bear witness to the past as there are no paper records left; when slavery was abolished all the paper records were destroyed so there was no evidence of what had happened. But the women have refused to let their experiences be taken from them, telling and retelling them, making each generation of Corregidora women pass it onto the next so that they are never forgotten.
But now, unable to have a child and make that crucial next generation, Ursa has to find a new way of passing them on. Music is her world so she uses her voice as her weapon and sings the blues, writing her inherited history, as well as her lived experiences, into her songs.
Although Ursa and her mother never encountered Corregidora in person, they have still been traumatised by his actions. They have also been objectified and violated by the men in their own lives. Ursa doesn’t know much about her father until later, when she visits her mother to find out what has always been left unsaid between them. What she hears is another story of coercion, ownership and violence, culminating in a beating that leaves her mother bruised and bloodied in the street. Ursa fares no better at the hands of her husbands. As the novel goes on, we learn that prior to Mutt’s vicious assault on her he has mentally abused her for months, trying to force her to stop singing at the café because he is jealous of the way other men look at her, and withholding sex from her as a powerplay. Her second husband also tries to stamp his ownership on her, eventually cheating on her with a fifteen-year-old girl.
Psychologically scarred by the stories she is forced to carry Ursa struggles with her own sexuality, and another rich seam running through the book is her journey to come to terms with her sexual identity and find fulfilment. She is detached from the men she sleeps with, which only adds to their frustration and the futile, dangerous need for them to try to fully possess her, and there are hints of an unspoken desire towards some of the women in her life.
Structurally the novel skips backwards and forwards in time, mixing up Ursa’s recollections with those of her mother, grandmother and great grandmother. Written as an interior monologue, with stream of consciousness recollections of the stories she was told, the language is visceral and raw, unflinching in its descriptions of sex and violence. Corregidora isn’t always an easy read, but it’s an important one.
Corregidora is published in the UK by Virago.
1.
George stands on his rooftop terrace and looks down over the city. It is nearly time for his guests to arrive and he is feeling bullish. Every movement on the streets below affirms the measure he has of this world and his place in it and as he plays out the evening’s scenarios in his head, he smiles. He has been looking forward to tonight for some time.
The intercom sounds and he goes back inside. After buzzing his friends in, he fixes himself a gin and tonic and a bowl of habas fritas and waits in the doorway of the apartment.
“Tim! Maddy Lovely to see you! You got in OK then?”
“We managed to get past those heavily armed teenagers downstairs, if that’s what you mean,” says Tim.
“Ah, Abdi and Guleed! They create an impression, don’t they? They’re going to be here until the gate’s fixed. They fought in the war.”
“Which one?” says Maddy.
“Do you know I completely forgot to ask? Africa somewhere, I imagine.”
“Started early I see.”
“Au contraire! You bring out the best in me, that’s all.” George grins, winks. “Did you find us alright?”
“Yes,” says Tim. “Though we had to take a detour on the other side of the park.”
“I thought I heard something! Bloody fireworks!”
“Not exactly. Haven’t you seen? There’s been more trouble. In fact it’s still going on. Here, do you want to see?”
Tim takes out his phone. George waves his hand.
“No, I’m good thanks. I imagine it’s the same as it was last week, last month, last year. Nothing changes does it? I sometimes wonder what the point of it is.”
“You’re right,” says Maddy, “it’s such a frightful bore.”
Tim raises his eyebrows in Maddy’s direction, Maddy ignores him and George broadens his smile; he is delighted that Maddy has arrived in the mood to do battle. As the three of them move past the marble table and leather sofas of the apartment’s reception area, they are met by Emma, George’s wife. She greets Maddy with a squeeze of her arm and ushers her away for the tour.
“Seriously though,” says Tim, when the women are out of earshot, “you might want to get onto someone about your gate. How long has it been like that?”
“Not sure. A day? Two days?”
“You’re not bothered? With all this going on?”
“Not in the slightest. Nothing’s going to happen, is it? Besides, Abdi and Guleed aren’t here to make up the numbers. I’d like to see anyone try it on with those two, I can tell you.”
“OK. But if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to keep an eye on things. We’re going to need to know the best route home.”
“Oh, it’ll have fizzled out long before we’re done, I can assure you. Speaking of, can I get you gin and tonic? Start as we mean to go on?”
Now it is Tim’s turn to smile. George is irresistible when he’s in this mood. He is right, too. There’s no need to read too much into the disturbances at the best of times and certainly not on a night like tonight, when there are celebrations to be had. “I don’t see why not!” he says, and as he feels his phone vibrate again, he switches it to silent.
2.
Maddy and Emma are on the terrace, sipping gin and tonic. Emma is hymning the view. On the horizon, the far side of the river is lined with tall towers of steel and glass that glint in the evening sun; extending from the near bank are densely packed rooves of houses, stripes of treetops, a patch of dusty green. “You can just about see the lake. Look – over there between the trees. It was one of the reasons we bought here. So many memories.”
Maddy knows the lake well. George once rowed her to the island, where they had champagne and slices of home-made tortilla. Despite herself the recollection makes her visibly reflective – disbelief giving way to indignation – and Emma puts a hand on her arm. “I’m glad you came tonight, Mads. I know the boys have been seeing a lot of each other but it’s been a while, hasn’t it? And we did wonder if you’d fancy it. What with the result and everything.”
Maddy registers Emma’s condescension with barely a flicker of resentment. Emma has clearly taken her cue from George, but her attempt to unsettle Maddy is obvious and ineffectual. “Oh please, don’t worry about that. We arranged this months ago. It just didn’t dawn on us it was the day after the election. Nor that he was going to win.”
“That’s true. But you and George. You do seem to rub each other up the wrong way when it comes to politics.”
“Only politics? Honestly, it’s OK, really it is. We’ve known each other a long time. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it. He just can’t help himself.”
“You’re right. I just thought … well, you know. This whole election has been … it’s been difficult. He’s was a divisive candidate. Some of the things George has told me about him! But it doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Please try to remember that.”
Maddy frowns. For all that Emma is a minor irritant, the charade is becoming painful. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“OK, but promise me you’ll speak to Tim about the ins-and-outs when you get the chance. I know we’ve had our differences, but I’d hate us to fall out over this. George still thinks the world of you, you know.”
“I’d have thought falling out with me would have been the least of his worries,” scoffs Maddy.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, just that there’s a lot of Abdi and Guleeds out there tonight, that’s all. A lot of unhappy people.”
“I know! It’s awful isn’t it? But try not to take on so. Come on. Let me show you the kitchen.”
Emma smiles and, placing a hand on Maddy’s back, guides her back inside. As Maddy swallows her ire, there is a dull thud behind them and a wisp of smoke rises above the trees in the park.
3.
The four friends sit on the terrace around a glass-topped table, eating tapas. The chef has excelled himself: there are chicken livers and prawns and padron peppers, there are slices of ham and sausage, mussels and a salad with cod; the plentiful wine has been carefully chosen and chilled to just the right degree. The conversation too, is taking the form that George had hoped it would: with Emma and Tim providing an obliging audience, he has goaded Maddy by repeatedly raising the subject of the election. True, Maddy has so far denied him the pleasure of rising to his provocation but it is only a matter of time. With the appearance of a bottle of patxaran, George decides to be more direct. “To the mayor!” he says, and winks at Tim. Now the battle is joined.
Maddy shakes her head. “I’m glad you’re finding all this so funny.”
“You never used to mind.”
“Mind what?”
“Oh you know. Us ribbing each other, having a bit of a giggle.”
“That was a lifetime ago, George. Times change. There’s plenty of people struggling to make light of your mayor just now. Those are police helicopters over there, or haven’t you noticed?”
“Really? And what of it?”
“That’s right – you go right ahead and underestimate us. Just like you always do.”
“Us? And who’s us? That would be you and the rioters would it?”
“Well I’ve got more in common with them than I have with you.”
“Nonsense!” George sweeps his arm in a gesture that is both extravagant and derisive, “look around you. Go on. You do know you can’t actually pick and choose your side don’t you? I mean you do understand that?”
“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? That this is the natural order of things.”
“Why fight it? We are the winners, after all. We’re always going to be the winners.”
“You’re wrong.”
An idea comes to George. “OK. Let me put it another way. You see these mussels – do you like them?”
“What on earth has that got to do with anything?”
“They’re from Catalonia. The St Ebro River. They’re the finest mussels that money can buy.”
Maddy can see what is coming. The argument is tired but she has drunk too much wine to respond with the necessary wit. She tries to buy a little time. “What’s your point?”
“You first had them about twenty-five years ago. Do you remember? We were drinking ratafia, in that bar in Barca. And here you are, having them again. So don’t tell me I’m wrong and times change because they don’t. And neither do we. Unless…” He pauses, cocking his head in theatrical consternation, “Unless you’ve stopped liking the mussels. You haven’t stopped liking the mussels have you? Because you seem to be enjoying them well enough.”
“This is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.”
“Just answer the question,” grins George, looming. “Are you enjoying the mussels? That’s all I’d like to know.”
Tim sniggers and Emma suppresses a smile. Maddy has been outmanoeuvred, by the wine, by the occasion. Worse, the space where logic should be is filled with a meaningless guilt, because the mussels are so very good. She pushes her plate away and stands up from the table, with nothing but defiance left. “Fuck you George. Do you know what? I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”
“That’s enough,” says Tim.
“And fuck you too. You’re worse than he is. At least George has some balls.”
“Maddy!” says Emma as Tim looks to George for support. But George has been distracted and doesn’t give it. “Quiet a minute,” he says, putting a finger to his lips, looking over his shoulder. “Did anyone hear that?”
He crosses to the edge of the terrace. Everyone stops to listen. They hear traffic and in the distance there are sirens, but there is something else, something more distinct and urgent. It is a commotion from the streets below, breaking glass and voices, shrieks and angry people shouting. “That sounds very close,” says Tim and he checks his phone. “My god! They’re through the park.”
There is confusion around the table. “George?” says Emma as Tim pales and Maddy lurches from alarm to delight and back again. Only George remains calm. Holding his hands up to reassure his guests, he crosses to the intercom and switches on a small screen. “There’s nothing to worry about, really there isn’t. Abdi and Guleed will take care of this.”
The screen flickers into life. It shows the gates to the complex, broken and open, then an empty security hut. There is no sign of the two Africans and no one answers the intercom. “They’re not going to come here are they?” says Emma. “I mean they won’t get that far will they?”
From the street below comes gunfire; first a single shot, then more, one after the other, in a concentrated burst. “No,” says George, “of course not. I mean they can’t. There must be some mistake.”
But for the first time tonight, he sounds unsure.
Translated by Marissa Skeels.
My nights are long.
A fixed-point camera facing the sea silently captures large, rolling waves. White spray blends with yellow light and smoothly vanishes. Relayed from Hachijioma, the Izu Islands. I lie in bed, staring at the television. The time displayed on the footage doesn’t show the present. Sometimes, on nights when I can’t sleep, I play recordings of stormy days, like this. Outside the window is calm, not a breath of wind.
Global weather forecasts and infomercials follow on endless repeat once
those regular shows have wrapped up. So distant are they, I’m out of harm’s
reach. I don’t always feel laid this bare, but I find I wish to stay secure
when alone, like so, in the still of the night.
Mind vague, I toy with a ballpoint, penning the Nazca Lines on my thighs. Nazca, from the word nanazca, meaning ‘bitterly harsh’. The lines spread little by little as my body is made into Nazca land. The real Nazca lines, it appears, are at risk of perishing. Should they disappear entirely someday, how much will the fact change that drawings are there/were drawn by people, I wonder.
3am passes, while drinking beer, it occurs to me to start making sweets. Something easy, just mix and bake. Feeling the magic will dissolve should morning come while they’re still baking, I put them in the oven as soon as possible. Forty minutes later, enveloped in the aroma of completed sweets, at last I sleep.
As a child, I thought that staying up late was an adult privilege. However, when I consider it now, taking into account the next day, adults sleeping right when they should sleep is also. Maybe amusing myself deep in the night is a small rebellion against becoming a grown-up.
I dream but a little, at once it’s come time to rise. Eyes closed, I change clothes, still dozing wrap the now-cooled sweets in tinfoil and put them in my bag for lunch. Leave the house, bathed in morning light, breathe deeply as if to replace the whole atmosphere within me.
On the way to the station, I pass people with various expressions. Those with prim faces, those who seem still asleep. People who’ve most likely stayed up, for whom it is still night.
As for me, on the train, I remember the geoglyphs on my thighs and feel a smile come on. Like so, my night alone upon my body, I get off the train and head to work.
‘The truth universally acknowledged is how I am a southerner and I hate northerners.’
The depth of the graven hostility tore my eyes from the wide screen flickering before us.
‘Mother, how can tha say such vile rot?’ I repeated the visual sentiment in my words, ‘please come t’Scarborough and feel tut force for yourself and break bondage o’ thy mighty prejudice,’ I suggested in a great reasoning.
‘New,’ she replied, ‘new and new never,’ and sipped at a decaff aberration, the pinkie rising with thimble like the Clooney and his claw.
‘So that’s that?’ I said and stood, reached for my Lidl bag of pants and clean socks, ‘Never the twain shall…shall…shall ever again..?’ words drifted like my confusion, like my cigarette in her garden. I stamped clogs for the last time not in her garden but here in the drawing room.
I would no longer endure bigotry, the man of mystery [sic] marooned at three o’clock on a Monday afternoon in this distant and Biddyford enclosure. I lifted lace curtains at the window frame, beheld the horror streetscape; the dozen exiled kippers, the biddies and the Brummies encircled her estate on foot, pooches stretched ahead on their leashes. And beyond upon a triple highway the infestation of VWs piled with the boutique boards, thundered aside a transit van convoy of plumbers. I recoiled from the double punch of a total ghastliness.
‘Euch…’I said and slouched back to the sofa, winded, defeated and supped instead with a great philosophical perception on a full strength but cold Nescafe triple blend.
‘Oh shush a moment…’ I said into my coffee. I swallowed my coffee, waved my palm, ‘see how much the man makes at the auction,’ I said – decisive at last with the remote control held in my, my other fist.
Re-united a while before the hundred inch flat screen television it was a ‘how about that?’ I said and whistled to mother as I do in moments of reflection. ‘Eight thousand pounds, a teapot spoon; that is the life for me, baby,’ I said.
My piercing blue eyes sought the truth, a destiny. A slender tendril – perfect – stroked at my jaw:
‘Mother,’ I said, ‘where to ever is Claris Cliff collectioned? And whereabouts are my Steiff teddy-tigers from the cereal? Remember, Father left me a kukri somewhere significant, remember for killing his Japanese prisoners of war? Did you perhaps in your folly donate my knife to the window-cleaner, did you? Didn’t you, you did, didn’t you?’ I said, ‘and you despatch me now, your favourite son back to the North dressed only in Father’s gardening smock. At least I found the smock on his, and not your spade. I need more loot. There must be something else in the inheritance here-in? Speak up woman or to your loft be bound…’
Freddy pipsqueak growled at my ankles.
‘Shut up you traitor,’ I said. ‘Come on Mother, reconsider your location and location decisions. You would adore experience of the North peoples up to the border walls, obviously. So come with me and visit some time soon. It is like the South, and down as you are, but with the altitude. This, my final offer; come, one day even settle and sell this Barrett hovel in the horn of Exeter. Imagine how Whitby Abbey shall be our new home, and yours for a while. Think about the brass in my offering.
‘No, I married a northerner and that was enough endurance for one woman,’ she said.
‘Yes, and he smelled divine in that shoe box,’ I said.
‘Would you, my child, like one final feel of the crumble? Don’t you sneeze this time, my boy,’ she winked.
‘Maybe Mummy,’ I said, the steel rising in my vowels, ‘I shall remove him and hurl him high at a Flamborough Head, huh? Back to the old country…’
‘No, he is mine,’ she said. ‘It might snow and man has his uses.’
‘You bastard, my Daddy’s not for your lining pathways.’
The revolting new cat Maximillian bounded into the room, a tartan ponce like a box of shortbread on his uppers.
An evil grin spread above Mother’s chin. I sensed malice and rushed the stairs and rushed into her boudoir of fluff.
‘Daddy,’ I cried and scooped Father’s litter from the corners of the wardrobe. I secured his lid using the vintage elastic band twisted across the cardboard.
‘He’s coming with me you bitch!’
It was her turn to shudder. She fainted on that downstairs sofa with a swoon of palm upon forehead. Her memory faded to 1967. Nineteen years old and beautiful in her borderline dwarfism condition wearing mini-skirt hanged to the shins, and a cardigan – imprisoned inside the caravan outside Bridlington headquarters by tat.
‘Tripe!’ calls granny-warden. Mummy sits with her young man-creature and the haggis-in-laws surrounding the dinner/supper/and tea table, the cauldron of tripe, offal, kicker plus onions.
‘I love you, Sawny,’ she whispers into a cauliflower.
‘I’ll tell ye family as poverty coms in front door love gos out windee,’ says granny-hag and the wind howls in black and white banging Satan against the caravan windows.
‘Mummy, mummy, awake, you are hallucinating in your fantasy,’ I said and woke her from the slumber fit. I wiped the spittle with my sock.
‘Put down the shoe box,’ she demanded.
‘A final word before I headway to North,’ I said. ‘I know how you boasted how well sister and everybody family is doing and does very good stuff in their jobs in technology recipe and Facebook lifestyles down here, and that fucking army job of the brother-in-law, that kite-surfing his tank regiment, and crap like that crap…and GSTQ…yes?’
I took one breath.
‘Just I, well I, your favourite son in Scarborough I don’t have two brass farthings to rub together. I have got no money, Mummy, I love you and would you pay me back for the hire car and the petrol and perhaps an overnight allowance for Pops in the box? It is very gruelling for me, y’know, visiting the relatives…
‘What, you steal my man and box, and I give you money so you can smoke your weeds. That wife of yours pours wine bag after bag down her throat!’
‘For the recycling, Mummy and her passion, Mummy, she likes her singing to the Titanic soundtrack. I don’t mind.’
‘Get a job!’
‘I am getting a job. Only when I rang the agency with my CV, the woman on the other end said my history was “varied.” You know what that means to me? Probably I am simply unemployable and artistic, y’know like an author-writer, even a painter.’
‘Stack beans!’
‘I will stack beans. Just give me time and some of your money.
‘STACK BEANS!!’
‘But Mum don’t push me out of the house. What are you doing with that broom?’
‘Put down your father!’
I placed Father on the pathway. November flurries drifted in the twilight and Mother stood over his ashes, the broom held in her hand, the kukri in her teeth.
‘And don’t come back until you are an IT Sales Project Director in Resources and Marketing,’ she said.
‘I hate you,’ I said.
‘I hated feeding you from the very first day you were born,’ she replied. ‘Remember your favourite, the Fray Bentos spaghetti?’
‘Yes and no,’ I said.
Freddy barked from the tulip border.
‘Fourteen years I spooned you on the economy and not even a Pedigree Chum. All the while I ate taramasalata at your bib,’ she cackled.
‘Mummy,’ I screamed and raged and ran at her wide silhouette. She swiped with her broom. I levered around her waistline and with all my strength staggered in the embrace toward her wheelie bin. Finally I closed the lid.
She clawed fingernails back to the rim, and peered powerless yet safely installed like an Arthur Bell until that next Thursday morning collection.
I rescued Pappa from the surf Nazis of Biddyford and strapped him aside me secure in our passenger seat. We drove the night up hills and down the vales laughing like old times. I played favourite tunes, I played the Buddy Holly and fat dominoes for the re-united father and son combination sped tag-bound for tribal plantations in the North of England.
I keep myself to myself. I pass by my neighbours without looking at them, know nothing of them and expect the same from everyone else: do not notice me, do not speak to me. If they greet me, I ignore them or, if that is impossible, nod and move on as quickly as I can. You will never see me engage in a conversation with anyone.
Live and let live. Do no harm to a living being, human or animal. That’s always been my motto. A perfect recipe for harmony. Coexistence. Peace on earth. But, I don’t need to tell you, the rest of the world doesn’t share my attitude.
Take my next-door neighbours. An ordinary, early-middle-age couple, two kids, girls, sweet faces, curls, angelic, as they say, butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. But the din they make. Ear-piercing shrieking, yelling and squalling. Gods of war out of control, I imagine. And that’s what bothered me: why should I have to imagine, why should I have to guess, why should I have to speculate about their play? I resent such interference in my life. And in the evening, the hour of intense madness. The kids think the floor doubles as a trampoline and a race course. My own floor judders up and down.
Day in day out, the hullabaloo goes on. My brain pulped to madness. My body a wreck. What do I do? Nothing. Live and let live. That’s my motto. But not theirs.
A year of anguish. Live and let live, I tell myself. Be patient. The day will come for your moment.
And it does.
A beautiful, sunny, spring day. A host of golden daffodils on the lawn outside. A new beginning. I wait until the father takes the little devils out and then I ring the bell. Mother opens the door. I tell her I’m not feeling well. I think it’s a heart attack, I add. I make a face of pain. Would she be able to call an ambulance on my behalf? Yes, of course; she is sorry I’m not feeling well. She lets me in. I pounce as she turns her back on me: I hit her on the head with a jack I pull out from the sleeve of my housecoat. She falls. Makes no sound. Good, as planned. Unconscious. Disposable gloves on, I cover her with a plastic sheet, tuck it under – I would hate to make a mess – and proceed to clobber her until there is no life left in her. I walk out, pulling the door closed behind me. Clothes in the washing machine, I take a shower and then it is time for a stroll in the park.
On the way back, I stop at the library for my weekly visit. From the new books’ shelf, I pick up a selection of recently published novels and a collection of short stories with an irresistible title: Temptation: A User’s Guide, by some V Main. I’m a voracious reader. We all have our weaknesses.
As I approach our block, I see three police cars, lights flashing, and an ambulance. A police officer does not let me through.
‘I’m a resident,’ I say.
‘This is a murder scene.’
‘What?’
‘Can’t say more.’
The jack? What did I do with the jack? Left it in the flat? A murder weapon left on the scene? No, do not worry. It’s theirs. I’m not a thief. I only borrowed it. The husband had forgotten it by the door of their garage the previous night. I carried it to their flat under my coat, neatly wrapped in cling film. Unwrapped it before leaving the flat. Would have been stupid leaving my DNA. And yes, you are right: his finger prints will be on it.
‘The husband, my bet’s on him,’ I hear a neighbour tell a group of others, gathered on the lawn.
‘Mmm, there was always something weird about him,’ another one says.
‘I wonder why?’
‘You can’t tell what goes on in a marriage.’
‘Poor children. Mother dead, father in prison. Such little angels. Where will they go?’
‘The couple above that strange person who never speaks to anyone, they used to foster. Didn’t they say they were looking to get back to it. Now is their chance.’
What?
Live and let live, that’s my motto. Live and let live. Unless…
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about the British people, is that they love the sun. I was raised in Saudi Arabia, where the only two seasons of the year are ‘Get Your Skin Burnt Off in Under 15 Minutes Hot,’ and ‘You’ve Died and Woken Up in Hell Hot.’ So it always made me chuckle whenever spring would hit. In between thunderstorms, the sun would shine for half an hour, and I would see people in shorts, t-shirts and sunglasses. But now spring has hit and I see…no one.
Suppose the COVID-19 lockdown were to continue deep into the summer months. The sun’s hibernation period ends and it finally comes out of hiding to beam down on all beneath it.
But there is hardly anyone to soak it in.
June, July, August pass and we all live in fear of a disease – which, if you breathe in – does its best to stop you from breathing at all.
Of course, it could all be contained much sooner, and some semblance of normality is restored. Even then, it will be a long time before the general public feels safe enough to return to its old ways – especially those who have been personally affected by it. Those who have contracted it themselves, witnessed someone they know go through it, or lost someone during a period of time that will undoubtedly be studied about in decades to come.
Even if we were to recover sooner rather than later, the economic outcome will require us to religiously stick to a diet so that we can tighten our belts. Given the loss of lives, the fear, the economic blackhole…does it really matter what season we’re in?
The days are getting longer, the temperature is rising, but when I look outside my window it’s a ghost town.
I remember last year sitting on a sandy beach staring out at all the different shades of blue of the Adriatic Sea, with a rage-filled sun in the skies. I had a banitsa in hand – a delicious, traditional Balkan dish of baked filo pastry with feta cheese and spinach – and could see a wave of bodies dancing in sync to the music of a beach party to my left. Jagged cliffs stood tall, battered by the sea on my right, as I caught up with an old friend I used to live with in Spain.
I think about that summer… and then I think about this summer.
Before the pandemic hit, I had thought about going to the south of Spain. But even once the borders open and they say it’s ‘safe’ to travel, a deadly virus will still linger in the air. Besides, if you live with parents, children, siblings etc. going on a holiday, even just for a break, could be taking a selfish risk.
Nonetheless, a break is exactly what most of us need. Especially after going through such an unprecedented period of time where, as a country, we have been through so much. As enriching as it is to travel to somewhere new and discover its culture, it’s also a big form of escapism.
So, the real question is: can you be a tourist in your own city? Is it possible?
To be honest, I don’t know. But with little choice in the matter, we may have to find out.
Whether you’ve lived in a city for years or been born and raised in one place, you assume you know everything there is to know. Your favourite restaurants, your coffee shops, your park, your gym, even the route you take when you want to go for a walk. There’s something that attracts you to those particular places, and they end up becoming ‘your’ places. You find comfort in familiarity.
However, comfort is also a dangerous thing. Too much of it and you’re stuck.
It’s been a year and a half since I moved to the city of Leicester. A city with great promise and diversity. Growing in size, economy and infrastructure. But it’s not London, or New York, or Tokyo…it’s Leicester. There are only a handful of things you can do with your spare time, and it doesn’t take long before even those things become boring. It’s one of those places you love deep down…but only because you live there.
I’m an explorer by nature. I’ve always been curious to find out what’s at the bottom of that road. You may tell me it’s a dead-end, but I still need to see it for myself.
In every new country or city I visit, at one point or another I try my best to get as lost as I can. I pick a direction and don’t stop walking until I truly have no idea which way is which. That is when I discover the most. Someone once told me that whenever they would go to a new country, they would jump in a taxi and pay the driver to drive 5 miles ‘that way.’ He would then get out and that would be his starting point.
That’s going to have to be my mindset this summer. I’m going to wander the streets of Leicester as if it were my first time. With that same inquisitiveness. On a major roundabout in Leicester, there is a church which has preserved the ruins from when the Romans invaded. I’ve gone past that church and those ruins a hundred times. And yet, I’ve never gone in or learnt about its actual history. If I were in a new city and saw something like that, I’d be there straight away, stopping strangers to find out if they could tell me anything about what it was that had caught my eye. It’s human nature to take what is considered to be ours for granted. We do it with our partners, family, friends, jobs, and we do it with the places we live in.
I’m going to see my city through the eyes of a traveller. I’ll do it by walking, observing everything there is around me, and not being afraid to stop someone and ask them questions about anything on my mind. One of my best friends sees absolutely no point in walking around aimlessly. ‘It’s a waste of time and energy, mate – Google it’. He will Google ‘top places to visit in…’ and base his plans around that. I bet he’s never done that in Leicester. I don’t get him, he doesn’t get me, but it’s what works. So whatever works for you. If all else fails, and you can’t leave for whatever reason, open your eyes, open your mind, and rediscover.
Just because homeopaths have laryngitis today and Ayurvedics (if they are called that) are observing spiritual silence and at long last leaving Covid 19 to useless Allopathy, doesn’t mean that Yoga is going to shut up anytime soon. See Yoga is all about building immunity and so here is what we must all do (separately) in our socially distant what-sapped lives.
Start by choosing a well-ventilated room that is open to airborne infection. But before that, dress in figure hugging trendy lycra on which Covid (not related to David) can easily make a temporary home. All beings are God’s beings and so they are all spiritually welcome. So start with a Namaste. It is widely believed that Modi’s Namaste Trump pogrom (sorry about the typo) marked the auspicious birth of Covid (not related to David) and China has had to bear Trump’s branding but is too busy battling the pandemic to bother even a bit about it. At any rate anyone who is busy can hardly afford to bother about Trump’s branding of anything. But we’re straying from our naturopathy agenda. So let’s get back to that virus friendly room.
Start.
Pose 1: Tadasana, the mountain pose
Ground down to four corners of your feet. Roll shoulders away from ears. And before you ask why, draw shoulder blades down your back. And before you can wonder why, lift the crown of your head – if you have one, crown I mean, not head, unless you are a right winger. In the latter case you have no reason to worry. The virus has to be immune to you, not vice versa. Tut tut. Strayed again from the point.
Back to the pose.
Engage the thighs, draw belly button in, if you have one – I mean button, not belly, unless you are an overfed hyper capitalist, in which case you have no reason to fear. It is the hungry virus that fears your prosperity. Tut Tut. Back to the pose. Lengthen up through the spine, if you have one, unless you are a head of state in which case it is the virus which will test positive, not you. But. But. Back to the pose. Turn your palms facing the front of the room. Relax your jaw. Unfurrow your brow. Even if both are pink in color, in which case you are safe because the virus will blush in embarrassment instead. Oh ho. Back to the pose. Breathe easy. Because it is only when do Pranayama that you breathe hard and deep, enough to suck the virus in from a distance of one mile and keep it in so long that it multiplies and then exhale with such force that it is sprayed all over the neighborhood.
Pose 2: Pranayama (whatever it means besides breathing like a steam engine)
Pose 2.1 Anulom Vilom (self-explanatory)
Be good and sit down because Yoga originated in a place which is sitting on its . . . . for seven decades since independence. Now empty your lungs (might as well get rid of air before it comes out like a cry for communal violence) and use your thumb of your dominant hand to block your right nostril (serves the dual purpose of keeping right-leaning stink at bay and also transferring the virus from hand to nose to develop that herd immunity) and breathe only from your left nostril, unless your mind is so closed to anything that is left of center, in which case the virus needs to develop immunity to you rather than the other way round. Now reverse it and shut your left nostril and transfer the virus to it, while breathing silly from the right, the way anyone who leans right, breathes, unless you breathe silly from both sides in which case you have no reason to fear the virus because then you would be a bureaucrat and the virus must fear you instead.
Pose 2.2 Kapalabhbhati Pranayama (cousin of Anulom Vilom like Covid is to SARS)
The idea here is to clear the mucus in the nose so that Covid (not David) can have an unobstructed pulmonary holiday. Start by sitting on your . . . like a yogi who does little else. Inhale briefly and slowly to allow a friendly entrance to the virus and then exhale sharply to do the neighborhood a favor. And pull your navel in when you do so, unless you don’t have a navel in which case you must be a virus yourself and should immediately start contesting the presidential race.
Now get up and hold a political rally just to be doubly sure that you build herd immunity by infecting thousands rapidly. And yes, it will still be Yoga. You only have to prefix a Namaste to the pogrom. God, I’m terribly sorry about the typo again.
The thing is I’m actually the real deal, not one of those fakes or tricksters who prey on people, who take advantage of them and make a few dollars out of their problems by keeping them happy, telling them what they want to hear. For them it’s an act, a show; a game both sides play and everybody knows the rules. For the tourists it’s just one of those things they do when they come to Macau, along with eating, shopping and gambling. These days even the tourist office hands out guides. Me, no I’m the real thing, I truly can see into the future, and believe me I wish I couldn’t. It’s rarely anything to look forward to.
*
I have a client booked in for this morning. In the past I worked the temples and the night-markets like the street-performers. I did kau chim reading the sticks and interpreting the oracle, I was a master of face reading, palm reading – all the stuff I had to do to make a living, I went through the motions of what the punters expected of me, even though I could have answered their questions without any of that fakery. These days I’m an old man and I just do it my way; I don’t care much for going out so I prefer to stay indoors, but luckily my reputation is such that I don’t have to spend all day at the temple and instead they come to my apartment.
Today it’s a young woman – a Miss Chan, no more than twenty – whose mother has cancer. I can tell she’s doubtful, wondering what she’s doing in this somewhat tatty living room. She’s attractive and smartly dressed in a modern style; jeans, a Versace T-shirt – or at least a Versace knock-off – and a gold necklace. Her looks only serve to emphasise the drab emptiness of the room. For the past few months I’ve been slowly getting rid of things, divesting myself of a life, and there isn’t much furniture left, just the little I still need, but I ask her to take a seat on the worn black leather sofa that continues to take up one side of the room. A framed photograph of my parents hanging on the wall behind her is the only decoration.
I always like to let the client start so I pull over a chair and wait for her to speak. When she does her voice is quiet and hesitant, and I can only just hear her over the sound of the ceiling fan gently stirring the air above us.
“I’m not sure why I’m here…” she starts. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t believe in all this mumbo-jumbo.” I don’t take offence; the young ones are always like that. They pretend not to believe and yet still they come. The older generation believe implicitly without any apologies.
“There is no mumbo-jumbo, Miss Chan. I have certain skills, that is all.”
And that’s the truth of it, I’ve always had this ability. Ever since I was a boy. I was seven when out of the blue I announced to my parents “Big Uncle’s going to die.” Big Uncle was my grandmother’s brother, I called him Big Uncle to differentiate him from my parents’ brothers. He lived alone on Coloane down a dirt track completely out of the way with no neighbours anywhere close and to my younger self he seemed ancient, though in reality he was about the same age I am now. We had just left his house – I think my parents had wanted his opinion on something – when the words came out from I know not where. I must have shocked them, I surprised myself. My father told me to be quiet and stop being so disrespectful of the elderly, but later my mother was friendly and took me to one side and tried to explain how one day we would all die. “No,” I said, “I mean he’s going to die tomorrow.” My mother drew back and slapped me hard across the face, sending me to bed with no supper.
The next day Big Uncle died. A massive stroke that came out of the blue while he was playing mah-jong in the tea-shop.
They are always looking for hope, that’s the worst of it, but because I know the truth hope is the last thing I can give them. Miss Chan wants to know that her mother will recover, that all will be well. But it won’t and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I can already see that her mother will die shortly, all I can do is to try and tell her gently.
It will be a relief in some ways when all this is over.
*
When it comes down to it people always ask about the same three things: health, business and love. I suppose these are the subjects that matter to us most. Will my mother get better? Should I invest in this stock? Will he make a good husband? I used to wonder why I only had bad news to give but in time I came to understand that people only go to a fortune-teller when they have doubts, and their doubts were usually well-founded. You don’t waste your money when you know you’re in love with someone. Just now and then I was surprised and able to give good news, but that wasn’t often. More often, like today, an illness was incurable, a business investment unwise, and a lover unfaithful.
The grief everyone felt over Big Uncle’s death overshadowed my prediction, which was somehow forgotten. Over the years I’ve tried and failed to understand how it works, but when I was very young my skills were limited, crude. I could only see the most dramatic close events. As I got older I was able to refine my abilities, to see things that were subtler and further away. To begin it seemed a blessing – friends and family sought my opinion on everything and I was always popular at the dog track – but in time it became relentless. It wasn’t enough that I could see answers to specific question; no, images of the future started to come on me unasked. I could be walking down the street and the destiny of strangers passing by crowded in on me. I was being overwhelmed by the future, deafened by the fates of everybody around me.
Relationships became impossible. How could I love someone when I knew exactly what they were going to do or what was going to happen to them? When I was twenty I went out with this girl for a while but soon I knew she was seeing someone else. She denied it and when I told her they were going to spend a weekend together in Hong Kong she said that was nonsense. Two days later she discovered that her new boyfriend had bought the ferry tickets. Girlfriends became suspicious of me, of my motives, of everything I said and did. They wondered what I knew and sometimes predictions became self-fulfilling.
The worst of it was when my parents died; my father went first, twenty years ago, and then my mother. Of course I knew, and they must have known that I knew, but it’s the only time I’ve ever lied about the future. With my father I had a general sense some months in advance which became stronger and more definite as the weeks progressed. When he fell ill my mother asked me “Will he recover? You must know, so tell me, please.” I fudged my answer, I didn’t want to lie but I couldn’t tell the truth either. I said that I couldn’t see clearly, I said that perhaps I was too close, that with family my vision was clouded. I doubt if my mother believed me and a year later when she started having heart trouble she asked me to be honest with her. She said she wanted to know so that she could put things in order if she had to.
Telling my mother she had only three months to live was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. That’s when I retreated to my apartment here in Coloane, staying indoors away from people as much as I could. I’ve become something of a monk or a hermit and I think I understand now why Big Uncle lived here: it’s as close as you can get in Macau to the middle of nowhere. I still need money to live on though, so I started taking private appointments.
*
Miss Chan tells me about her mother.
“The stomach pains started two years ago. I think. They may have started before that but my mother never said anything. I think she kept quiet about it, didn’t want to worry my father.”
“Tell me about them, your parents.” I don’t need to know, but she needs to tell me. Sometimes I’m part-therapist.
“They run an antiques shop. It doesn’t really make any money but it’s my mother’s love. My father … he’s not very practical … I don’t know how he’ll cope if anything happens to her…”
I have to decide whether to tell her that her father will die of a heart attack a few months after her mother, literally broken-hearted. I often have this dilemma, they come to ask me about the future but how much do they really want to know? Do they want the whole truth? I can’t be dishonest, I will never lie to them, but I can decide how much to tell them. This time I elect against telling her unless she asks specifically, it’s her mother she’s come about not her father.
“My mother…?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Chan…” I don’t need to say anything else. I think about taking her hand but she draws herself inwards and I leave her to her thoughts for a time.
*
Miss Chan spends an hour with me in the end. I don’t need all that time to tell her what she needs to know, but she needs the time to take it in. She’s my final client and I’m in no rush, and anyway there’s something about her that I respond to. We seem chalk and cheese, oil and water, but I’m drawn to her. Not in a sexual way – not at my age, and certainly not now – but I sense a connection. That’s unusual. For all that I can see everything about a person’s life, it is always very abstract; I feel no more about them than I do the weather. But with Miss Chan it’s different, I’m sorry for her of course, but more than that there’s something about her I can’t see clearly, and that intrigues me. Normally I can read people completely, but not with Miss Chan. There’s a curtain; yes, I can see what will happen to her parents, but nothing about herself. She blows her nose as she starts to gather her things, there have been a few tears, but I don’t want her to go. Another thing that is unusual, normally I’m anxious to be alone again.
“Would you like some tea before you go?” I ask. She looks at me, she seems troubled by something beyond her mother, and accepts the offer. I go to the kitchen and when I return with a teapot and two cups, she is the one who takes my hand.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “Can I help? Is there anything I can do for you?”
At first, I’m surprised by her questions, it’s as if our roles have been reversed. Only slowly do I begin to understand.
“You know?” I ask.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“There’s no need to be. I’ve known for a long time now. I’m prepared for it, it will be a blessing in some ways, but I wasn’t prepared for this. For you knowing. You can see, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
She says this calmly, very matter of fact and without much emotion. Perhaps that’s a good sign for her future, she’ll need to keep a sense of detachment.
When Big Uncle died I was too young for it to register, but there were family stories about how he had second sight, and when I was a young man I came to understand that somehow his skills came to me when he died, an inheritance of sorts, a transition between generations, and now they are passing to Miss Chan.
l will be dead tomorrow.
I’ve known for several months that my life was coming to an end, and more recently I’ve been able to foresee the time and date. Tomorrow afternoon, a little after lunch. When Big Uncle died he wasn’t able to warn me about how my life would change, he had no way of knowing that I was the one who was going to take up the burden, but I have a little time left still. Perhaps in the remaining hours I can explain things to Miss Chan, tell her how it will be, offer words of advice. There was nobody to help me and there’s so much that I need to tell her. Perhaps one day she’ll also end up living in Coloane.
“Miss Chan, please, would you like to stay for dinner?”
1.
Shade sleeps with shadows dancing in her head. The way she says it, I always imagine the shadows playing tag in her subconscious, each one looming bigger, larger and scarier like a grim reaper, coming one after the other, whispering sweet evils into her ears in her sleep. Whenever she regains consciousness, she would pick her phone and dial my number, no matter when, two, three or four in the morning when I would be deep in sleep. Negotiating myself out of sleep, I would listen in between sniffs and weeping. She’d tell me the dream she just had, with as much detail as she could remember, till the first light of the day. We will share the burden, the fear and the scary dream. “They told me to kill myself; they said it would be okay if I did, I want it to stop but I don’t know how, Tolu. I don’t know how, I am afraid.” In between my assurances of okay and it will be fine, I will wonder why she had to be assaulted by such demons, I will wonder why these demons had to choose the one girl I had fallen for and how I am supposed to deal with this. Selfish.
2.
There had been moments like this before, with other women. Women I had nothing in common with, women with high cheekbones and long necks, women with curves firmer than a python’s grip, women I fancied but couldn’t bring myself to talk to. Like Abiola, who told me one day that my face made her insides soften and asked if I would like to feel the moisture converging between her legs. I had never been with a woman at the time. I was curious but religious. I wanted my hands to travel her body down to the place she wanted them in. I wanted to watch her squirm, to know what my fingers would do to her. Instead, I stood before her and imagined my hands feeling her up, not just the place between her legs, but also her breasts, her neck and her ass. I imagined how soft they would be, the kind of moan that might escape her lips if I massaged them right and then I began to imagine the possibility of my hands finding places she wouldn’t want explored. It had been twenty seconds since her words and I stood suspended in a longing gaze before her. Then I felt her hands on my skin; the touch awoke me. I stared wordlessly at her. I tried to use my mouth but my voice betrayed me. So I collected all the men in me and ran. I ran like a man chased by demons. I ran breathless. I tore through the day one stride at a time and allowed the winds to take me home. When I arrived at my room, I entered and locked the doors. I climbed into my bed and imagined my hands trailing her body. I masturbated to the memory of what I should have done.
3.
The first time I spoke with Ada I was intimidated by her freedom, by her boldness, and masqueraded it as being shy so I wouldn’t have to be around her. But she rolled my shyness like blunts and smoked it away. We had met in church and bonded over our interests in books and literature. Our second conversation would happen at a bus stop in Ikeja on a beautiful Lagos Sunday. I was waiting for the bus to ferry me to Ketu where I would get a cab to continue my journey home, she was waiting for the Uber she ordered. She had spotted me before I could turn and assume my pose of nonchalance.
“So you were going to pretend as if you didn’t see me!” she said. “Typical you.” I smiled an uneasy smile in response. What else could I do when I had been caught in the act. So we began our dance, because that was what it was. A dance around the obvious.
“You look very sharp today, Tolu. Nice suit.”
“You don’t look too bad yourself,” I replied. She smiled and patted herself and curtsied.
“Looking good is good business and you know, I am in the business of looking good, so you know, appearances matter.”
“Don’t be so modest.” I said.
“I wasn’t,” she replied. “I was being honest.”
We expanded the scope of our conversation that afternoon and flitted towards the territory of the personal. We asked each other clichéd questions in the variety of:
“How is a beautiful person like you single?”
“So, what quality would you seek in an ideal partner?”
“Do you like me?”
Before that Sunday expired we had conversed ourselves into a relationship, or something that had the semblance of one. Even after our respective means of transportation arrived, we continued texting and calling each other till the last light of the day. She told me she wanted to do right by this relationship and take it all the way. I didn’t object. It was convenient for me. I liked her enough. Then later, she said she wanted to have me for keeps, and I said okay. It seemed like she was saying the same thing in different ways; this was how I interpreted it. After it all went bust, I would query my decision not to have seen the warning signs from the beginning, because they had been there. She had written them in bold letters, yet I was too excited about the prospects of this glittering beautiful girl who I liked; I didn’t want to be bothered about anything else.
It didn’t take long for me to begin shedding myself, folding myself into different layers to accommodate her insecurities and her assumption that I was about to cheat on her with the next girl who smiled at me. It didn’t help we were both members of a church where relationships were monitored like clockwork and we had both sworn oaths of celibacy. Whenever I spoke to my friends about these problems I was having with her, they would tell me to have a sit-down with her and make a decision about this oath that wasn’t doing much for us. When I eventually took the advice, she became hysterical and broke up with me only to come back two days later to apologize. I wasn’t done with the relationship at the time, so I was excited when she called and we had a sit-down where we decided to keep our oath. With time I learned to measure my words and lie better. What I didn’t know at the time was that I wasn’t a model boyfriend; all I cared for was what I could get from the relationship. Although I pretended that I didn’t, I reveled in the attention she showered on me and the gifts and the endless surprises that characterized our time together. Ada invested so much in the relationship and I wore her out with my indifference, my insistence that my presence was all that was needed and nothing else.
4.
When Shade left me, things I didn’t know existed escaped their leashes and assaulted me. I walked around as if my shadows were chasing me. I carried my sadness around like a teddy bear, hugged it, spoke to it as if it was alive. I sought succor in the familiar, the softness of breasts and the wetness of nether regions. I fucked around as if the best way to move on was by using my dick. But none of it mattered because I still missed her. I missed being present in her life, I missed spending time on the phone with her, hearing the cackle of her laughter, the bass of her voice when she defends herself when I tease her about the miniature size of her ass; I missed hearing her tell me about the stress of her day. So I reached out to her again with the pretense that I had momentarily forgotten the death of our relationship. I lied to myself that I was fine with the gift of friendship, the only thing she claimed she had to offer. One hot evening in front of her Lekki apartment, I wept like a child in the name of grand gestures. That night, she fucked me for pity’s sake. I felt the emptiness scream back at me as I held her when we came. The satisfaction on her sleeping face tricked me into hope. I wrote her flowery poems and begged for another chance, swore that I would divorce the depression she claimed I love more than her, begged and promised to be the version of me she fell in love with. I told her I would fold myself into the layers she needed me to be folded into. She listened as a mother tired of the truancy of her stubborn child would and said to me, “I don’t need you to be better for me, I am good enough for myself. I need you to be better for you, and then maybe we can try again.” It was at this moment, after the words had escaped the prisons of her mouth, that I recognized them for what they were. It was then I realized that the moment a relationship breaks is never the same time the idea of the breaking occurs.
5.
The first day we met, we made love. A strange mix of sunlight and rain welcomed her to Abeokuta that afternoon as we negotiated the afternoon to my house. My body ached from the work I had done to make my house presentable for her arrival. The moment she walked into my room, she pulled me into a kiss. We tore at each other’s clothes as we kissed. She tasted like forever. We ate each other like greedy children stuffing their faces with dinner. Thunder and rain attended the event as witnesses as they pounded the windows of my room that evening. We stayed in bed for the rest of the night, hungry for food but hungry for each other more. Before the night expired, she said “I love you.” She must have assumed I was asleep. I didn’t move, I pretended as if sleep had claimed me but her whispers had triggered a debate in my head: Was this how people fell in love? What does she love about me? Is it because of the intensity of my strokes or the way I worshipped her body? The questions ping-ponged in my head till the first light of day intruded my room.
As we sat down for breakfast, I watched this girl, who I’d loved from afar for years, for the first time. Her skin was glowing with a milky fairness. She had a small face. She was daring in a way that I didn’t know she was. When she spoke, she would look me in the eyes and demand I respond the same way.
“I love you, Tolu.” The words came out of her lips softly with her eyes holding mine. “You don’t have to say it back.”
“I love you too, Shade.” I said it knowing that love was a feeling I had never felt before, a feeling I had not negotiated with myself yet. Knowing that if ever the day would arrive when I had to prove this love, I would fail – and this was what happened eventually. I failed her over and over. I failed because I was afraid her demons would tip her over and overflow into me. I failed because, well, just because. I would wonder years later, if perhaps had I been honest and untangled the emotions that coursed through me that morning, maybe if I had admitted the truth, perhaps we could have made it.
6.
I once told my older sister about a decision I made never to get married, and I could see in her face a disappointment indescribable. She would go on to quiz me about my past relationships, the ones she knew about, the ones she thought would be worth something, and each answer I gave only took her to another level of disappointment. What she could have asked me might have been whether I thought I was good enough to marry someone else, and perhaps our conversation could have yielded something different. I am a monster with desires.
We drove up the spiraling drive to the Doubters Church in Fort Washington. There was Paul, lonely and in love with all of us and LSD, and Jason, barely 15, frail, too easily affronted, about to come out of the closet, and Debbie with hair like frosting and bridge bangs that wisped from her own earnest and trusting breath, and Lila, newly pregnant, who boarded at a Catholic girls academy named Raven Hill, and Steven, who dropped out of high school to replicate the swell and sway of the open sea on his 12-string.
We entered the unlocked church and settled into the pews by moonlight. Paul whose father brokered used restaurant supplies, and Jason whose mother tended bar, and Debbie whose uncle published science fiction, and Lila, her father in upper management at Dupont, and Steven, whose parents taught business math in the public schools. Only Debbie knew the priest, both loved and hated by this congregation, for counseling its precious sons to avoid the draft through Canada or jail.
Then Debbie led us past the painted facade pipes, up into the organ loft and the eight and sixteen foot ash and poplar basses spaced in a century of dust, the scraped and scarred and tape-patched bellows, so that each of us could choose a dented zinc pipe the size of our forearm, and lift it gently from its cradled rank–all of us but Steven, who stayed in the car moping, angry at Debbie for taking off her clothes earlier in the day, up on the plateau, sopping wet as she skipped and twirled about in affirmation of the cloudburst.
We went outside, single-file, to the cemetery and circled the Revolutionary War dead and blew great gasping puffs into the raised pipes. Paul, soon to amass a fortune for his software, and Lila, disinherited, soon to give birth to three evenly spaced sons in Colorado, and Jason, soon to be beaten beyond recognition on the Locust Street strip, Steven joining us too, pipeless, soon to Haifa as a scholar of Kabala, and Debbie, Debbie, bravely leading our bursting, swooning, melismatic vessels.
A while ago, it became a thing for some of the other boys at school to spit at me. They call it “flobbing”. Our school uniform is black and we’re supposed to wear our blazer at all times, unless we get special permission on really hot days, so one of the teachers noticed that I was arriving to lessons with all these snail-trails of phlegm and saliva down my back. It wasn’t just me, they spit at other people too, but because I’m much shorter than everyone else and I’m really shy, the teachers started to get worried about me, and they decided that some sort of intervention was needed.
So, when it was time for our once-a-year medical with the district nurse, all of us got told to line up outside the First-Aid Room, to be weighed and measured. The nurse marked down the readings on charts in cardboard folders, and then everyone got sent back to their lessons. But this time, me and Matthew Lewis, who is very overweight, got held back and taken to one side like two defective, substandard eggs. I got given a letter to take home.
Three weeks later, me and my Mum are in London, dodging taxis and weaving through tourists in Tottenham Court Road, looking for an address written on a letter from our doctor.
The hospital is a massive, ornate Victorian building, tucked away in the back streets of the West End. It has stone steps, leading up to huge oak double doors and inside it’s a maze of wards and stairs and lifts and corridors, with NHS signage and arrows pointing directions. We eventually find Paediatrics, on the second floor, and sellotaped to the wall is a paper printout sign that says:
“Growth Hormone Clinic: Prof. NJ Redmond” with a large black arrow pointing the way.
We push through the doors into the ward. In front of us, there is a long straight corridor. Sitting up against the walls, in two rows of grey plastic chairs, facing each other, are the outpatients, waiting for their names to be called.
It’s an amazing sight.
All the short parents, with small, underdeveloped children have sat on the right-hand side. Little tiny mums and dads in XS size clothing, with teeny tiny kids like me, wearing little towelling dressing gowns. Playing with Nintendos, drinking apple juice from cartons, dangling their legs that don’t reach the floor. All perfectly fully formed, but little. Mini-mums and mini-dads cross their mini-feet with size three and four shoes on.
But facing them, on the other side of the corridor, are these gigantic, massive sets of parents with incredible, super-sized kids. Some of them are epically tall and lanky, and others are just big all over, like wrestlers, or James Bond baddies. One boy is blind, as well.
It hadn’t occurred to me that there would be kids who had too much growth hormone the same as there were kids with not enough.
We sit diagonally opposite a seven-foot-tall dad, sat with his legs wide apart, reading a magazine. He has shorts on and his legs are like cranes, big structural things invading the walkway.
I look him over. He has giant, dinosaur’s shinbones and his legs are hairy, but shiny at the same time. His kneecaps are rock-hard ovals, like cycle helmets. He has massive dad-fingers, and his hands are made for pulling big steel levers or holding sledgehammers. The magazine looks tiny and silly in his hands. I imagine looking up the leg-hole of his shorts and seeing an enormous penis, with its one eye closed, sleeping like an animal in a burrow.
It is my turn to put on a dressing gown. I return holding my clothes in a bundle and give them to my mum. The giant dad’s son has appeared and is sitting next to him. The son is about my age. He looks like his dad in the face, but he is really thin and bony and he has acne scars. The tallness doesn’t look comfortable for him, he looks geeky and socially awkward and I wonder what his nickname is at school and if people bully him. His fingers are really long, and I think that if I was his Dad, I’d send him to piano lessons, because he can probably do at least an octave-and-five. There is not enough room for all their legs and they have both tucked their feet under the chairs so that people can get past. Their shoes are huge, they must have to go to special shops.
I wear clothes with labels that say “For ages 7–9” even though I’m thirteen.
Another tiny mum with a tiny daughter arrives at reception and asks where to go, and I look for their reaction when they turn and encounter the wondrous sight of us all sitting here, titans and munchkins, on opposite teams.
We wait for a very long time and it becomes boring.
A woman and her daughter arrive. They are gigantic and round.
The girl has her hair up in little pom-pom bunches, with plastic bobbles. She is wearing a yellow cotton T-shirt and it is stretched over her full, heavy breasts that lay across her body like sandbags. Her hips are very high and wide in her jeans, her buttocks are massive and dominate her body and they jut out, like a shelf. As she walks, the hips shift and roll momentously, on alternate diagonal axes, like an adult woman’s.
They come to sit down near us, but on the big-people side. They heave into the chairs, arranging plastic carrier bags full of snacks and magazines around them, and the mum puffs out a big sigh with the effort of sitting, and fitting into the too-small chair.
The girl has thick fat rolls on her neck, like her mum. They both have chubby, smooth hands with painted nails and thin gold rings on their fingers. Their skin is warm dark brown, oiled and silky, and the Mum has earrings shaped like stars, hanging on tiny thin chains. The girl has a really happy face, her fat cheeks push her bottom eyelids up so that she looks smiley all the time.
The clinic is running late. We wait another forty-five minutes in the chairs.
The giant dad and his son have finished and gone now.
The girl, who is called Keisha, has been playing Super Mario on a Game Boy for a long time. Her Mum keeps telling her to turn it down. Keisha notices me staring and holds the Game Boy out to me and says, “Do you want a turn?”
“Is it Super Mario?” I ask, even though I know it is, from the music.
“Yeah.”
“OK. I’m a bit rubbish.”
My mum gives Keisha’s mum a big smile, like what nice manners your child has, and she smiles back.
I cross over, a tiny rebel invited onto the giant’s side of the corridor, to sit next to Keisha, and she hands me the console and watches me play.
“Go left! Left! Get the heart!”
I click the controllers for a few minutes and we both concentrate on Mario World. Keisha’s huge, glossy arm is resting against mine as she leans in and watches my efforts. She smells like coconuts. I fall down a drainpipe and my turn is over. She giggles in my ear.
“What’s your name?” I say.
“Keisha.”
“How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“You’re TEN?! Wow…”
“Yeah. How old are you?”
“I’m thirteen,” I say.
“You don’t look it. You look about nine.”
“I know.”
While Keisha is starting her turn at Mario, we both stick out one leg to compare, press them up against each other. My tiny, pale-white child’s foot and her magnificent, fleshy dark-brown barrel of a lower leg. My foot only reaches down to near her calf. We laugh at me stretching in my chair, straining to reach my toes down to match where hers are, poking out from the hospital slippers. Keisha’s toenails are painted hot pink and it looks good, I like nail varnish.
Keisha’s name is called. I say thank you for sharing the Game Boy, and she stands up with her mum. They walk down to the consultant. Her huge, round buttocks make the dressing gown ride up at the back, big rolls of flesh hug her sides and the little slippers make slapping sounds as she saunters down the corridor.
I go back to my mum.
“Guess how old that girl is! … Seriously! guess how old that girl is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Ten!”
“Really?”
“Yeah! can you believe that? She’s ten! … TEN!”
“Shhhhh… yes, okay.”
*
The orchidometer is a medical device for measuring testicles. It’s not very sophisticated, it’s actually just a string of oval beads, graduating from small to large, and painted bright jolly colours, like a toy caterpillar. Dr Redmond has chosen to wear the string of plastic testicles tied around his neck, like a necklace.
The doctor has pulled down my underpants and is rolling one of my gonads gently around in his fingers. His other hand is up at his neck, moving along the beads, trying to find a match.
He strikes up a conversation with my mum.
While he is examining and talking to her about testosterone, I am focused on the last, biggest bead on the necklace, which seems huge, about the size of a small avocado, and I absently begin to imagine what will happen if the hormone treatment works. I imagine myself walking around with massive, hairy avocado-balls.
He is explaining that my skeleton is about five years behind my age, and that if I have the injections, I might gain up to three inches. There’s no guarantee – but even if it doesn’t make me taller overall, it will help advance puberty and so my body will be changing at the same time as my friends and I’ll feel more able to “join in with things.”
He addresses my mum and says stuff about “managing expectations”.
I can tell that there’s something about me getting bullied, or being shy, written down in the notes in the folder, because when he looks at them he keeps using phrases that hint at it. He’s trying to be diplomatic, and says “left out” instead of “bullied”.
My mum looks at me and says, “How do you feel about that? Do you want to ask any questions?”
I am staring at the X-rays of my hands and my skull, on a lightbox on the wall. I want to say, that’s not why they pick on me. They pick on me because I act like a girl, and I hang around with all the girls … and I wish I was a girl – but inside, I know that there’s no way that I’ll say that out loud. Not for a long time. So instead, I say yes to the injections, that I want them.
Afterwards, we go into a small, bare room and a female nurse gives us a lesson in how to do it all. The hormone comes as a dry tablet, about the size of a 10p coin, it looks like a sherbet refresher and it tinkles around in a little glass bottle with a rubber seal at the top.
Open a long green needle. Put it on the syringe. Snap the top off a vial of purified water. Suck up the water. Pierce through the rubber seal on the bottle. Squirt the water over the hormone tablet. Wait for the hormone to dissolve in the water. Shake the vial a little. Suck 5ccs of the liquid back up into the syringe. Change needles to a smaller orange one. Flick the syringe and get any air bubbles out.
Push the needle into the arm and inject the hormone slowly. Wipe it with a swab.
We are given four months’ worth of the little hormone bottles in boxes, two big rolls of the hypodermic needles, each one individually wrapped in foil and cellophane and all joined together in long tear-off strips. We are also given two cylindrical, reinforced cardboard drums, with diagonal writing that says “Medical Waste” and “Incinerate” in yellow and red letters, to put the used needles in, that have to be disposed of at our local doctors surgery, because of AIDS and stuff.
We walk out, through the aisle of giant and tiny parents and children.
On the train on the way home, I sit in the window seat, next to my mum, and on the empty seats opposite we rest the NHS carrier bags, full of needles, hormones, waste containers and information leaflets.
She says, “Well, that wasn’t so bad, we’ll be home by four”
I say, “Those big kids were SO huge!”
We stare at suburbia flashing past out the window. The train is nearly empty because it’s only 3.15.
I am thinking about climbing up and across the body of the giant dad, like he’s a colossus. In my head, he’s 200ft tall now and I am like an insect, crawling over him and exploring. I can hear his heart beating inside his giant chest.
I turn to my mum suddenly and say, “I don’t see why I should have to get stabbed in the arm with needles every day, just to fit in. It’s not my fault people pick on me.”
I don’t know why I said that. Just to make her feel guilty, and make it not easy for her. It was mean. But I don’t apologise.
She says I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.
We sit in silence and watch the houses fly by, out the train window.
A woman wearing a tinfoil mask held a sword that skewered five kids’ decapitated heads. “He got it right, Fourth Place.”
“Wrong song blong glong.” The man she addressed sat on the patio next door and petted the Pomeranian on his lap. It chewed on a rubber musical note, and its sweater had the same “P” logo as that on the man’s leather outback hat.
“Blong bong.” The woman banged the heads on a cymbal hanging beside a copper gutter.
“Princess Artsy. Maybe you’re the reason the blue jays don’t come anymore.” Fourth Place raised his voice. “Young man, I had to give you an F on that one…”
A boy in a black Chicago Breakers baseball uniform turned around.
“…but God’s with me.” Fourth Place held up a Troves chocolate bar. “So I’ll grant you another chance to earn this. It’s the best candy getting passed out today. Just make sure you change your costume. We’ll chalk it up to a minor loss. We’re northsiders here.”
The boy held a plastic jack-o-lantern and stood beneath a platform that displayed five child-sized headless mannequins. Beyond the boy, trick-or-treaters walked the cobblestone street.
The man flicked his chin strap. “This is a Pillars town, kiddo. Not a Breakers town.”
The boy looked up at the headless mannequins. Red blotches covered their Medieval royalty clothing. “I hope your dog feels better.”
Fourth Place tugged the rubber note and the dog held on.
Princess Artsy’s mask glimmered. “He’s such a kind man.” She pulled a Tellax candy from one of the mouths of the impaled heads, then tossed it to the boy.
*
“Mom. I can’t. I have a meeting tonight.” Princess Artsy talked on the phone and shook a Tellax before two trick-or-treaters. A small card was attached to the wrapper. “It’s just Tylenol, Mom. Take an aspirin instead. You’ll be fine.”
The kids stared at a pigtailed mannequin next to Princess Artsy. It held a jump rope and was posed mid-jump.
“Mom. I’ll get it tomorrow. I have to go now.” Princess Artsy hurled the candy toward the street. “Go fetch.” The kids ran after it.
Fourth Place covered his dog’s ears and yelled, “Say George, you serving Cahoots over there?”
Across the street, a man at a makeshift bar held up a beer bottle, then gave it to another man.
“Poor George porge borge. Unacceptable. Cahoots sponsors the Breakers. We’re northsiders over here.”
Boys dressed as a doctor and a football player approached Fourth Place. The woman with them wore a cheerleader’s costume. “What’s with her?” She flicked a pom-pom toward Princess Artsy, who flipped back her scabbard – it was empty – then removed the jump rope from the mannequin.
“Well Ann, that’s my lovely lovely neighbor Princess Artsy. Say, you seen any blue jays lately?”
“No. Boys. Stay away from that. Creepy.”
Fourth Place tugged the dog’s sweater. “I’d climb up there and knock that down. If my knees hadn’t gone kaput.”
The doctor and the football player backed away from the headless mannequins’ platform.
Ann checked her cell phone. Its case displayed a baby photo. “Last year, when I was pregnant with Carol Ann? Your neighbor here offered me a pack of cigarettes and one of those little bottles of booze. Okay … ruuude.”
“She creates these abominations she calls art.” Fourth Place made an “x” with his index fingers and raised his voice. “Really professional, Princess Artsy. F minus.”
Princess Artsy adjusted her aluminum foil mask, then picked up her sword and held it so the heads faced her. “Now kids, stay sharp. Fourth Place might give another kid the wrong information.”
“Unacceptable. It was right.” Fourth Place rubbed his dog’s chin while its paw rested on the music note. “Ann, what part of the body loses heat the fastest?”
“The head, right? Boys, get away from that.”
“Coh-rect. And Breakers Boy said it was ‘D, none of the above.’ That wasn’t even an option.”
“These two would get it right.” Ann arranged the doctor’s stethoscope while he petted the dog. “Don’t the Pillars have that Halloween game they play each year now? I thought you’d be in your garage with your crew.”
“This is Halloween. This is important. Right boys?” Fourth Place held up a Troves. “This is the best candy you’ll get today. A thousand times better than what that crazy lady’s got, but you gotta work for it.”
Princess Artsy draped the jump rope over her shoulder and addressed the football player. “Where’s your black paint? You should have black paint underneath your eyes. That’s what Jim Laudan wears. And he’s the champion.”
Ann zipped open a hip pack. “Why say it so silly?”
“Most valuable player.”
“I don’t have my…” Ann threw down her pom-poms. She removed a lipstick tube from the pack.
Fourth Place tossed up a Troves, then caught it. “Okay kiddos, Benjamin Franklin said, ‘Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and…’ What? A, strong. B, wise. C, successful.”
“D, boring.” Princess Artsy blew on a red splotch that she’d painted on the jump roping mannequin’s stomach.
Ann used the lipstick to draw lines beneath the football player’s eyes. He tried to pull away. “Mom. It’s supposed to be black.”
“Come on boys. You know this. Healthy, wealthy, and…”
The doctor looked at the mannequins and drew on his clipboard. “Who’s Benjamin Frankton?”
Fourth Place chuckled and the Pomeranian sniffed the Troves, then nudged its toy. “Come on boys. Basic U.S. history here.”
Ann picked up her pom-poms, then held them over her face and leaned down to the boys. They yelled, “Wise.”
Fourth Place tapped his chin strap. “Coh-rect. And someone who’s wise – they’ve done scientific research on this – knows the head loses heat the fastest. We’ll chalk that one up to an error on Breakers Boy and Princess Artsy’s part.”
The doctor continued his drawing. “I got a C on my science test.”
“He’s not challenged by the material.” Ann examined the clipboard. “Hey, this is beautiful, honey. It’s some robots, right?”
“It’s them.” The doctor pointed at the headless mannequins. “And here’s Al. I drew you, Al.” The doctor cradled the dog’s face.
Fourth Place gave each boy a Troves. “That’s … well…”
Ann took a picture of the drawing. “Those are silly. To me it’s robots, robots and Al. And I’m going to share this.”
“Someday, you boys can marry a timid beautiful woman.” Princess Artsy attached a grayish-purple strand to the red splotch on the mannequin’s stomach. “She’ll make your babies and you’ll be her hero and you can even have other girlfriends. Have a Tellax?”
Ann pulled the boys away from Princess Artsy. “Uh-uh. Okay, rude.”
“She’ll be your cheerleader.”
“Boys … we stay away from people like this.”
“I went to art school.” Princess Artsy scraped her scabbard against the bricks that bordered the stone sidewalk. “My team mascot was the Drug Addict.”
Ann guided the boys toward the street.
Fourth Place traced the “P” on Al’s sweater. “Well Al pal snail bail. I think we’re the last sane ones left.”
Princess Artsy attached the strand’s other end to the mannequin’s hand. “You should’ve given that kid the candy.”
“Did you hear what I asked him? I asked him what part of the body loses heat the fastest. It was a multiple choice and he said none of them.”
“He got it right.”
“Unacceptable. He got it wrong.” Fourth Place clasped his chin strap. “I should get one of those blue jay feeders. It’s got this shape like a…” He formed a circle with his hands.
“A circle?”
Fourth Place pointed the note end of Al’s chew toy toward a field. The setting sun cast an orange glow on the trees beyond it. “Look at that. I like that. I think Al likes that. You like that boy? The way the light hits the trees there?”
“Limning. It’s called limning.” Princess Artsy answered her phone. “Mom.” She sighed and her tinfoil mask crinkled.
Fourth Place, looking at the trees, lifted Al and whispered to him.
“I told you Mom. Why don’t you ask your neighbor? Well you’ll have to wait till tomorrow.”
The pigtailed mannequin appeared to be jumping rope with its own intestines.
*
A tuba played inside Princess Artsy’s condo.
“Daddy that’s from The Sparkly Kingdom.” Outside, a girl with a tiara twirled a sequined dress. “It’s Foldena’s song, but it sounds weird.”
A man thumbed his phone. “Sounds terrible.”
“Look at that, Al. God’s with us today.” Fourth Place scratched Al’s head while the dog gnawed on its chew toy. “Say, you see the light hitting the trees out there, Ted?”
Ted glanced. “Cool.”
Fourth Place formed an “x.” “Ted red smed fed. Now I thought you were a Pillars fan.”
“You know it.” Ted knuckled the logo on his visor. “Hey did you see that Bridgers game last night?”
“Did you know that Patrems has ads with that Breakers lunatic Brong?”
Ted looked at his shoes, shrugged, and then returned to his phone. “The Bridgers? That shootout? Phenomenal.”
Fourth Place held his hands over Al’s ears. “We’re northsiders. We’re a baseball town, Ted. Not a hockey town. And you’re supporting the Breakers with those shoes.”
“You know I’m Pillars all the way. They’re playing now. The Halloween Classic. Why aren’t you in your garage?”
“I know what it’s called Ted. I told the guys to stay home. This is important. We’ll chalk those shoes up to an error on your part.”
A smaller girl wearing red lace gloves danced around the mannequin that had the intestinal jump rope. She sang with the tuba. “It’s me world, see what you can see./ It’s me world, all that I can be.”
Fourth Place hoisted a Troves. “Okay kiddos. This here is the best treat you’ll get all day.”
Ted pointed at Princess Artsy’s bay window. “So you live next to the neighborhood armpit?”
“Each of them costs two bucks.”
“Talk about a lunatic. You see her Christmas tree last year?”
“You girls just have to answer one question.” The tuba music grew louder and the girls danced. Fourth Place picked out one of the few Troves with a black wrapper. “That music’s gonna scare away all the blue jays.”
“Hear me out,” said Ted. “That tree was on its side.”
“I saw it.”
“With intestines wrapped around it instead of that garland? A brain or some organ on top?”
Fourth Place added the candy bar to a pile of them beneath his chair. They all had black wrappers. “When I was younger, I’d drive my running route and hide sandwiches at different places.”
“Yeah? I mean, I seen her sculpture. That one with two women sawin’ in half … you know … a man’s thing.”
“Then I’d run all day – this is before my knees went kaput – and stop and get the sandwiches.” Fourth Place tapped Al’s note on his knee. “Of course I wore Winrights.”
Ted looked at his phone. “You see that kid earlier? Kid had a Breakers uniform. God that’s awful.”
“Breakers Boy failed my quiz. Now it’s time for you girls. I’m sure you’ll do great. You’re northsiders. Even if your dad supports the Breakers.”
“Look.” Ted tapped his visor. “Come on.”
The tuba wailed.
Fourth Place pointed at the bar across the street. “Ted red head med fed. I’ll bet you got a Cahoots over there.” Fourth Place flicked his chin strap. “Okay, kiddos. Which shoes did Runners’ Range magazine name the top shoe for trail running? A, Vypops. B, Patrems. That’s what your dad’s wearing. Or C, Winrights. I worked for Winright for many years.”
The girls looked at each other, then the princess jumped. “Daddy’s shoes.”
Fourth Place made an “x.” “Not even in the top five.”
Princess Artsy, still wearing the foil mask, came out playing her tuba. Plastic embryos lined its bell. She pointed at Fourth Place and played two notes that suggested a wrong answer.
The girl ran her red gloves over skin-tight red pants. “I’m Felinzee.”
Princess Artsy adjusted her scabbard. “Fascinating. Fascinating.”
Ted kicked one foot against the other. “That tuba’s really obnoxious.”
Princess Artsy spoke into her mouthpiece and the tuba’s bell projected her voice. “Everyone, Fourth Place here gave a kid the wrong answer.”
People in the street turned toward them.
Fourth Place pulled his chinstrap against his neck and wobbled the chew toy. “Say Ted, can you tell my lovely neighbor here what part of the body loses heat the fastest?”
“I’m thinking head.”
Princess Artsy answered her phone, then turned away.
“Coh-rect. I got a store manager, his wife’s a biology teacher. She can substantiate it.” Fourth Place shook a Troves with a blue wrapper. “God’s with me today. Now I’ll give you girls another chance.”
The princess pointed at the headless mannequins. “Hey, where are their heads?”
“They’re hiding their heads, honey.” Ted checked his phone. “Yes. Alby Long just homered. Yes.”
Princess Artsy threw down a Tellax, then stomped on it. “Mom, it’s Tylen… fine. Fine. I’ll drop it off later.”
Ted slapped Fourth Place’s shoulder. “Is your neighbor upset with Mommy?”
Princess Artsy crashed the tuba against the cymbal hanging from her house. “Maybe you girls can grow up to be trophy wives.”
“Now hear me out…”
“You just have to marry someone rich and stay beautiful and keep asking for things. Things will bring you happiness.” Princess Artsy gave each girl a Tellax.
Felinzee adjusted her lace gloves, then pinched the tag connected to her Tellax. “Hey, what’s this for?”
“That tells you how good those are. It says that one Tellax package has over three hundred calories, eighteen grams of fat, and thirty grams of sugar.”
“Girls, you want these.” Fourth Place shook a Troves. “Not those. Those are cheap. These are a hundred times better.”
Ted looked at a Tellax tag. “What are you supposed to be anyway?”
“Sparkly.” Princess Artsy played the tuba. “Angela Sergeon.”
“Who’s she? Some tuba player?”
Princess Artsy pointed at the mannequins. “No no. Angela Sergeon dressed her kiddies as princes and princesses. She put on a foil mask, then chopped off their little heads hee hee hee.” Princess Artsy removed from her scabbard a dental floss sword, then thrust it upward. “Yeee!”
Ted waved his visor toward the street. The boy in the Breakers uniform had reappeared. “Here. See this, boy? This is a Pillars town.”
“Coh-rect.” Fourth Place handed each girl a Trove, then pressed Al’s sweater. “Winrights, not Patrems blems smens dems.”
*
Breakers Boy, still wearing his Breakers uniform, drank soda by the outdoor bar. He held a paper bag and watched Fourth Place and Princess Artsy.
Al urinated in the vegetation beside a fountain.
Princess Artsy – she now wore a Breakers T-shirt – stood on the platform with the five headless mannequins. She scratched her foil mask, then pointed at the black-wrapped Troves beneath Fourth Place. “Does each of those represent something you got wrong?”
“Black’s the color of the Breakers.” Fourth Place wiggled the rubber note by his feet. “Bunch of … I know what you’re doing with that T-shirt.”
Al, wheezing and whining, stumbled back to Fourth Place, then grasped the note.
Princess Artsy pointed at her shirt. “First place.” Then she pointed at Fourth Place. “Fourth Place.”
“They’re in a completely different league.” Fourth Place, his face red, picked up Al, then yelled across the street. “Say George, what’s with supporting the Breakers? You serve Cahoots. You give that kid a drink. Maybe you should have on a Breakers uniform too.”
Breakers Boy leaned against the bar and looked in his paper bag.
Princess Artsy slapped a pillow.
“George porge norge gorge I thought he supported the Pillars.” Fourth Place dialed his phone and brushed his palm over Al’s sweater. “Okay Al, we’re going to settle this debate for our lovely neighbor here.”
Princess Artsy rested a plastic sword on the tallest female mannequin’s outstretched hand.
“Say Fred, I have a lovely neighbor here who’s refuting a scientific fact. I thought you might ask your brilliant science teacher wife what part of the body loses heat the fastest.”
Princess Artsy lifted the mannequin’s tunic.
Breakers Boy closed his paper bag, then started toward the street.
Fourth Place ground his heel into the pile of Troves with black wrappers. “…she’s going to have to bring herself up to speed. What grade level is she teaching?”
Princess Artsy stuffed the pillow beneath the tunic. The mannequin looked pregnant.
Breakers Boy crossed the street, then headed toward them.
“An elementary school teacher? Fred med smed dead. Maybe I should have sought out a teacher with higher credentials.” Fourth Place ended the call.
“Looks like I’m…” Princess Artsy thrust up the plastic sword. “…coh-rect.”
“Unacceptable. They’ve done research.”
“Eeee.” Princess Artsy crouched before the swollen stomach.
Al squirmed atop his rubber note.
“You start doin’ this stuff with these crazy sculptures, and the blue jays don’t come.” Fourth Place looked toward the distant trees. “What I need is one of those circle feeders. Not this crazy stuff.”
Princess Artsy high-fived the pregnant headless mannequin. The sword pierced its abdomen.
Breakers Boy, clutching his paper bag, stood among them.
Princess Artsy’s mother once packed a rotten bologna sandwich in her lunch bag.
“You got that question wrong, kiddo, but Al and me here? We said we’d give you another chance. If you changed.”
The boy wedged his glove between his arm and his side, then reached into the bag.
Though Princess Artsy felt ill when she got home from school, her mother forced her to put on a sequined dress to greet her father.
Fourth Place hoisted a Troves. “Young man, you’re looking at the highest quality candy you could get today.”
“Don’t need it.” The boy pulled a dog treat from the bag. He gave it to Al, then rubbed the creature’s head. “Good boy.”
Fourth Place took off his Pillars hat. He stared inside it. “We’re northsiders…” He put the hat over his face and, squeezing the rubber note, slowly raised then lowered his shoulders.
Before her father got home, Princess Artsy vomited all over her shiny dress. Her mother yelled at her.
Princess Artsy jumped from the platform, then landed in the grass.
Fourth Place, red-eyed, brought down the hat and extended his candy bowl toward the boy. “Don’t you want one of these?”
“No thanks.” Breakers Boy slapped his glove and walked away.
The sun flashed on Princess Artsy’s mask.
Fourth Place put on his hat. He pulled the chin strap so that it disappeared in his neck flesh. “Breakers got that lunatic Brong. Hopped up on steroids.”
Princess Artsy pulled off the jump roping mannequin’s leg, then pointed it at a young man with a pizza. “Hey, nice costume.”
“Not a costume.”
A minute later, the pizza box sat beside Fourth Place. “I’ll bet you can’t even … what’s the Second Amendment of the U.S. Constitution?”
Princess Artsy, using the leg as a prop, got into a batting stance. “I founded the Society for the Development of the Asexual Female Supervillain. We get together and discuss the role of females in movies and fiction.”
Fourth Place shifted Al, then reached down and opened the box. “Who was the United States’ smartest president?”
“Like either a woman getting saved…”
“…bet you don’t even know what year World War II started.”
“…or a woman acting like a man.”
Fourth Place slammed shut the box. “What’s wrong with you lady?”
“Abortion ball.” Princess Artsy swung the leg, then pretended to watch a ball.
“You show up in my garage, when I have all my friends over and we just watched the Pillars get eliminated from the playoffs? And you ask for a cup of sugar?”
“I was baking a celebration cake.”
“Unacceptable.” Fourth Place fed Al a slice of pizza.
“Such a healthy way to feed your dog.”
“I’ve had to do this five times.” He tapped one index finger against the other. “Tonight it’ll be six.” A line of cheese hung from Al’s mouth.
“Six what? Six times you gave a trick-or-treater the wrong information today?”
“No. No. It’s never…” Fourth Place bent the rubber note. “And now I have to do it. Tonight. Six thirty. With this guy, he’s sick. This is it.” He looked at his shoes and for a minute, both he and Princess Artsy were silent. “You believe that guy? Wearing Patrems? I know I could outrun that guy. Before my knees went kaput.”
Princess Artsy touched her foil mask and watched Breakers Boy retreat.
*
Fourth Place, his hair mussed, sat on a bed and talked on the phone. “The winter hat. The Chicago Pillars. I want it shipped to me.”
Wall-to-wall shelves displayed running shoes. The shoes were evenly spaced, and unused. From the edge of one shelf hung Al’s sweater with the “P” stitched into it.
Fourth Place ran his thumb over the note-shaped dog toy. “Coh-rect. We’re northsiders over here. It gets cold.”
Beneath the shelves sat a crumpled dog bed, its edges frayed and faded.
Fourth Place grunted, pulled himself off the bed, and then, with one corner of his mouth flecked with saliva, he limped toward silk drapes. He bent the rubber toy. “You know, the head loses heat faster than any other body part. They’ve done research on that.”
He ended the call, opened the drapes, and then looked outside.
Fourth Place bit the rubber note’s stem.
The morning sun shone on Princess Artsy’s decapitated mannequins, and from the extended hand of the female with the sword projecting from her swollen abdomen hung a circular bird feeder.
A crowd gathers in the market square. A daredevil with wings strapped to his body is about to throw himself off the church tower. What hitherto had been the province of angels was about to become the territory of beings bound to the earth. Now they could reach for the stars.
Picture the scene. People have walked for miles not only to buy the coming week’s provisions in the market, and not only to meet with old friends, but also to witness an event that might be a moment in history, an unforgettable scene. This was to be wondrous. It should have been so but for the force of gravity and the failure of an idea.
It was showmanship spiced with real danger that made such a spectacle the more capable of drawing a large crowd. The English town of Pocklington continues to hold an annual Flying Man Festival to commemorate Thomas Pelling, a travelling showman who toured the country performing acrobatics. He visited Pocklington in 1733, attracting spectators to watch him as he attempted to fly from the church tower. The wings failed to open. He could not, as he had planned, float down safely. It may be he had performed this stunt before. This time he was not successful. Pelling landed disastrously in the town square. He died instantly. His memorial can be found on the church’s eastern wall. The disaster attracted great interest.
Unknown to many who gathered to watch, an ancient legend was being re-enacted, although the intention was different. The story of Icarus is powerful even in its familiarity. The boy with wings of his own making flew too near the sun, the heat melting the wax, and so causing Icarus to plunge down into the sea where he drowned. Of course the myth is a warning against trying too hard and attempting too much. We are not made to fly. There is grave danger for us in attempting to create for ourselves gifts with which we are not naturally endowed. Human beings are naturally earth-bound, yet they have imagined through the ages how it must be to leave the limitations of gravity and solid ground.
Icarus sought to escape from the labyrinth of the Minotaur. The showman sought a different kind of escape. The quest to be more than human is age-old. We seek to steal the secrets of the gods. It is human nature not to accept our condition. We constantly devise new ways of overcoming the limitations of not being able naturally to do certain things. We lift our hands to the sky and reach for the stars.
Children at night may wonder about the nature of the universe and the experience of voyaging through the stars. They will do so until they begin to feel strange. Disturbing thoughts on these matters, however, are not the exclusive property of children. Travelling in the Sahara, that remarkable traveller Bruce Chatwin wrote of the Bedouin who asked if there was, as had heard, a place called Merica? ‘And these Mericans, they have travelled to the moon?’ Yes. The Bedouin had no hesitation in making his distaste felt. ‘They are blasphemers,’ he said. We can hear the firmness of mind as he spoke.
We need to tread warily when we walk towards forbidden ground. Or when fruit falls at our feet temptingly. Yet caution makes us cowards in our caves. We dare not even consider the possibility of fire, although raw meat in a cold climate is not what we want. We need to gaze up at the stars and wonder how we might fly.
There is a flying machine in the town museum of Chard in Somerset. Half a century and more before the Wright brothers someone called Stringfellow got his machine in the air. That was in 1848. It was an age-old dream that the age of industry and invention had made achievable. Of course others followed Stringfellow’s example in seeking to build a working machine that could fly. If the progenitor’s name was soon obscured, his pioneering advance was not. It led eventually all the way to Kittyhawk.
Stringfellow, however, was not the first human being to achieve flight. Powered flight was his invention, but there were the balloonists of the previous century. And before Montgolfier in the Age of Reason’s scientific advance there was Leonardo in the creative world of the Renaissance. Leonardo sought to fly as a bird flies. The machine he proposed may or may not have left the ground. The evidence is not clear. Observation, imagination and experiment were the watchwords of a Renaissance mind. The world, though, was not ready for such leaps of faith. It was an age of orthodoxy, with a deep suspicion of all that was outside the realms of tradition, convention and the agreed norms.
Leonardo’s machine was not the first, as you may have suspected, because there rarely is a definite first of anything. Inventions rarely arise spontaneously from one mind. There are ideas in the air waiting to be taken seriously.
Most of what we know of early aviation is myth and legend. Little is known for certain. There is the legend of Oliver of Malmesbury who is said to have glided on wings in about 1050. That remarkable man of learning, Friar Roger Bacon, two centuries later considered the possibility of flight. He suggested there might be constructed a globe filled with ‘ethereal air.’ Then he tantalizing goes further, but not far enough to satisfy our curiosity: ‘There is an instrument to fly with, which I never saw, nor know any man that hath seen it, but I full well know by name the learned man who invented the same.’ That may be a reference to Oliver of Malmesbury, but of this we cannot be certain. The reference is so cryptic, as if Bacon’s intention was to encompass his speculations with a sense of mystery.
Why should this be? To our minds, accustomed to speculations in all things, it makes no sense to conceal sources that might be used as evidence in the case we wish to make. Bacon was a philosopher schooled in Aristotelian logic, lecturing in Paris and Oxford, and gaining a great reputation for the depth of his discourse. Bacon was also a scientist before the word was known. He enquired into the physical nature of things. This was in an age when speculation and experiment carried within them the fear of devilry. To fly like an angel, was that not to trespass on the bounds of human capability? Was it not sorcery? That charge hung about Bacon for centuries. Robert Greene, a contemporary and rival of Shakespeare, depicts the doctor mirabilis in Faustian terms as one practised in the black arts. The charge of necromancy would have guaranteed condemnation and death. So there was a purpose in leaving matters vague. No-one could follow where there was no lead.
This may have impeded the development of Bacon’s speculations. Not until the Enlightenment did anyone dare to experiment with the idea of a balloon that could rise in the air. Once it had risen there was no limit to where the aeronautical imagination might go.
Leonardo’s Renaissance mind turned repeatedly to human flight. He devised such a machine, but there is no evidence that he made that Promethean leap of consciousness by actually constructing such a machine. It may be that he too felt the fear of not daring too much. It was a bold idea. To imagine flying was one thing. To fly was another.
In imagination human beings already had flown. Jason and the Argonauts is a familiar story. There are tales of flying in other cultures, including, of course, the flying carpets of The Arabian Nights. It seems to have been the dream of every culture. When human minds began to imagine among their first imaginings was surely the ability to fly. The sight of birds sailing through the air is to earth-bound beings a perennial fascination. We watch, we study and we long to spread our wings so that we might journey with ease and alacrity across the world.
The Montgolfier brothers in their balloon raised not one machine but the bounds of the human imagination, literary and scientific. The improbable had become possible. The dream of flying is a dream of being more than human. It is the desire to leave terra firma for something ethereal and undefined but more interesting than the mundane existence of life walking the same patch of ground every day. There are other worlds out there that we might reach if we could raise ourselves above the limitations of known reality. To find those worlds we have to learn how to fly. There were many attempts to fly as the birds fly. These experiments were often by hopeful amateurs, often with disastrous consequences.
In the Nineteenth Century a seriously scientific approach replaced daredevil antics.
It was not going to be long before someone not only proposed a flying machine but actually built one. Fear of sorcery was vanishing in an age of reason, intellect and enquiry. The Renaissance had been an age of faith. There were powerful constraints on the over-reaching ambition of human beings. The growth of Science depended on a breaking of all bounds on factual knowledge and speculative experiment. The Nineteenth Century’s essential motor was its challenge to traditional beliefs. Nothing, it seemed, was beyond the realm of scientific invention. If a flying machine were possible, then there was no obstacle to its construction with ingenuity, patience and money.
George Cayley, a Yorkshire squire, at the close of the Eighteenth Century had constructed a prototype of the helicopter. In 1804 Cayley had built and flown a glider. In 1810 Cayley wrote On Aerial Navigation, a treatise of enduring value and an acknowledged influence on the Wright Brothers. Cayley’s importance lies in his understanding that lift, propulsion and control were the three required elements of flight. He is regarded as the first person to advance this idea.
Once the principles of flight were established the possibility of constructing a workable machine was credible. Cayley continued to experiment throughout his long life. A man of property, he had necessary wealth and leisure to devote himself to aeronautics. All his work, however, was on gliders rather than motorised machines. Powered flight was left to others to develop.
One of Cayley’s machines was displayed at the Great Exhibition of 1851. Beneath the magnificence of the Crystal Palace all the great wonders of empire and the age of invention were displayed. The world had the opportunity to see a flying machine, though not actually in flight. Yet the new possibility remained hidden in plain sight. Unless it was seen to take to the air Cayley’s machine was going to be dismissed as no more than an interesting curio. Cayley, now an old man, no longer had the health to pursue his plans. His workable models gathered dust.
Some proposals never went beyond the theoretical stage. An Edinburgh publisher, mainly of seafarers and adventurers, John Howell, devised a flying machine. Sailing to the farthest reaches of the oceans was not enough for the enquiring minds of the machine age. Ada Lovelace, a mathematician of precocious genius, sketched a machine based on her careful studies on the structures of birds’ wings. She was eleven years in age, and already she was reaching for the stars.
Perhaps inspired by George Cayley’s experiments, two enterprising manufacturers in Somerset were at work not on theoretical designs or working models but on powered machines that could take to the air. The Aerial Transit Company was established in 1843. It was timely for such an enterprise to emerge. There was an inevitability about the venture. Someone with mechanical knowledge and an inventive mind was going to apply the principles and techniques of manufacture to the possibility of powered flight.
John Stringfellow and William Henson had patented an ‘aerial steam carriage’ the previous year. Their description of the proposed machine was detailed with pedantic exactness. Theirs was no flight of fancy, but a work of technical sophistication. The precision of the mechanism was there clearly to dispel all prejudicial doubt. This was to be a machine that could succeed where so many dreamers had failed, and so often had died in the process.
The first thing to be said is that the machine they built actually flew. The fact is well attested by reliable witnesses. It took another sixty years before the Wright brothers at Kittyhawk took to the air. Their machine was piloted, whereas nobody actually flew in Stringfellow’s flying machine.
That was the problem. Stringfellow and Henson were ahead of their time. Had they piloted their machine, and had the world observed their flight as it did the Wright brothers, the development of aviation should have been so very different. As things were the Somerset experiment has been no more than a footnote, generally ignored. The sadness is that the opportunity had been timely. It suited the ambitions and capabilities of the age, but the impetus failed.
The question is whether the dream of flight could have been a Victorian reality. The world, for good or ill, then would have been so much more connected. An opportunity was lost. This is not so surprising when we consider the customary delay between invention and application. Ideas and inventions are often ahead of their time. That is how the world progresses.
Stringfellow had ideas for flight that would take decades to come to fruition. He showed a flair for publicity as well as for technical skill. Advertisements for the company portrayed images of flights to Egypt and China. His machines were going to fly over the Pyramids and the Great Wall. In reality these things would not be possible for the better part of a century, long after Stringfellow was dead and forgotten.
He deserves to be better remembered. The Wright brothers took all the credit for the pioneering work of others. Planes did not suddenly rise into the air by chance. A century and more of experiment lay behind the much-publicised achievement at Kittyhawk. Stringellow’s machine was unpeopled, but it is clear that a peopled machine could have been built. The sad truth is that it never was built. The history of many things would have been very different had Stringfellow been able to pursue his dream.
This was how Stringellow’s son remembered the experiment many years later: ‘The steam was successfully got up after a slight mishap; the machine started down the wire and upon reaching the point of self-detachment, gradually rose until it reached the further end of the room, striking a hole in the canvas placed to stop it.’
Twenty years later Stringfellow repeated the experiment at the Crystal Palace in front of the Prince of Wales. The newly-formed Aeronautical Society of Great Britain had not forgotten the pioneer of powered flight. His later experiment was successful, but excited only a casual and ephemeral curiosity. An opportunity was missed, although the reasons are not clear. Stringfellow’s last experiment was not conducted in obscurity. It ought to have aroused serious interest. What could have been a great advance was regarded as a mere toy. It was soon forgotten, as was its creator, a true pioneer of technology whose name even now is barely known.
There the Stringfellow story ends. He died hoping others would follow in the wake of his invention. A sense of failure undoubtedly haunted him. His career was one of the great might-have-beens of history.
His spirit, however, did not die. Experiments with flying machines continued, although it was many years before anyone could claim anything approaching success. In the closing months of the Nineteenth Century Percy Pilcher of Bath demonstrated piloted powered flight. The flight, however, went badly. Pilcher crashed and was fatally injured.
There is film of Pilcher flying two years earlier in 1897, but it was not a powered flight. Pilcher’s story is also one that arouses speculation. Had he survived the crash, and had he flown again perhaps the world would have seen the dream of powered flight realized in him.
What we can deduce from these experiments is the obvious yet overlooked truth that there is rarely a single inventor of anything. Edison was not the first to record sound. The Wright Brothers’ machine was not the first to fly. Technical discoveries are not discoveries in the sense of there being nothing before. Just as Columbus was not the first to navigate across the Atlantic, inventors rarely actually invent. What they do is advance a technique, perfecting its capability from successive experiments. What begins as a fantasy develops into an idea that is realized after a number of failed or only partially successful attempts.
Stringfellow’s conjecture of aerial flight connecting the world proved remarkably prophetic. It was not a romantic fiction but a serious ambition that the Twentieth Century saw as not only possible but inevitable. Stringfellow, like other pioneers, understood the power of publicity to voice his idea. The development of powered flight was simultaneous to the development of mass publicity through photography and motion pictures.
This was not coincidence and the working of chance, but an identifiable synchronicity. Powered flight could have been developed sooner. We have seen how it took a century for the projection of flight to be fully realized. The advance of mechanised industry created a vast store of manufactured goods in need of markets where they might be distributed. Where a farmer had taken his produce to the nearest town, an industrialist sought markets beyond the bounds of one locality or even one country. Air transport proved useful in this distribution.
The spirit of commerce and trade was one of global expansion. That depended on technical means of rapid communication. Goods had to be transported easily. Public awareness had to be facilitated quickly. Rail travel was one means, telegraphy another. Powered flight was exceptionally valuable for this purpose. Crossing oceans and continents in days, then hours, rather than weeks or months served the purposes of commercial expansion perfectly. Air travel used publicity to advance its cause. At the same time it advanced the means of global commerce and its handmaid, mass publicity.
This may explain why air travel was developed from eccentric whim to realisable achievement. An economic and social need provided the dynamic of fulfilment. The question remains why the impulse to fly was there in mind, as it had been for centuries. An age of discovery, including scientific and mechanical discovery, provided clear encouragement, as we have seen. The impulse preceded eccentric Victorians applying capable techniques.
The impulse to fly seems to be deep within the human psyche. Famously, there are elaborately landscaped figures in South America which can be seen only from the air. It could be that they were intended to be viewed by the gods. That seems very likely. Another possibility is that the ancient world had made discoveries of flying [presumably by gliding] that are lost. There is no evidence, only the surmise. This is very unscholarly, of course, and veers too close to the kind of sensationalist speculation that serves only to entertain the gullible in drug store paperbacks.
A more credible explanation is that the dream of flying, evidenced in a number of cultures, overwhelmed dreamers into not only writing of flying myths but to actually create the myth in reality. If they could not build a flying machine they could envisage that it might be possible at some time in the future, a future that could be induced by evocations like the landscaped figures. That may sound rather like building an airport in hope that aircraft will appear. That is not so foolish if you fervently believe that air travel is possible. There were creatures who could fly. Was it not possible that human beings might learn how to harness the technique for their own purposes?
The answer is that yes, it was possible. It happened. The motive was not entirely economic. The reasons are not explained wholly by the urge towards technical advance. The essential impulse, surely, was the freedom that flying offers. Who has not seen birds fly and not admired their ability to go where they please in the sky? The desire is to leave behind all that binds us to mundane tasks. If only we could head for the clouds. If only we had wings. We talk of ‘flights of fancy’. We talk of ‘coming down to earth.’ These phrases are not simply plucked out of nowhere. They speak of age-old desires and the persistent reality of our condition.
We should like Ariel’s magic, although we know that it is mere revelry with its hint of devilry. The flying man of Pocklington was a daredevil. Stringfellow was less of a showman and more of a serious technician, but his vision had its elements of risk, of defying not only gravity but the natural limitations of human existence. The aspiration to fly is to take angel’s wings although we are lower than the angels. To be more than ourselves, to be higher than ourselves, is a natural aspiration of the human spirit. We always seek to venture beyond the bounds. We seek mastery of the air as we do of the land the sea. What begins in legend becomes a playful possibility, then a serious experiment. Eventually we take to the air and we fly into clouds, then beyond to the stars.
Italy has plenty of balconies. Growing up, I had one of a decent size in my family apartment; it was always kind of dirty and rarely used, but during Christmastime it would be filled with lights and decorations, thanks to the dedication of my mum – and with the constant disapproval of my environmentally-aware brother. As an Italian who lives far from home, when spring is approaching and I’m preparing dinner in my shared flat in East London, I sometimes lean on comforting stereotypes of Italian families, large and loud, sharing a meal on their modest balconies, enjoying the breeze and laughing a lot – even though we are only four, we never ate outside, and we are not as loud as you would think. After all, in Italy, balconies have been largely symbolized; on a balcony Juliet pronounced her most iconic words, Mussolini gave his speeches during the darkest times of recent history, and from a balcony indeed the Pope is now reassuring his people about the Coronavirus emergency, exhorting them to “not be afraid”. In recent times, balconies have probably been deprived of their romantic nature to assume a tactic commercial potential, as they are cheaper to build but able to increase a lot the value of a property. But the fact is, there are a lot of balconies indeed, and a brand-new movement has recently taken them over, giving them the leading role during a new people force.
I am talking here about the wave of flashmobs that originated during the first week of national lockdown for the Covid-19 pandemic, the second week of March. To show sympathy and solidarity with medical staff, patients, victims’ families, and to everyone forced to stay in quarantine for the foreseeable future, some Italian citizens started to enact various performances using balconies as privileged stages. The result was a series of collective actions, joyful and participatory, but also planned in advance, that have been spreading all over the country as fast as the virus itself – and that are now expanding to the rest of the world. Over a couple of days I received from my Italian friends at least four different flashmob schedules for the days ahead: on Wednesday people were asked to light torches on their balconies as a sign of solidarity; on Thursday to engage in collective applause for the health workers risking their lives at the forefront of the battle against the virus; on Friday to sing “Ciao Mamma”, by Jovanotti, all together, as one and the same.
The chosen mode of flashmob allows all that; described by Aristita I. Albacan as “performative acts that reconnect individuals with their environment”, flashmobs represent a moment of disruption of the everyday life and a suspension of the course of time – a particularly useful tool to intensify social relations during a time of isolation. By gathering together, but each from their own balcony, Italian communities reappropriated a public dimension that had been made unavailable by the impossibility of physically occupying actual public spaces.
In a scenario where house and health privileges have been exposed in plain sight, and some fundamental human rights have become inaccessible to the people – considering that access to care is no longer guaranteed – the possibility of restoring a sense of collectiveness holds strong emancipatory potential and the hope that, in a way or another, this crisis will pass.
The cathartic power of the Italian flashmobs, however, goes beyond the embodied experience and the message of solidarity they convey. The visual force of the balcony movements challenges the usual aesthetic of the quarantine, mostly conveyed by images of empty streets, deserted cities, and inhabitants forced to never leave their homes and far removed from society – in decadent and apocalyptic tones that actually allowed the production of some quite interesting photography. On the contrary, the nature of flashmobs is traditionally playful, fun-oriented, and exquisitely participatory; during an extended period of social distancing – and for a brief amount of time, as it typically is for flashmobs – the balcony movement invites people to fill the spaces instead of empty them, restoring in this way the efficacy of mass actions to uplift spirits and convey a sense of collectiveness, where bodies themselves become sites of resistance.
My London home does not have a balcony, so I could not dance on it. Instead, I observed the phenomenon from a distance, on my social media channels: I saw balcony dj sets, entire families singing and dancing together, communal aperitifs from one building to another, and – my personal favourite – the song “Bella Ciao” performed with a sax. As the days went by, I had the impression that the playful dimension was quickly transforming to a way more serious and patriotic tone; there was now a massive presence of Italian flags and daily singalongs of the Italian Anthem – which, by the way, can be pretty dark, and includes the lines: “Let us unite! / We are ready to die / Italy called”. Today, the spirits are changing after all; while the number of Covid-19 victims is tragically increasing, and Prime Minister Giuseppe Conte has started to firmly advise the Italian population to stay strong and united, the resistance to the virus and the very same act of staying home has become collectively considered as a civic and moral duty – a call to arms.
I cannot know for how long Italians are going to keep singing on their balconies, and whether this renewed national wave will evolve into something else. As for me, I wish we could dance together even here, in the UK – considering that probably we don’t have as many balconies. As Nandu Popu writes: “We are sad, overwhelmed with what is happening, but we step out on balconies to make music and share it with others. What if the balcony was our new exit strategy?”
Behind our parents’ dresser, my sister finds a photograph along with a bunch of old papers in an orange plastic folder.
“Oh my God,” she says. “It’s Anton.”
I’m in the closet going through my father’s pants pockets. “Who’s Anton?” I ask.
It’s Saturday night and we’ve been left alone while Mom and Dad are out playing pinochle. We like to do things we’re not supposed to, which is why we’re in here snooping around.
“Are you stupid?” she says. “Anton’s our brother. The one who died.”
Lizzie’s four years older than me—she turned fifteen last April—which is why she thinks she’s the boss.
“Newsflash to me,” I say.
“They never said anything because they didn’t want you to freak out.”
My sister’s known to make up stories. She told one of her teachers that our mother was married to an undocumented worker, and she told our grandfather that she’d been elected class president when she didn’t even run.
I walk over and take the photograph. It shows a kid in a green onesie standing in the sand on some crowded beach. A person mostly outside the frame holds him up.
I flip it over and see something penciled on the back.
“This is me,” I say. “Look at the date.”
Lizzie snaps back the photograph.
“This was only written to protect the innocent,” she says.
She returns the photo and carefully puts the folder back where it was. Then she goes to our mother’s vanity and starts fooling with the makeup. It’s nine o’clock. We’ve had pizza from Papa John’s and chocolate pudding pops, and now we’re in our pajamas.
“Guess what,” Lizzie says. “There’s this guy in Comp 201 who’s hot for my body. Gina Devlin? She doesn’t believe me. Says she needs proof.”
“How old was he?”
“Who?”
“Anton.”
Lizzie picks up Mom’s comb and pulls it through her hair.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe like ..one. I was only three and you weren’t even born yet.”
“Liar,” I say.
She returns the comb, dabs some perfume on her wrist, rubs, sniffs.
“Anton was perfect. After he died, the doctor told Mama she couldn’t have any more babies. But then you came along and you were about as far from perfect as you can get.”
This last part I know is true. I was born premature and underweight and kept in the hospital in an incubator. “It was right before Thanksgiving,” the way my mother tells it. “We were hoping for a plump turkey, but we got a scrawny chicken.”
She doesn’t say this in any mean way. She says it as if she expects me to laugh.
“Would you call me more pretty or more cute?” Lizzie asks as she studies her reflection.
The phone on the nightstand rings, but it isn’t our parents signal. Their signal is one ring, hang up, call right back.
“That’s probably the guy I was talking about,” Lizzie says. “Wants to ask me out.”
“I doubt it.”
“Either him or Anton calling from the grave.”
The phone stops after maybe six or seven rings. Lizzie flops on our parents’ bed, flat on her back. She begins talking about this guy she claims is crushing on her, but she’s planted a thought in my mind.
“Come lie down next to me,” she says.
Our dad has gotten close to this kid down the block. His name is Cal and he’s fourteen and he has this terrible case of acne. His own father isn’t around. Cal loves baseball, and my father loves baseball, so Cal has asked my dad to take him to a father/son communion breakfast at Saint Bernadette’s where they show old Red Sox highlights while you eat pancakes.
My dad said, “Sure.”
I lie down next to my sister.
“You should go out with Cal,” I tell her.
“Are you kidding?” she says. “He looks like his face caught on fire and somebody tried to put it out with a porcupine.”
The phone rings again. One ring, then two, then three.
“Maybe we should pick up,” I say.
Lizzie pushes up on one elbow and looks down at me.
“I have a better idea,” she says. “Let’s give hickeys.”
Translated from the Malayalam by Rithwik Bhattathiri.
The morning dew still lingered on the grass blades in the park. A group of old men was sitting in a corner. In their whites, they looked like a fetid wound on the green of the grass-bed.
I watched them from the cold bench I had to myself. I was vainly trying to bury myself in the book I’d been holding for some time now. The world was already up and about. Sitting in that tiny alcove of tranquillity, the old men were singing praise to a god far removed, for granting them the earthly paradise. In the calmness of the park, their tired and broken voices faltered like dregs and hung about like an irritating impropriety.
The sun had just started beating down. Their singing over, the old men dispersed and gathered themselves in the shades. I pushed my feet further into the soothing dampness of grass and tried to crawl back into my book.
“I’d rather sit here,” said the old man. “I’m sure you don’t mind.”
I had seen him coming but pretended I hadn’t. That he came to where I was sitting, though there were empty benches around, made me uneasy. However, for the sake of propriety, I said, “Please.”
He sat down right next to me and smiled. “You stay alone?”
I was a little taken aback. What a question! That too from a complete stranger!
“Nope. With family.”
“Same here. Kids?”
“None,” I said, without taking my eyes off the book.
“Oh! Husband, then?”
I shot a look at him. My lack of interest in continuing the conversation must have turned him off. He lifted his bony, sinewy hands to his eyes and looked up at the sky. A piece of the sun lay puddled on the bench next to his leg.
I hadn’t meant to be rude. But that patch of the sunlight on the bench, that crumpled figure, those creases on his skin, those varicose veins, everything about him was detestable, I felt. That expression I saw on his face nearly brought bile to my mouth.
“Want to move into the shade?” I added as an apology. “It’s getting warmer.”
“Thanks,” he gave me a wet smile. His eyes were rheumy, I noticed. He wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his shirtsleeve and smiled at me again.
“He’s travelling, my husband is.” I gave a hurried answer to avoid having to hear the question again.
I didn’t know what else to say.
I hadn’t known what to say to my husband either, as he walked out the door that morning. I hadn’t known whether to stop him or let him go. It was only last night he’d told me about the other woman in his life. But I didn’t know that a mere “Bye” and a nod of the head was how it would all end this morning. I had replied, “I understand.” He was very civil to me. So, I too met him with imperative nonchalance. Looking back, had he lost his cool, I would’ve looked down on him with derision. Perhaps despised him, too. Instead, we had made it an unintended display of highbrow civility. I went about the morning as if nothing happened. I made some coffee for him, put the water on the boil. It was then I decided to give him the shirt I had bought for him some time back. With a word of thanks, he returned it. I took it and stood there not knowing what to do. I dropped it on the table and was assailed by an avalanche of questions. What is she like? Is she beautiful? Did they hold hands and talk sweet nothings in their private moments? Did they talk about me? … I wondered all this as he hesitated at the door. He was expecting me to say something. When I didn’t, he said bye and nodded as if it were the sum total of a dozen years of sharing a life together, closed the door and walked away. It was quite a while before I could shake myself loose from the cuffs of a past barricaded by the rejected shirt and a future that lay beyond the closed door, and step out of the house.
“Bad move!” the old man startled me. He was pressing the walking stick to the ground as if to drive home the point. “Your inhibitions, that’s what did you in. Bad move!” It was only then I realized I was unburdening myself to him. My words were gushing forth like puss from a burst boil. He was a complete stranger. Probably I did it because he was a complete stranger. I hesitated…
“What else could I do?” I mumbled.
“Give that girl a tight slap. That’s what you could’ve done.” He continued, “You think it’s shameless? Blame it on your age if you do. Instead, what did you tell him? Ah, ‘I understand…’ Like hell you do.” He drove the walking stick deeper into the ground and leaned closer to me. “Look here … after I retired, my son wanted me to look after his son, my grandson. I agreed. I too had thought, ‘I understand…’ ‘It’s not about money,’ my daughter-in-law told me as she was leaving for work one morning. ‘Peace of mind, that’s what it’s about. When we leave him with you, he’s the least of our worries.’ She winked and added, ‘But beware, he is baby dynamite!’”
The old man went on, “But at that age his dad was an even bigger goon. So sure, I thought, I can tame this little fellow. So no worries, Sumathy. Long ago, in the past, I saw my son’s tiny hand falling across my chest like a feather as I put him to sleep. All the marbles, toys and balloons that fell out of his hand had adorned my years for a long time. ‘Biscuit at three. Have an eye on him all the time. He can be quite a handful,’ Sumathy reminded me.
“What she said was right,” reminisced the old man. “The child proved to be more than a handful. There was no respite as he was up to something or other all day long. I couldn’t take a break or snooze in the afternoon. The days were longer and nights shorter. I was so spent, when my son and his wife got back from work, darkness too stormed into the room and into my mind as well. I started venting it out on my daughter-in-law. I knew it wasn’t right. But I didn’t know how else to deal with it. I could not pacify the kid. He wailed all day long. My backache worsened. I started taking it out on the boy too. ‘Are those idiots, your parents, bothered about you? I’m running after you day in and day out. And what the hell do I get in return? Forget peace of mind. I do not even get cigarettes. There’s not so much as the stub of a cigarette in this bloody house, you know?’ I stopped feeding him on time. He started losing weight. He was always on my nerves. And it got worse by the day. That’s when I started sending him out with the maid in the afternoons, just so they were out of earshot when I took a nap. I had bought over the maid with a portion of the boy’s milk and biscuits and a few bucks. Still, why did the she betray me?! That evening when his parents returned, the boy was screaming. I had forgotten to feed him. They didn’t even look at me or ask for an explanation. My son stopped bringing cigarettes for me from that day on…”
The old man seemed to smile to himself. “I was boiling. ‘Three cigarettes a day for looking after your son, eh?’ I spat out at him. And I’ll never forget the look my son gave me. Looking back, I feel like retching at those words.”
The old man kept on turning the walking stick in his hand. “It wasn’t so long ago that I used to carry my son on my shoulders, you know? Once, I remember, he cried a lot for a pinwheel and I got him a red one. And we ran along the riverbed, up and down, up and down … and he laughed and laughed. On the way back, he fell asleep in my arms and I kept my chin away so the stubble wouldn’t bother his sleep, you know? And his sleepy legs kept a tiny rhythm to my stride…
“Are you listening?” the old man asked all of a sudden.
I was. There was rheum in his eyes and they were moist too. Probably from sitting for so long in the sun. I thought he would wipe them, but he did not. Maybe he knows it is not easy to wipe it off. Why else? I saw saliva welling up at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t wipe that either.
“Where is the boy, now?” I asked.
“They don’t leave him with me any longer. Mrs de Souza takes care of him. Nowadays, he cries when he sees me.” His voice faltered. “That day I had met up with an old friend and downed a few pegs. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep.” The old man lapsed into the past. “I hadn’t heard my son walking in early from work. The baby had fallen from the crib and was screaming. It looked I hadn’t fed him the whole day…”
I think I stared; he avoided my eyes and looked away, and added like an apology: “It hurts my back if I sit for too long. That’s when I feel like lying down. At my age, the biggest struggle one has is with one’s own limbs.”
That patch of the sun was on the old man’s thighs and stomach, but he wasn’t aware of it. People at the park were slowly thinning out. A steady stream of traffic formed a fence around the park.
“Come, let’s move out, it’s getting warmer here,” I said, helping him out of the seat. As I had nothing to look forward to back home I said, “Let me see you off at your home.”
The old man stared as if I had said something stupid. “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said. Cupping my hands in his, he added quickly, “Not just that, I haven’t been to anyone else’s house for a while. Let me come over to your place, instead… That way you won’t feel lonely either.”
I froze at his words. The returned shirt, the unmade rooms, the untouched food … all the innards of my personal life that lay there like an open book. I didn’t want the old man to see.
“Oh no! Today’s your turn to be the host!” I jerked the words out.
I saw blood draining from his face; he was shaken. He pulled his hands from mine as if he had touched a cold rail. I pretended not to see it.
We walked down the narrow road to the old man’s house. I saw his walking stick ricocheting off the sharp edges of the pavement rocks. The loose end of my saree caressed his pyjamas. The road was familiar, I’d been through with my husband many times before. He might not have gone to work today, I thought. Probably he’d be recounting our last evening together to that woman. He’d be lying in the bed, smoking. What’d he be feeling now? Melancholic? Sad? Relieved? She’d be sitting in front of the mirror doing her hair, listening to him… I had forgotten to ask him, was she married too? That way I could’ve gone one up on him. I’d missed the chance.
“It was a similar flower she was wearing.” The old man halted, pointing to the bushes. “She was standing in front of me at the temple and I snatched the flower and ran it down the nape of her neck…” He smiled as if he was reliving that moment. And when this girl turned to look at him, he froze – she turned out to be a newly-wed from the village! The old man burst into an irreverent laughter.
By now, exhaustion had gotten better of him. He was perspiring heavily. I slowed down further to match his pace. The house he had pointed to had its windows closed. Despair hung over the place like an old cloak. “Careful, the steps might come loose,” he said as we climbed the stairs. He sounded so grave all of a sudden. A strange grimace had replaced the old man’s salivary smile. He fumbled with the key and opened the door a crack. A sigh of stale air and damp darkness jumped out at us from inside. He seemed to sneak inside and was eager to close the door behind us.
“Have a seat,” he said, tucking away the keys. “Let me get you some tea.”
As he was about to go inside, he turned around and hastened to switch on the fan. “Don’t open the windows, it’s boiling outside.”
A tinge of unpleasantness hung in the air. No longer did the old man seem to be interested in any of the past stories. The dry, stale air from the fan beat down on me. He went inside and I felt the viscous silence spread around the room in his wake like a drop of oil on water. Silence howled above the strained drone of the fan and even above the ruthless sun. Sitting there in the damp dimness, I started feeling that silence had eyes and it was staring at me out of them. I wanted to open the window, but decided not to, though the heat inside the room also had started burning my skin like an open gash.
“Can I have some water please?” I might have raised my voice a bit. “It’s so warm in here.”
“I’m making some tea,” he said from inside, and it seemed like he was speaking under his breath.
But I couldn’t bear to be alone there. “No worries, I’ll fix it.” Casting aside the sense of propriety, I hurried inside. He was clearing all the food that had been made for him from the table. On the stove, the kettle trembled like an irregular heartbeat. He did not turn to look at me.
I stood at the kitchen door for a moment. He neatly wrapped the food into a pack and bound it tightly and dumped it into the waste bin. He then covered it with carefully folded old newspapers, closed the lid and washed his hands again and again. His wrinkled face looked spent. He didn’t even utter a word. Silence wailed inside these walls like a haunted spirit. Even here the windows weren’t open.
That staleness of air, that hunch on his back, that piercing silence, that irregular beat of the kettle on the stove, everything worked up an unbearable crescendo, and I suddenly turned the stove off.
“You could’ve had the food. I can keep you company,” I said to break the silence.
The old man shot a glance at me. I didn’t know why, but I saw a wave of fear crash on his face. Without taking his eyes off me, he slowly edged towards me. I felt my fear swell like a balloon about to burst. He had transformed from the person I had met in the park earlier. Inching away from him, I suddenly turned around and picked up a glass of water from the table behind me.
Moving closer still, he hissed, “Do you know my son?” His breath fell on me like the lick of a flame.
“No…”
“His wife, do you know her? Do you?”
“No!”
That posture, that awkwardness, reminded me of the state I left my home in. Probably when I tried to cleaned up the mess back there, silence would stalk me, ready to pounce, like the old man did now. With a shiver, I turned away and wiped my face hard. And my eyes fell on a door that was bolted and barred with from inside. His stare continued to fall on me like a welding torch. I saw his skin tighten. And I saw a tinge of froth at his mouth. I put down the glass of water without drinking it.
“This is my room,” he said without taking his eyes off me, as if taking them would mean my escape. “Come in.”
Damp stale darkness inhabited the room like water in a gutter.
For a moment, I was wondering if I should enter, when he slammed the door shut behind me.
I reeled in pitch darkness.
“Where’s the light?” I shouted. There was not a thing that I could see. Raising my voice probably had him in panic. He rushed to cover my mouth. I slithered out of his touch, before I even realized.
“No. Don’t!” he pleaded. “No lights or he will know I’m here!” I had to strain to hear him.
In my state of shock, he lit a wick. In the shaky flame, I saw the room, the lone window that was barbed and buttressed with crisscross wooden planks. There was leftover food strewn on the table. There was some water in a bucket.
“He tries the window at night…” The old man was shaking. “He knows I’m alone … I don’t sleep. But he scares me … he’s younger, stronger…”
My eyes fell on the handle of blade that stuck out from under the pillow.
“For my safety,” he said, thumbing the rusty blade as if it were a charm to ward off spirits. “I got this the day I knew I was a burden to him.”
To my shock, I realized that the smell of the room seemed strangely familiar as it filled me with nausea. Last night, when my husband spoke about the other woman in his life, the many questions that came tumbling into my mind had smelled the same too. It was to escape this suffocating smell that I stepped out later into the night. I retched at this realization. With a start, I reached for the door.
“Don’t!” he squealed. “He won’t stop at anything. Even this food is spiked! When I fed it to the crows this morning, they dropped dead!”
Those beads of sweat, that matted grey hair, that hot breath – I wanted to scream. Cold fear hung around my neck like a tight noose. I tried not to show it and reached for the door again. He grabbed me with the hand that held the blade.
“He … he asked me if I can move in with him…! Do you know what it means?!” His face was flush with blood that nearly dripped. That shock, that fear, that bitterness of his splashed on me like dirty water. “Do you know what it means?!” he repeated epileptically.
“He shouldn’t have said that…” I replied, frantically groping for the lock.
The exhaustion on his face should have prompted me to force him to the floor and ask him to relax, that’s what I would’ve done. But that heat, that stench, that darkness was unbearable and I was despairing now of getting out. That’s why, when my hands found the lock, I yanked the door open.
“Don’t leave me… Why? Is your husband coming back after all…?”
The last bit stung like acid. “Don’t know, but I must go!” I barked.
As I leaped out of the room, he wound around my leg like a piece of rag. Even a gentle shove wasn’t enough. I unhinged his claws from my skin. In the darkness scarred by the open door, I saw his rheumy eyes filling with tears.
“Don’t! Please don’t…” Probably because I was expecting him to roar an order, I felt he was meekly begging. “He knows I’m alone here. His mother died here. On this very floor. But he doesn’t care, he doesn’t,” the old man wailed. “He can easily break in! Please, please don’t leave me!” His face was dripping wet. On that wetness, words floated like dead ants on water. For a moment, I wondered if what I felt for this man now was what my husband felt for me when I offered him the shirt that morning. I recoiled as if I touched a flame. I turned to leave.
“Stop it! Leave me alone,” I spat. “It’s stupid! Why would your son want to kill you? You’re only blowing it up! You’re tired from sitting in the sun, that’s all. Take a break, and you’ll be fine. Why not open the windows…?”
I stopped. The old man was braying. The wrinkles on his soggy face were shamelessly wet with tears, rheum, and saliva. I suddenly felt relieved that I hadn’t wept in front of my husband last night.
“You don’t understand … my kid doesn’t speak to me now … it’s been almost two years…” His voice trailed off into a long wail. The old man wasn’t looking at me now. But his gooey tears came flooding into my mind. His howl was so piercing. I didn’t want this to haunt me ever after. That’s why I threw my hand at him.
It was the sloppy wetness of his face that hit my hand as I shoved him away from me. I desperately wanted to wash it off. I didn’t bother to close the door to his room as I rushed out. Nor did I bother to pick him up from the floor where he had fallen like a discarded rag, or even blow out the wick that was burning despite it being only noon. Outside, the scorching sky hung petrified over me. It’s humanly impossible to tie up all the loose ends, I told myself, and took unflappable comfort in the irrefutable justification of that argument. After all, we are only human!
Social distancing, self-isolation, lockdown – are words we now use every day. We want to hear your stories about isolation. It might be self-imposed, it might be enforced, maybe it’s a lifestyle choice. How does it make you/your characters feel, how are you/they affected? Tell us in no more than 400 words to enter our flash fiction competition.
Prefer spoken word to written word? That’s fine too. We are asking for performance poets and artists to send us an original spoken-word performance video of the same theme. The winners will be invited to perform their winning pieces at one of our next Litro Live! events to be held sometime soon. They will also receive one years free membership to Litro magazine and an artist profile on our website.
The closing date for entries is 22nd May and the winners will be announced and published online on 8th June.
RULES
-Entries for videos must be no longer than 5 minutes.
-Directly or indirectly, entries must be based on the theme of isolation.
HOW TO ENTER
Written pieces: Submit your work here.
Video recordings: Submit your work here.
Judges
Written flash fiction work will be judged by:
Catherine McNamara grew up in Sydney, ran away to Paris at twenty-one to write, and ended up in West Africa running a bar. She is the author of the prize-winning collection The Cartography of Others, Pelt and Other Stories and the forthcoming flash fiction collection Love Stories for Hectic People. Catherine’s work has been Pushcart-nominated and widely published in the U.K., Europe and the U.S.A. Catherine lives in Italy.
Video recording will be judged by:
Eric Akoto, Litro Creative Director & Editor in Chief.
Eric Akoto is Fellow of the Royal Society of the Arts by invitation. He founded the Warwick University Young writers’ competition and has written for various publications and contributed to various books on culture. He also guest curates and comperes at festivals such as The Brooklyn Book Festival, Latitude Festival, The Jaipur Literary and Arts festival (the largest in the world) and The Hay Festival.
You can submit your work to any of our platforms: Litro Magazine, Litro Online, or our podcast, Litro Lab. Please read the guidelines carefully.
Please note that it may take us anytime from two weeks to six months to accept or reject your submission. If you haven’t heard from us, you can assume we’re still considering your work.
We continue with Litro’s aim of finding and launching international writers. We want stories that find new ways to view the world: the compelling and the controversial, the funny and the fantastic, the sad and the strange.
Start with place, start with identity, start with the unending agony of a blank page. We want to hear more about how people become, about how you’re altered by your surroundings, about what matters to you. We want to read about home and nostalgia, and what makes you feel a pit in your stomach when you walk into a room.
We’re into culture, too. If art moves you, let us see it. If you’ve read a book that altered you, write a review as time is not linear neither should your reading habit. If you’ve talked to someone interesting, develop an interview. If you have an interesting take on a painting, a beer, or an album, let us know.
Browse our site, and find us on Twitter: @LitroMagazine
Stories and storytellers have been revered as messengers, social commentators and entertainers since humanity began.
From Aesop and his Fables, to the West African griots who’ve been passing on stories via the spoken word since the 14th Century, to Shakespeare, to Agatha Christie, to Notorious BIG- and beyond. Stories (whether prose, spoken word, songs or films) inspire, inquire, entertain, inform, provoke, seduce, connect.
According to Martin Amis, “fiction is the only way to redeem the formlessness of life.”
Toni Morrison once said if there’s a story you want to read, “but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.”
So, what are you saying? What would you like to bring to the conversation? What sorts of conversations would you like to spark?
We like to hang onto things. we want to hang onto your words. We’re over here on Twitter: @LitroMagazine
Litro accepts simultaneous submissions, but only considers unpublished work. We read everything. When you’ve finished writing, editing, rewriting, and revising, submit your best. If you have an idea or a pitch for a story, send us an email at editor@www.litromagazine.com
We’re excited to see what you have for us. Thanks in advance for entrusting us to see your work.
Litro Online
Any questions? Contact online@litromagazine.com
What we accept:
- We have now opened up the Litro Blog to all our readers and writers. If you want to be a Litro blogger (minimum commitment: three months, once a week), email online@litromagazine.com with samples of your writing and three blog pitches. If all goes well, you’ll be set up with an account from which you can start posting blogs for our review right away. These pieces will usually fall short of being features, and be anything from 400-800 words long.
- Non-themed short fiction (#StorySunday) not more than 4,000 words. Works translated into English also welcome. Submit here
- Non-themed short fiction (#LunchBreakFic) not more than 4,000 words. Works translated into English also welcome. Submit here
- Non-themed short fiction (#TuesdayTales) not more than 4,000 words. Works translated into English also welcome. Submit here
- Non-themed flash/micro fiction (#FlashFridays) not more than 800 words. Works translated into English also welcome. Submit here
- Essays (#EssaySaturday)—including, but not limited to, personal essays, memoir and travel dispatches, the more creative you are with the term “essay” the better. We’re really looking for stories that go deeper, that scratch beneath the surface of a tale, finding its wider meanings to give our readers something to think about. We’re also partial to a bit of a chuckle. No more than 2,000 words, although this is negotiable in certain circumstances. Works translated into English also welcome. Submit here
- Travel & Lifestyle—The travel and lifestyle section gives a brief on global affairs, travel, reportage, design told through personal essays and stories that deal with the fascinating aspects of everyday life. As we believe real culture is in the details of life as its being lived, day by day. Submit here
- Features on literature, arts and culture: We are not about literary criticism, but we do welcome informed and reflective, even personal, commentary. We are particularly interested in writing that explore the grey areas between literature and art, and also literature and culture, i.e. the connections between literature & travel, literary & fashion, literature & food, etc. that help us “see” literature in our real world. Submit here
- Reviews: we review books, theatre, art exhibitions and cinema. Check our current Calls for Reviews. Read our review policy. Submit reviews Submit here
- Share a Short Story (see examples). Submit here
- Columns: We are looking for columnists. Have an idea on literature/writing, travel, film, music, or art that you can sustain for at least three months, with at least a piece every fortnight? Pitch it to online@litromagazine.com.
- Politics We want comments/opinions/personal essays on anything that falls under the word ‘political’ – from LGBT rights to sexism, racism to human rights, war to education. Whether it be serious or satire, we want the politics section to comment on the political world around us. Submit here
- Interviews: If you like to talk to people and explore issues in depth, pitch your interview idea to online@litromagazine.com. Interviews can be done in person, via Skype, phone, or email—or any other more creative way you can think of.
- Photo Essays or Comic Series—Submit here.
At this time, we do not accept poetry submissions for online publication.
How to Submit:
Completed pieces
If you already have a finished piece that can fit into any of our existing categories, please submit here. If you haven’t yet build up many writing samples, it would be best to submit to us a completed piece. If we publish it, you can start pitching to us.
Pitches
Send ideas for anything related to literature and culture—whether columns, interviews, features and reviews—to online@litromagazine.com.
Everything on reviews or author interviews, send to Interviews.
Anything related to theatre, arts or live events, please get in touch with arts@litromagazine.com. For anything film-related, please contact Films.
*Please attach a brief biography and CV with your pitches to better reflect your fields of expertise.
Contributors’ Mailing List
Every month, we also have some specific events and book reviews we’d like covered. If you’d like to receive an email from us every month calling for particular submissions, please
.
Terms & Conditions:
- If you are submitting short fiction, flash fiction, nonfiction or poetry, and we choose to publish it on our website, you also afford us the right to reprint your work in possible print, audio or digital anthologies in the future—subject to due notification to the author.
- Regrettably, we are unable to pay our contributors at present.
Litro Lab
Any questions? Contact online@litromagazine.com.
We sometimes feature standalone stories—fiction and nonfiction—on Litro Lab. It can follow the month’s theme, or not, and must be no longer than five minutes.
You can submit here an MP3 recording of your short story; it must be your story, but you can get someone else to read it if you’d prefer (please credit them with a link, if applicable). Please also submit a written version of your piece.
*You can submit MP3s of pieces previously published elsewhere in written form, but please make sure you have the right to let us publish it in audio form. We are not responsible for the copyright infringement of work submitted to us.
Note: We also run audio interviews and readings with authors, episodes exploring a particular theme/subject such as Japanese folk tales, and even real-world reportage. If you’d like to participate — either as a guest or a producer — or if you just have a bright idea, please get in touch with Interviews.
I am six. It’s my first day at a new school in a new country. I didn’t really get a summer break, since school in India begins just after school in the US ends. I’m being ferried with my peers on a rickety van that is very different from the yellow school bus I’m used to. Once identified as a new kid, I am interrogated.
“What’s your name?”
“Which class are you in?”
“Who’s your teacher?”
“What’s your mother tongue?” I am thrown by the last one. Mother tongue? Someone notes my confusion.
“What language do you speak at home?”
“English?” I venture. Blank stares. I’ve somehow answered the question wrong, but English is the only language I speak. The alien phrase sticks with me throughout the day, and when I get home I ask my mother what our mother tongue is. Apparently, it’s Tulu. I hadn’t heard that answer when I’d asked my peers what their mother tongues were. But now I know how to answer that particular question. Though it’s not quite the truth, since all we speak at home is English.
*
I am still six. My mother has been teaching me the Hindi alphabet at home so I can catch up with my classmates. I hate it. There are too many letters and I just can’t add the matras to all the different consonants correctly. But I can read a little now.
Our Hindi teacher is nice and doesn’t hold it against me that I’m still learning how to read. We’re working on three-letter words. Our teacher writes a word on the board and asks who can read it. Hands fly up across the room. Today’s a review day and we’ve seen all these words before. Then she writes a new word on the board.
“Who can read this?”
We’re all stumped. I don’t know to avoid eye contact as she looks around the room.
“Tarini?”
I stand. The new word is a three-letter word, so it can’t be that hard. The first letter looks like a stick being spoon-fed, that’s ch, the last letter is luh, but the middle letter is throwing me off, it looks like a puh but it’s got an extra bit on the front.
“Chap-pal?” I stutter. And as soon as I say the word, it clicks. Chappal! Flip-flops! My teacher smiles as I sit down. I’m buzzing for the rest of the day.
*
I am ten. I’m in fourth standard and I’m a good student for the most part. Hindi is my weak point but doesn’t everyone have one? It stopped being interesting in first standard as we cycled through Hindi teachers, learning three-letter words, four-letter words, five-letters words, three-letter words, four-letter words, five-letter words and then it got difficult and I stopped trying. I was doing fine at everything else, especially English.
Our Hindi teacher this year is fascinating and terrifying. I remember hearing her yell from the floor above when I was in third standard. The boys’ class is her primary domain but she teaches Hindi to all three girls’ sections as well. Everyone seems to like her somehow. I don’t know what I’m doing in Hindi but I laugh along with everyone else when she cracks jokes about our reading for that day.
We have spelling tests every week. Our teacher does this thing where we swap tests with the person next to us and grade their test, and then we bring it up to the teacher’s desk to be checked. Our teacher also does this thing where if you make a mistake grading someone’s test, she hits you hard on the leg. Very hard. It gets quiet when the first person to make a mistake gets found out. It stays quiet till our teacher leaves at the end of the period.
I approach the big desk at the front of the room and set my partner’s test down. I watch our teacher’s face and to my horror she whips her head around and screams.
“LOOK AT THIS! Bada ee instead of chhota ee!”
I’ve mixed up my matras. I hear a whack and the side of my leg burns. I burst into tears.
“Stop crying!”
Another whack and the pain in my leg flares.
“Go and fix it!”
I stumble to my desk. I can see my friends looking at me pityingly. As I slide into my chair three rows from the front I hear our teacher say, “And right in front of the board too! Useless!” My partner is apologizing but I shake my head.
*
I am eleven. In fifth standard, Hindi gets divided into literature and grammar. I care for neither. Kannada class was alright last year but our current Kannada teacher is awful. She drones and doesn’t take questions and looking down at today’s test I realize I haven’t learned anything. The interesting thing is I don’t care. I’m fine at everything else.
I write down what I can and take my test to be graded. The teacher looks at it for a second and slides it back to me with contempt.
“Zero,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear. I hear a gasp. But I really don’t care, so much that it’s hard to not laugh as I walk back to my desk.
*
I am thirteen. We’re going to see extended family that live near my maternal grandmother. I’m wearing a salwar-kameez that’s been starched half to death so it can stand in the summer humidity. We pull into the driveway of a large traditional coastal house, yellow-walled and roofed with red clay tiles. I can’t remember who lives here.
We’re now in the living room, sipping tea out of steel tumblers. I start to daydream as the conversation happens around me, thinking about which old Reader’s Digest issue I’ll dive into when we get back. My mother nudges me. I come to and hear a familiar question.
“Tulu barpunda?” (Do you know Tulu?) My response is practised by now. I look down at the floor and shake my head. I feel less and less ashamed the more I hear that question. My mother doesn’t though, and I know a post-visit lecture is coming as our hosts click their tongues disapprovingly. My grandmother takes part in the lectures now too. It’s no longer cute that the little American kid can’t speak her mother tongue.
*
I am seventeen. Everyone in twelfth standard has to do a week-long internship somewhere they’d like to work in the future, and I was urged to try my hand at journalism over physics because my English is good. The newspaper office is in the middle of the city, and my parents thought it would be good for me to take the bus there. So here I am, standing at the bus stop as assorted traffic flies past. I vaguely register the babble of Kannada around me as I look down the road for my bus.
The G9 comes roaring towards us and brakes suddenly. I join the women streaming towards the front door and find a space to wedge myself in as the bus rumbles off. The conductor comes around to collect fares.
“Yeshtu?”(How much?), I ask when he gets to me, hoping my pronunciation was alright.
“Eylu.” I count quickly in my head – aidhu, aaru, eylu – seven rupees, alright. I don’t have change today so I hand him a ten rupee note. He stuffs it into his bag and moves on to the next person. I open my mouth to say something, then close it.
*
I am eighteen. I’m back in the US for the first time in twelve years, to start college. I’m still reeling from being in a place where I can get by on English alone. I’ve met so many new people and the mother tongue question hasn’t come up once. Now the only defining thing about me is that I’m a physics major. I walked right past the South Asian Students table at the activities fair to sign up for the local Society of Physics Students chapter. I love this feeling of starting fresh.
In the second lecture of Classical Mechanics, I boldly raise my hand to ask a question about an equation on the board. Fresh start, right? No more sitting quietly when I don’t understand things. “What’s a Taylor expansion?” The professor looks surprised. It turns out most of my peers are in Calculus II or more advanced math classes. I’m in Calculus I, that’s what my academic advisor recommended for international students. My stomach turns a little. I don’t feel so excited anymore.
*
I am twenty. I’m visiting home for the second time since starting college. My aunt has come to visit with her daughter. While my aunt and my mother chat in the kitchen, I entertain my cousin with my old dinosaur toys. She knows a lot about dinosaurs, it turns out, naming each one correctly as I hold it up.
My aunt walks into the room. “Chinnu, inchi balle, time to go.” (come here) My cousin’s protest is dismissed by a flood of admonishments in Tulu. After they leave, I help my mother with cleaning up. A question occurs to me.
“How come you didn’t talk to me in Tulu when I was younger?”
“I did, until you started preschool. Then your teachers told me to stop, since you weren’t picking up English fast enough. So I did.” She pauses. “My biggest mistake with you.”
I sit with this new knowledge. She seems more upset with herself than with me. I cast around for something to say.
“But I turned out okay.” I’m not sure if I believe it myself though.
*
I am twenty-four. It is dark outside, and I am about to call home. My mother must’ve already started preparing lunch because it takes her a few rings to pick up.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“How was your week?”
I fill her in about my research and how the galaxy I’m studying is being difficult, and she tells me about the drama in the residents welfare association and the latest family news. Then I hear her get distracted by something, and I know she has to go. I start to say bye.
“Taru, before you hang up, say hi to Ajjamma first.”
I hear a fumbling and my maternal grandmother comes on the line.
“Hageedee putti?” (How are you, little one?)
I smile, because I know she can tell, and dampen the Americanness of my accent the best I can.
“I’m fine, Ajjamma, hageedee?”
A familiar shame sidles into the room as I grasp at my meagre store of Kannada and Tulu. My grandmother and I muddle our way through a multilingual conversation that’s happened many times before – how’s your leg? Feeling better, pain’s still there, how is the weather? Warm today but it was cold yesterday, Texas is like that, how’s the weather there? Okay, putti, getting hotter. Oh, okay. A short pause. Anyway, study hard, look after your health, putti. You too, Ajjamma.
I hang up. The shame’s still sitting there. I distract myself with my phone, swiping mindlessly, when I come across the Kannada learning app I downloaded a month ago. I look at it, then I notice it’s past eleven. I have to get ready for work tomorrow.
Let any number of women be represented as points in space-time and you will always be able to find a surface that connects them. This was what Einstein’s wife, whose name was Mileva Marić, was working on when she fell pregnant with their first child. (The one who disappeared from history. In other words, the girl.)
Nobody has ever bothered to test Mileva Marić’s theory until now.
Let the first woman be Valentina Tereshkova. What’s her location in the four- dimensional continuum? It’s the occasion of her visit to the Observatory in Edinburgh, almost exactly a year after the Berlin Wall has come down and the Soviet Union is disintegrating into its constituent elements. I’m studying for my PhD in astronomy at the Observatory; I spend my days thinking about how black holes and galaxies form in the early universe, and how to save enough money from my grant to buy some new jeans. Anyway, on this day that Valentina Tereshkova is invited to the Observatory, for some reason (I don’t speak Russian and she doesn’t appear to understand English) I’m chosen to show her around.
I only know one fact about Valentina Tereshkova but it’s an important one; she was the first woman to go into outer space. Back in 1963, when the Russians were still Soviets and when the Soviets were beating the Americans at the space race, she spent nearly three days orbiting the Earth in a Vostok rocket.
I’ve been instructed to show her the two telescopes, one in each of the copper-topped towers at either end of the Observatory. Of course, nobody has actually used these telescopes for many years; in their way they’re now as defunct as the Soviet Union. But I imagine that Valentina Tereshkova is used to out-of-date hunks of metal, and as I talk to her I find myself picturing vast and ancient space rockets peacefully rusting into the black earth of the Caucasus. Of course, we do have more up-to-date machinery for our research; new telescopes, cameras, satellites and so on, but they’re all a long way from the Observatory itself. Right here, it’s somewhat more historic.
I lead her up the spiral staircase to the first telescope, and maybe it’s because I think she can’t understand a word I’m saying that I start to tell her about the bomb. How in 1913 an unknown suffragette placed the bomb at the base of this tower; the subsequent explosion damaged the curved brick wall and injured the woman herself, who left a trail of blood leading away from the Observatory and down the hill. I even tell Valentina Tereshkova about the handbag found at the scene, which contained some currant buns, and a note fastened to it with a safety-pin. All the note said was the suffragette slogan “Deeds not words”. I speculate about why the suffragette didn’t eat the buns before the bomb went off, perhaps she was too nervous or perhaps they were an obscure political statement. Valentina Tereshkova nods at me, probably thinking that I’m explaining my PhD work on distant galaxies with black holes et cetera. That is what I’m supposed to be telling her. I’m not supposed to be telling her about the suffragette bombing, as hidden a history as the black holes themselves which can only be indirectly inferred from the way they disturb their surroundings, warping space-time into curved surfaces. (As predicted by Einstein and subsequent physicists.)
Apparently Mileva Marić helped her husband with some of the trickier aspects of the maths in his work. This is not documented, of course. When I was at school I was good at maths, and even now I can write a line of algebra that extends a surface to infinity. (Perhaps I’ve always enjoyed writing the phrase “Let x be” because of its implicit command.)
Valentina Tereshkova never went as far as infinity. But in her Vostok rocket she reached an altitude of 200,000 metres, or about sixty times further from sea level than I’ve ever been. When we’re both in the dome, I point out the technical characteristics of the telescope, which is now as obsolete as a cassette recorder, and spends its days waiting for someone to come and dismantle it.
*
You need more than one point to define a surface. (Basic geometry.) So let the second point be occupied by Lise Meitner. Born in Vienna in the late nineteenth century to a Jewish family; her original name is Elise, mutating at some unknown point in her childhood.
She spends most of her professional life at a science institute in Berlin where initially she must work in a basement, separated from the male scientists. Over time she’s allowed to interact with them, slowly and cautiously at first, in case they run from her like startled deer. She starts a lifelong collaboration with Otto Hahn and is allowed to work with him in the main laboratory. (I say “she worked” but she wasn’t actually paid a salary for the first few years.)
At the beginning of the twentieth century an elegant experiment showed that almost all of an atom’s mass is concentrated in a tiny nucleus, and the rest of the atom is practically empty space. Sometimes this nucleus emits high energy radiation and particles, and transforms itself; the resulting daughter atom is now a different chemical element and bears no trace of its mother substance. It’s this radioactive phenomenon that intrigues Lise Meitner.
The third woman. While Lise Meitner is studying radioactivity at the University of Vienna, my grandmother is born in that city and she is known as Lisl, an adaptation of her birth name Elise. (This was a common name in Vienna, it’s only a coincidence that she shares it with Lise Meitner.)
By 1933 Lise Meitner has been living and working in Berlin for over twenty-five years. Across Germany, Jewish scientists are dismissed from their jobs that year but somehow she manages to hold onto hers. Perhaps it’s because she’s Austrian and technically not subject to the laws of the Third Reich, or perhaps the relevant officials haven’t noticed her because she’s a woman. There’s no way of finding out the right answer to the question without drawing attention to herself, and that would be very dangerous. But after Germany annexes Austria in 1938 and Austrian citizens become German, she’s altered from one identity to another and now all the laws of the Third Reich definitely apply to her.
Also in 1938, my grandmother escapes from Vienna. At a time when hardly any Jewish adults are allowed to enter Britain from overseas, somehow (I don’t know how) she obtains a visa which gives her permission to find work as a domestic maid.
I imagine her at work. Methodically removing the contents of a kitchen cupboard, setting the stacks of cups and saucers and plates and bowls on the floor, before wiping down the cupboard shelves first with a damp cloth and then a dry one. She has to rearrange the crockery in the cupboard several different times before she can close the door, because it will only fit if you do it the single right way and not one of the countless wrong ways. While she works, she is kneeling in front of this cupboard and trying not to think about what is happening in Austria. (But how can you not think when you do a task like this? How can your mind not fly off in all directions?) There’s too much room inside her head and not enough in the cupboard.
Lise Meitner escapes to Stockholm where she’s been promised work in the physics laboratory at the Nobel Institute. Sweden is neutral territory, she should be safe here. But because the director of this laboratory doesn’t approve of women working she has no official status and, just as in Berlin thirty years before, she’s confined to a basement. In a letter to Hahn she writes, “This place is unimaginably empty. There are no pumps, no capacitors, no ammeters, nothing to do experiments with.”
All she’s managed to bring with her from Berlin are two small suitcases of summer clothes, and now it’s winter and she’s getting colder with every passing day. She writes to Hahn again and asks him to post her woollens and her books. Meanwhile she sits in her basement and thinks about what happens when uranium atoms are bombarded by neutrons. She scribbles notes on scrap paper and waits for her books to arrive.
But she’ll manage. After all, she studies the atom. Too small to see even with the most powerful microscope, the atom still has enough space for these fascinating processes she’s spent her life studying. If a nucleus were the size of a house fly, the surrounding atom would be as big as a cathedral. So why complain about being limited to this basement when there is so much to think about?
The only home she has is a room in a rather down-at-heel hotel. Over the years she’s stayed in many such places, got used to many different bedrooms with bathrooms a long way down a chilly corridor, and meals provided at extra cost. Furnished rooms with two drawers for her underwear and a wardrobe, or maybe just a hook on the back of the door, for her dresses. A rickety table where she can spread out her books and papers, and a frayed rug on the floor to cover the holes in the linoleum. Small rooms – these rooms are never spacious – that require her to be quiet and orderly and neat. She has learned that this is how single women must live.
In 1939, Lise Meitner works on the problem of nuclear fission. She estimates the huge quantities of energy that could be released from a lump of uranium, causing a cloud of radioactive material to rise eight miles high into the atmosphere. In a room so small she can touch the opposite walls while she is sitting down, and spending days silently by herself because nobody else will talk to her, Lise Meitner completes a calculation that will trigger the future atom bomb.
After the end of the war when Hahn gets the Nobel Prize for their collaborative work and she is overlooked, someone asks her if being Jewish damaged her career. Lise Meitner answers, “Being a woman is such a huge handicap that my religion has never mattered.”
In the same month that I meet Valentina Tereshkova, my grandmother moves into an old people’s home. When I visit her there, I find her sitting at a table and cutting up used greetings cards to make collages. I watch as she manoeuvres the scissors, causing little pieces of coloured card to flutter down. Then she reassembles them so that they fit together into a new surface, so perfectly constructed it has no tell-tale gaps. My grandmother talks a lot as she does this but she never tells me anything about her past, and about what – or whom – she left behind in Vienna.
In exchange for my tour of the Observatory, Valentina Tereshkova gives me an egg, a perfectly blown egg that rests in the palm of my hand. A shell that once protected its contents from the rest of the universe. A miniature spacecraft.
The name of Mileva Marić’s lost girl was Lieserl and she was born in 1902, in Serbia. It’s not known when she died. As space-time expands and carries us all away from each other into our own separate futures, let us remember these facts.
- Your neighbor’s daughter Sarah, a girl you remember riding passenger side in boyfriends’ black cars, fingertips wind-dragging out the open window, how they would curl and twist when she saw you and your daughter, and you didn’t know for sure, but every time you waved back
- The small brown bugs that you find dotting your bathroom sink every morning for three weeks, your daughter seeing them first, poor little bugs, crying the way children do, and now wipe them away first thing in wads of toilet paper, the freckle of their small bodies in your hand
- The wild rabbit in the street that you and your daughter saw from the car window, poor little bunny, she said, and poor little bunny you agreed, and by evening, it was torn piece of fur, road stain, gone with the first rain
- The back-yard house sparrow, talon-clutched by hunting hawk
- Your car, and you drove your father’s old pickup for three days, rumbling with disrepair, your daughter looking out the window, singing over and over again here we go round the mulberry bush
- A distant cousin of your mother’s, and your mother called and said remember and remember, and you said, yes, yes, though it was mostly a lie
- A character on a television show that you had liked, and your daughter asked mama, why are you crying, and you couldn’t really explain because they weren’t real, it wasn’t even real
- The praying mantis from summer that you’d found perched on the fence between houses, body leaf-curled on the back step that you swept away with a broom, that you couldn’t touch bare
- The power on a cloud-heavy night, and you and your daughter looked out into the dark together and it was black, black, all black, except at your neighbor’s house, where they had strung blue battery-operated lights along the fence, for Sarah, they said, and they were there and they were shining, and you and your daughter, that night, sat at the window and watched, watched, watched.
They drove out of Calgary toward Jasper, the father and the son, and on this autumnal morning the sun shone bright through breaks in the cloud but gave no warmth and they passed road signs indicating forked paths and measured distances, billboards advertising smiles and solutions, flattened roadkill and trucks with smoking drivers parked at rest stops and helpless litter clinging to wire fences and all of this was seen but not considered, like a muted television playing at dinner. The son sobbed throughout the journey while the father watched the road, knowing it was a long road, an unforgiving road with some way ahead, his eyes forward and back rigid and arms arched over the wheel. When the boy got too loud he turned the radio up. His own eyes felt raw and ached but he could not grieve in front of the boy, not now. Instead he remained distant, drunk on his stoicism, watching the rolling highway ahead while his mind replayed cerebral recordings he had of her, recordings stored in his memory that he had exhausted since she passed and somehow they all played as one. The first meeting, the first date, the first kiss, the childish courting, the two weeks turned two months in Mexico, the wedding, the in-laws, the pregnancy and the birth, the passionate love and the furious arguments and every high and low in between. Stranded in a vast ocean of memories he had no control over. They kept him company as they hurtled down the highway and for now it was a comfort, not forever he knew but for a little while longer.
The boy would never know these memories. Watching his father’s face he saw the deep creases above his forehead, his narrowed eyes and his stubbled jaw, constantly chewing on something like a grimace or a smile. Here in the passenger’s seat he was closer to his father than he’d been in two days and still he remained out of reach, vague and detached. The boy looked away, resenting the tears starting to pool in his eyes. His entire, albeit short, existence had been wrapped in soft conditioned blankets, the fears and worries he faced always quickly soothed by his mother but she was gone and his world had torn apart and in this isolation, he knew no way to process such an irrevocable change alone. He looked to his father again but every glance was wasted and once more, the boy started to cry.
This time the radio would not go any louder. Somewhere far away the boy was sobbing. The vivid and colourful scenes darkened and washed away, interrupted by something unavoidable and real. He pressed the dial and the music stopped and the boy quietened in the sudden silence. Keeping his eyes on the road the father spoke to his son. “I know it’s difficult but you need to stop crying.”
The boy sniffed, exhaled. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Please. I can’t concentrate on driving when you make all that noise.”
“Can’t we go home?”
“You think we will feel happier at home? Surrounded by everything that reminds us of her?”
The boy began to weep again.
“I know this is tough. I want to cry too but it doesn’t make you feel any better. We need to be strong for each other. We can help each other through this. I’m not crying, am I?”
“It’s easier for you.”
The father laughed. “You have no idea. You think it’s easy for me?”
“Because you’re older.”
“It’s not easy for me. I want to stop. I want to drop everything and hide myself away and cry just as much as you do, believe me. But it won’t help.”
The boy began to whimper and his eyes filled with tears again. “But she’s gone.”
“I know. That’s why we’re going for a walk. A long walk to keep our minds busy. There’s no point moping around the house waiting for the funeral.” The father sighed. “I’m being tough on you. Maybe you hate me for it. But think about your mother. Do you think it would make her happy to see you in this state?”
He reached for the radio dial and music engulfed them once more. The conversation had ended and the father was distant once more, as if an opaque partition had been raised between the two of them. The boy looked miserably down at a comic book crumpled in his lap. He flicked through the pages but the colours and illustrations were blurred, swimming beyond the watery lens of his vision. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and tried to start from the beginning, but he knew the ending now and didn’t have the patience to follow the plot again. It was a science fiction magazine, not his usual choice and aimed at teenagers (the boy himself being a little over ten) but there were few options to choose from at the gas station several hours ago. The boy read, again, the opening caption: There are an infinite number of universes, some a little different than this one, barely perceptible to the naked eye, others unimaginably strange and horrifyingly bizarre. And what if I told you, I had the power to travel between them in the blink of an eye? What would you search for? And would you leave your old universe behind if you found it? There were words like wormholes and paradoxes that he didn’t understand but he followed the general concept. Different dimensions, alternate worlds. He considered another reality, or rather realities, one where he was taller, another where he owned a dog, one where he lived on the moon, one where everybody lived underwater, one where his mother was still alive.
*
At the crossing into the park a woman stared out at them from a toll booth. To her they resembled a pair of pilgrims who had given up hope of finding the promised land. “Have a good day gentlemen,” she said without a smile.
Just after two o’clock they arrived at the valley of the five lakes. “Here we are,” the father announced. They sat in the parked car for some time.
“I don’t want to get out,” the boy said eventually.
“It’ll be okay. We’ve been here before, with your mother.” The father paused and smiled, recalling the day. “You could barely walk but you didn’t want us to carry you. You wanted to make it on your own. You were so determined. We were so proud.”
The boy looked at his father with tears in his eyes. “I don’t want to get out.”
“It’s a beautiful hike. This will be good for us. I promise, you’ll feel better.”
They left the car in the empty lot and took the winding gravel path through thick woodland and fallen trees, across a thin bridge over a shallow river to the trailhead, a large wooden sign in an open field mapping the valley that rolled all around them. The father studied the map while the boy kicked the dirt at his feet. There were three potential hikes to choose from: the first, a short forty minute walk around the fifth lake; the second, a loop that cut between the third and fourth lakes and then incorporated the walk around the fifth, which took about an hour forty-five; and the third option, which the father insisted they take, a three hour hike that would take them to viewpoints of each of the five lakes. “If we set a good pace we’ll be back before it gets dark”, he told the boy, who opened his mouth to object but, knowing it to be hopeless, kept quiet and followed his father up a steep path bearing west towards the first lake, dragging his feet as he went.
Time passed and the father led the way, the boy always several metres behind. Neither of them spoke. The father knew the trail well, had been here with her for long weekends and vacations years ago, before the boy even existed, he could recite past footsteps and with those footsteps came more memories that entwined with his reality. She became real, not real of course, but visible, a sad projection he saw hiding behind the trees or dipping her feet in the waters of the first lake or eating a picnic on a grassy bank, her face blurred but a distinct aura illuminated her figure, something akin to a wraith that he followed blindly, hopelessly, basking in her light. She was too quick and kept vanishing and sometimes he broke into a run, his heart swelling, desperate to get close enough to see her face.
The boy watched his father as he climbed the next hilltop. He took the same steps as his father, placing his feet in each footstep formed in the detritus as he racked his brain to try and recall anything about this place, this place they had all been before, together as a family, but he couldn’t. Why can’t I remember? he asked himself, when did I forget? Instead each hilltop vista gave him a new memory, fresh images that threatened to paper over the faint or latent ones of his mother, and at this realisation he shivered in a cold sweat, terrified that the hospital would become the only setting he could imagine her in. Withered and weak in bed, drowning under white sheets and tangled tubes and when he ran down the corridors with the flicking electrical light, masked surgeons chased him with bloodied aprons, screaming after him that everything was going to be alright.
*
The change occurred on the second lake. The boy slowed and deviated from his father’s path and approached the water, descending past douglas firs and white spruces, touching the bark and its contours as he went. Through the trees he looked out over the lake, so still and clear he could see leisurely fish steering over chalk rocks that fell away into the turquoise depths beyond, and the flat surface provided a perfect mirror image of the grass banks and the tall trees and the vast sky above, beginning to grey but still decidedly light, the entire scene replicated on the surface of the second lake like a painting he’d seen in a city gallery, another world entirely. The boy picked up a small branch at the lakeside and drew his arm back to toss it as far as he could but hesitated and stopped himself, judging the serenity of the lake too precious a thing to abandon, instead placing the branch gently on the surface and launching it and it span as it drifted away from him and the fish, fat and grey and curious, circled underneath.
The father came down the bank and joined his son. He could sense the wonder in the boy and he crouched beside him and pointed out the exhibits around the lake, explaining the herons and the squirrels and the trout and the collection of moss on certain perspectives of the great barks, wrinkled and hard, and the reflection of the landscape and the sky and themselves, a perfect replica of their reality with an identical father and son. They estimated the distance between themselves and the bank opposite and the volume of water held within the lake and the height of the hawks hovering in the breeze above them. This they discussed and marvelled and laughed at together. Subdued thunder croaked to the east and a hesitant storm approached, almost reluctant to disturb these whirring minds on the lake as the clouds rolled in, slow and sombre, a blanket of grey enveloping the valley. They saw the rain before they heard it and they heard it before they felt it and when it reached them it fell in hard sheets, shaped by the wind and dancing over the second lake like swarming swallows. The boy huddled close to his father and they zipped up their coats as the surface, with its mirrored trees and darkening sky were suddenly gone, distorted by the rain into a thousand rippled images and the boy tried to look at each one, warped and transformed into different worlds but it was too late and they all dissolved into one chaotic mess.
*
They finished the trail in the dark and climbed into the car and headed south back down the same highway. The boy fought the urge to sleep, sat content in the passenger seat reminiscing an enjoyable afternoon. All of the five lakes had been beautiful but he liked the second lake the best. He tried to steal glances at his father as he drove but the slightest turn of his head caught his father’s attention and he didn’t want to distract him. Instead he watched the trunks of the great firs rushing past, illuminated by the beams of the headlights. The night hid the higher branches and the treetops but he knew they were there – he’d seen them on the drive in. He looked over his shoulder at his mother asleep on the backseat, her body breathing under the blanket, her face just hidden in the shadows, lit occasionally by passing street lamps but never enough to see her delicate features, the beauty, those loving and caring eyes. Like in a reflection, the finer details were lost. His father was smiling now too; looking into the rearview mirror, he hummed to the melody from the radio and tapped his fingers lightly on the wheel. He glanced at the boy and their eyes met and they shared a look, as if they knew what the other was thinking but neither could speak for fear of waking her up. She must be allowed to rest. There was a long drive ahead.
*
The car hits a pothole and the father and the son jerk forward in their seats. Such a small and insignificant failing barely perceptible on the surface of the road, like an impact crater in the middle of the desert from a harmless meteor strike centuries before. A few inches either side and it would have been avoided completely but it was on their path and it rocked the car as they drove over it. The boy sits up in his seat and grins at his father, only to see the father hunched over the wheel with tears in his eyes. They glisten, illuminated by the traffic as they run down his cheeks through his beard and into the shadows below the wheel. Looking at his own limp feet the boy finds them surrounded by beer cans and piles of comics discarded in the murk. He turns to the backseat but she is gone, no sleeping figure nor the blanket that had covered her, so he faces forward and allows himself to sink deeper into the passenger seat. The radio is too loud but it is not music, it is a chat show where far-off voices laugh about something inane, laughter that is hollow and echoes around them. He feels nauseous so he closes his eyes and thinks of the second lake, its waters so still and clear that he can see the fat fish and the tall trees and the brightening sky, a new world existing on the surface. He sees their reflections, his father and his mother, and he sees himself standing between them. For a moment he feels happier, the three of them together again with their shivering outlines and their blurred faces, gazing at their feet on the water’s edge.
Elaine Chiew is ethnic Chinese from Malaysia; she was educated in the USA and then moved to the UK. She is currently living in Singapore. Her debut collection of short stories reflects this background. The stories examine the lives of the Malaysian and Singaporean Chinese diaspora across the USA, Britain, and internationally. These are doubly hyphenated identities: the immigrant children of a Chinese community that established itself in the Straits Settlements in the early twentieth century. At one point a character’s mother visiting from Singapore is impressed by London’s Chinatown. “It’s just like China!” Her daughter wryly remarks, “Although she’d never been to China.”
The diversity of voices across the collection reflects not only Chiew’s talent, but perhaps also the long span of years over which they were written. The earliest published piece won the Bridport International Prize in 2008, a feat nicely bookended by the title story winning Second Prize a full decade later in 2018. Her work has appeared in several anthologies and in Unthology 10. She edited the anthology Cooked Up: Food Fiction from Around the World, and this familiarity with food culture makes more than a cameo appearance in this collection.
Chiew writes with equal facility and insight from the perspective of the older generation of immigrants who never became proficient in English, and the younger, college graduates and professionals, whose comprehension of the Chinese vernacular is increasingly sketchy. In the drama-filled “Run of the Molars”, a mother arrives from Singapore to visit her three daughters in London. It’s a recipe for much concealing of secrets, putting up with whining, and unsolicited moral judgements. The reader need know nothing of Chinese culture to appreciate the sheer passive-aggressive contrariness of a mother who, when served platters of (London) Chinese food by her daughters, narrows her mouth and asks for two slices of white bread. All the repressed family dynamics seethe to the surface in this story of great heart and sardonic observation of cultural differences.
Lily is portrayed as the most progressive of the three daughters. Her sister, despite at one point referring to the mother as a “hillbilly”, launches a caustic attack on Lily for becoming too westernised: “Why do we have to talk about everything? You’re so fierce westernised, just because you’ve married an ang moh. Put you on a couch, Freudy-dreudy, this solves everything, eh?”
In this piece as with several others, food is metonymic for fidelity to one’s heritage.
In the mythology-warping satire “Confessions of an Irresolute Ethnic Writer”, the writer-narrator gazes in the mirror examining his zits and trying to descry his true face: Model-Minority face, Fresh-Off-The-Boat face, Charlie Chan face. A little later he ponders over whether it is ever permissible to use the description “nice sloe eyes”, even in jest. The farcical tribulations of our Ethnic Writer should serve as a caution not to read these stories too reductively as explorations of ethnic identity. They are stories of family bonds and friendships and struggles to establish one’s place in the world. Often a wry distance is maintained from the characters, allowing space for the reader to revise their opinion and see the larger picture.
This authorial skill of allowing room for differing perspectives comes to the fore in “Friends of the Kookaburra”. Sansan receives a surprise call from an old college friend, the Madonna-idolising Irene, seeking to renew contact. Twelve years before they had been “thick as thieves”, done voluntary work together, camped out cramming for exams. But they grew apart: Irene began to hang out with the more popular students. “Irene’s wild talk, throwing around buzzwords like ‘sectarian politics’, ‘cultural hegemony’, ‘power dialectic’.” Fast-forward the years, and this friend comes across as effusive and presumptuous. Given the nature (and title) of the book, the reader may be disposed to sympathise with the Malaysian-Chinese Sansan. It’s a finely balanced portrayal, but we begin to warm to Irene’s brash frankness. “Her eyes scan Sansan’s face for residual historic friendship.” The vexing and elusive question intrudes nevertheless: is the tension between these old friends a clash of Western individualism with Confucian values, or is it a personality clash?
Irene turns the tables in a dramatic fashion – no spoilers here. If the modern short story is frequently charged with a lack of narrative and contrived subtle endings, Chiew is never guilty of this.
“Chronicles of a Culinary Poseur” is a comedy, verging on tragicomedy, about the Chinese owner/chef of La Lumière – a French restaurant in Manhattan. Due to a sequence of events involving a lethally bilious food blogger and the local loan-shark goons, Kara finds herself pretending the vacuous, Grecian-god-looking Bernard is the executive chef. It’s a role Bernard takes on with panache and a splash of cologne (in the kitchen!). This might not be the outstanding story of the collection, but it shows the range of Chiew’s voices. Another story gives us a would-be “tiger mother” trying to integrate with the other fearsome moms hot-housing their kids through an intimidating prep school. In a nod to Amy Chua’s Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, this mother composes extempore rap, not hymns, to express what she dare not speak aloud.
The title story is meticulously structured and a deserving winner of the Bridport Prize, but it’s in “Chinese Almanac” that Chiew pulls out all the stops. The writing here buzzes with just the right amount of confusion. Fragmented syntax, untranslated Chinese characters, and unexpected bawdiness depict, and replicate in the reader, the feeling of joining the festive table of the extended family of one’s new girlfriend/boyfriend. The necessity for slapstick should rightfully trump any writer’s notions of keeping the writing restrained. Manboobs, dildoes, death, and Jesus all find their way into the dinner-table conversation. When the egg foo young lands on the floor and the meal comes to an abrupt end, the daughter hesitantly asks her bashful beau if he would like to visit again. “He gives an emphatic nod.”
The writing is exquisitely precise. The narrator’s father, a mathematics graduate who came to America and always worked at menial jobs, is now going through a process of estrangement from his wife. In a sentence to make any writer envious, the son describes the attempt at flirting with the middle-aged Korean woman who runs the drycleaners: “I watch this interaction with a portion of incredulity, a portion of amusement, a portion of ineffable catch-in-my-throat.”
A recurring theme is the dual nature of family bonds, on the one hand supportive and on the other hand they can be stifling. On the whole such bonds come out positively, even in the case where a young man hides his sexuality from his parents. “There’s a hierarchy of sins: being gay is not as heinous as being unfilial,” he says.
A calmly optimistic humanist view of human nature informs the fictions. An immigrant in dire straits steals twenty dollars from the cash register only to replace it the next day. The revelation that an uncle sought to have sex with a transsexual is regarded as a perplexing disorder of the libido. A mother whips her piteous, ghost-haunted son and the ensuing scandal forces her to publicly apologise to him. A Confucian worldview, perhaps, but Chiew has already cautioned us against seeing characters as determined by their ethnicities.
Chiew also works as a visual arts researcher. She has written elsewhere of being attentive in her fiction to the potential and meanings of objects, events, and dialogue, and to their linkages and echoes off each other. As well as food, a chamber pot or dialect phrase can become a recurring motif and resonate with meaning.
Three of the stories are historical fiction, written in a more classic style of prose. These stories, for this reader, seem to show that the generational divide rivals that of the east-west cultural divide, though this may not have been the writer’s intention.
Geopolitical realities are changing rapidly. Singaporeans are now the sixth richest people in the world. The world of Amy Tan’s novels is gone. Chiew’s characters are university students (fees for international students are notoriously high), accounts managers, restaurant owners, insurance underwriters – global nomads as one character says. In two stories they are low-wage workers. “The Chinese Nanny” is perhaps the sole story where ethnicity feels like a limitation to be overcome. It’s a good story, though without that feeling of entanglement the others induce, where the reader is unsure where to commit their sympathies.
In a collection with such a range of themes and styles, there’s going to be something that’s not to the reader’s taste. For me it was the mythological parody “Confessions of an Irresolute Ethnic Writer”, which hardly deserved so many pages, clocking in at the second longest.
These stories do what short fiction does best: point a light at lives rarely given voice, and depict dramatic situations which involve and vex the reader.
The Heartsick Diaspora is published by Myriad and Penguin SEA.
Just over three weeks ago I was in Venice on a truly dazzling day. A cold wind from the Dolomites left every building shimmering with light, the Canal Grande was radiant. Venice bustled with her bars and marine traffic with the type of beauty that shocks, makes you stop and waver. I’d caught a train into town for my nephew’s graduation in scultura at the Accademia delle Belle Arti, and was on Aunty duty with a good portion of the family. As I wandered down to the Zattere through Dorsoduro, the place pulsed with beauty. We celebrated, drank, hit another bar, drank. Days after that, universities and schools were closed. It was the last time I think any of us felt reckless and exuberant about the season ahead.
All month the news from Wuhan had been upsetting but still so far away. I spoke with a Chinese friend who was trying to send face masks to family members and we agreed to meet up in Padua. It never happened. Somehow, I knew deep down that it would come to this. I’d caught a plane from Thessaloniki to Bologna on 7th February and felt a jolt when our temperatures were taken off the flight. An intra-Schengen-state flight, not a long-haul trip from central China. The guy next to me on the flight was Asian and wearing a mask. Precautionary, I thought. Am I paranoid? No. But I had bought my first hand sanitiser a week earlier.
The first deep shudder I feel is when a town five minutes from my village is quarantined days after my Venice visit, and Italy’s first patient dies: a 78-year-old pensioner who inexplicably contracted the virus at a local bar. At this stage it is still personal. His daughter speaks of her old-school Communist father at the kitchen table. This was when the deceased were still named.
Weird fact: all along the finger has been pointed at China but where was the outbreak in Prato, near Florence, one of the biggest centres of Chinese factory production in Europe? This attitude resulted in some bungling. Paziente Uno, a fit cyclist from the blighted Codogno community with no contact with China at all, was misdiagnosed because of this, and sent home to spread a virus that has now infected over 9 000 in the Lombardy region. But how is this even possible? Voices say that a resistant influenza cropped up in northern Italy as early as December 2019. I have my suspicions that strains of this virus have been moving amongst us for months. To date, there are over 17 000 cases in the country.
After various phases of lockdown the PM, Giuseppe Conte, shuts down the entire peninsula. He implores Italians to stay at home, to protect the elderly from infection, to see this thing to its end. Insieme. Together. Supermarkets and pharmacies remain open. There is no panic-buying. Post-its and banners appear in cities: #andràtuttobene #everythingwillbeok. Fines are given to those who are without the downloadable certificate where you must state your purpose of movement. A few villages away an old guy is caught out away from home: he protests he was going to pray. Fined. People sing from balconies all over the country. The end of each day brings a table of new cases, new deaths and – this brings hope – recoveries. The infected are broken down into those in quarantine at home, and those in hospital, those in intensive care. Each day every region, province, city, town, village shows up its victims. The transparency is reassuring. But it is not.
I spend much of my time writing fiction or tutoring online, so long hours at home do not weigh heavily on me. City life is not outside my front door. But socialising in town has ceased. There are no healthy, regenerative distractions. The good vodka has all gone. My dreams are getting stranger. I dream that a long-standing couple, old friends I haven’t seen for weeks, announce they are splitting up. Just when they seemed to be in the clear. I take it as a sign that everything I considered normal is unsettled. The carpenters working at the house turn up in masks, one with a cold. They offer to abandon work until it’s over. They say they want to protect me from any bugs they might have or pick up. I read that the virus resists on surfaces for hours perhaps days so I wash my hands at length after retrieving their coffee cups, then feel silly for doing so. Then wash my hands again anyway.
I have had pneumonia and I know what it feels like not to be able to breathe. To call for air into lungs and feel the constriction there, the failure to receive oxygen; the gasping and the fear. They call it the old man’s friend. This weekend they said that hospitals in Lombardy are at breaking point. A tenor sings an aria from Nessun Dorma to an empty street. In Milan, at midday, people stand on balconies and at windows to applaud health workers along the front line.
There is an island in the Venetian lagoon called Lazzaretto Vecchio which between 1423 and 1630 housed a hospital for the infected and dying. Victims of the Italian Plague (1629-31) died there at a rate of 500 hundred a day; their skeletons have been unearthed in pits that show no distinction between status or race. In her cosmopolitan thousand-year-history as a republic Venice was swept by 22 waves of epidemics. Like Covid-19, the Black Death of 1347-51 travelled into Europe from the Italian peninsula, coming up from Sicily via fleas on the rats from Genoese trading ships, carrying wares from along the Silk Route. At the time, Italy was the most urbanised society in Europe. More than a third of the population was slashed. The epidemic came in a pneumonic or bubonic form, the latter causing putrid pustules and agonising death. In Milan, all occupants of infected houses were boarded up and left to rot.
Last weekend before the nationwide shutdown, I went hiking in the Colli Euganei, where the poet Petrarch decided to end his days in the late 1300s. His frescoed, buttressed house is still there in the peaceful hills. The trail I took climbed above the quarantined town of Vo’ and I heard the town bells ring out. Last week the road barriers went down as there have been no new cases, ‘just’ one further death. Only the whole country is shut now. I imagine how these hills were in the time of epidemics.
Every so often you do a round of check-ups. You call offspring, friends, in-laws. My daughter the soprano tells me I can make a face mask by using half a bra and dares me to wear it to the supermercato. She lives in Le Marche in central Italy, where she says everyone wears a mask. At least we have a laugh. I work erratically, skipping over to the news, walking about the house, calling friends, reassuring family abroad that we are all okay, even though some days it feels as though something must be planted in me.
I keep thinking ahead to when this will be a memory. The worst spring. The spring when the blossoms and the birds were oblivious to our cries. I wonder if we will be changed. If the sense of community I feel that is being shouted from balcony to balcony in the cities and their outskirts, will be something that carries on with us. If we will be as caring and respectful and united as we are now. I see that there are Chinese specialist doctors who have arrived to help. Online I see Chinese kids saying the equivalent of Forza Italia. I wonder if it might lessen our fear of the ‘other’ and make us realise that we are fragile creatures of this universe, who do not own this planet or control the destiny of our species.
I’d been on the ministry when I spotted Craig standing at the butcher’s counter in the Co-op. I was heading to the cereal aisle for Kellogg’s breakfast bars, which I snacked on while auxiliary pioneering. That afternoon, I’d had to note “Not Home” for every house I knocked on, apart from an old woman off Salford Precinct who accepted the Awake! magazine, but thought I was her daughter. I wrote “Return Visit” even though she had dementia.
Craig was reading the label of something meaty in cellophane. It was two years since he’d attended our congregation, wearing his suit and jazzy tie. He looked so worldly now in baggy ripped jeans and a battered leather jacket, his hair falling scruffily over his ears, no longer cropped into a neat back and sides.
“Hi, Craig.” I stepped closer, my cheeks flushing like when he held the mic for me to give an answer during the Watchtower study.
He dropped the packet onto the supermarket floor, then grabbed it and threw it onto the counter. Best Black Pudding. 30% off. Why was he even touching that? It was full of blood.
“Thought it was sausages,” he muttered, looking around. “Are your parents here?”
“Err… No.”
He nervously glanced at the black pudding and then shoved his hands in his pockets.
My heart hammered away; my old fear of speaking to people thundered back. I’d made a mistake; I shouldn’t talk to him. He was a probably a bad association, but he hadn’t been disfellowshipped, and what if I rekindled his spiritual interest? I imagined being at Armageddon and how I might feel if I hadn’t helped him return to The Truth. I took a breath and said, “Do you want to go for a brew?”
There weren’t any cafes on Bolton Road, so we went in The Red Lion and asked for two cups of tea. The barman raised his eyebrows and said he didn’t have a kettle so Craig ordered a pint of Boddington’s and I got a diet Coke with ice and lemon. I gave Craig some money and dashed outside to call home on the payphone, saying I’d be home late. I found myself telling Mum that I’d bumped into a Sister from another congregation and we were going to the cinema.
“You’re not going to see Titanic again, are you?” Mum said, and I said, “How did you know?”
“Don’t be too late. You know how your father worries.”
Craig and I sat down at a table in an alcove. I brushed my hand over the burgundy upholstery. With a strange thrill, I realised it was the first time I’d been to a pub on a Friday night. In the corner, multicoloured disco lights flashed around an empty dance floor. Something by Aqua boomed from the speakers. Top of the Pops was on a meeting night, so I struggled to identify songs, other than anything by Celine Dion.
Craig sipped his beer. He was unshaven and pale and had some kind of whitish cream stuck to his stubble. He leaned his elbows on the table and looked me in the eyes. I pulled back because of the smell. It wasn’t all sweaty trainers like boys at Buile Hill High, more like wet soil, something earthy and metallic. Coppery.
“Why did you just disappear, Craig?”
“Something happened to me.”
“What?”
He shook his head as if he couldn’t explain it.
“Do you need to speak to an Elder?”
“Ha! They wouldn’t understand.”
“Well, try me then.”
“Let’s dance.”
“What?”
At that moment, “My Heart Will Go on” began to play. Craig pulled me onto the empty dance floor. Even I, who never went to pubs, knew it was too early for the disco. But he didn’t seem to care. We danced to the song I’d played on my Walkman in my bedroom, with an idolatrous full spread of Leonardo di Caprio cut from Just Seventeen hidden under my bed. Craig slowly waltzed me around the space like an old couple at Butlins, while the multicoloured lights flashed around us. I’d dreamed of this, of us being alone, and now it was here, I felt my heart expanding; something important was going to happen despite the smell. But I remembered Tanya being publicly reproved when she got involved with a lad who claimed he wanted a bible study. Maybe I was repeating her mistake. Nearby, a woman sat at a round table, her short skirt revealing her orange tanned thighs. She puffed on a cigarette, and as I inhaled her smoke, words from the Watchtower came to me: I was breathing in the world’s air, and it could be death-dealing.
I pulled away from him. “I think I should go.”
“Natalie,” he whispered, gripping my arms. “I have an illness.”
“What? AIDS?”
“No!”
“Cancer?”
He just shook his head.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” I said, “or I will go home.”
“Remember that Sister I brought to the hall? From Prestwich?”
“Yes.” I’d wanted to look like her, floaty and ethereal, see-through like a jellyfish, but I’d never got that thin, even though I only ate Kellogg’s breakfast bars.
“There was something wrong with her,” he said. “We…”
“You were immoral?”
“We didn’t have sex or anything. But we… Then she … left me like this.”
Celine Dion ended, and some kind of rap came on, so we went back to our seats. He got us both a glass of red wine from the bar, even though I hadn’t asked for it. Then he sat down to tell me about this Sister he had fallen in love with but who had started to change and behave oddly. He thought she was an alcoholic until one night she did something to him. “She bit me,” he whispered. While he told me this, the vinegary red wine started to take effect, and his outline became blurry, his words like music. When I stood up to go the loo, the pub reeled. For a moment I wondered whether I was being led astray, and if so, why it was so easy, and if it was so easy, why it hadn’t happened before.
*
When I got home, I struggled upstairs to the bathroom, tripping on a step, my mother’s voice calling, “Natalie? Is that you?”
“Home, Mum. Just going to bed.”
“Did you lock the door?”
“Yes.”
I closed the bathroom door behind me, peered at the bite on my lip and then dabbed it with TCP. My mouth stung like mad, so I held the cotton pad to my skin until the stinging eased. Then I dabbed the small cut on my wrist and covered it with a plaster, listening to the sounds coming from my parents’ bedroom. Dad’s deep snore. The creaks as they turned over in bed. My head span: a blur of stumbling out of the pub to stand on the main road, and then kissing, the taste of metal, like I’d bitten my lip, suddenly realising that my lip was bleeding. He’d showed me the long nail on his index finger that he’d grown to play the guitar with and said, “Watch,” and then he drew it across my wrist and licked the seeping blood. He did the same to his wrist and raised it to my mouth.
“We are blood brother and sister now.”
But it had gone further than that. He’d sucked on my wrist until I said, “Craig? What’s wrong with you? You know we abstain from blood.”
He just looked at me and then held my wrist again to his mouth. Suddenly I wanted to have this thing that was so bad that we’d rather die, that had us vilified in shrieking Daily Mail articles, but was in fact forbidden in the scriptures, which I could recite any time of day. “I have a blood disorder,” he said. “Like an addiction. Porphyria.” His parents wouldn’t understand, so he’d gone to stay with an old school friend in a high-rise on Salford Precinct and was having some kind of treatment. He walked me to the end of my road. “Everything is different now,” he said. “You need to see it, Natalie. You need to open your eyes to the truth.”
*
The next morning, I woke thirsty, my mouth dry. I gulped down a glass of water in the kitchen. My head pounded, but now I knew what a hangover was. I knew what a kiss was too. I could still taste it, like metallic apples on my lips. Things were different. I was different. My skin pricked and itched, my forehead was hot and cold at the same time. I should have felt guilty, but I didn’t, and I didn’t feel guilty about that either. I changed the plaster on my wrist. The mark underneath was only small. Just a slit with a nail. Who knew you needed such a sharp nail to play the guitar? Who knew you could use it to do this?
*
The house was quiet. Dad usually left before it was light to go window cleaning and Mum either worked at Clarke’s or was in bed with her tiredness problem. This morning her bedroom door was closed so it must be a tired day.
I caught the number 68 to the city centre, the word “Porphyria” running through my mind. It was another quiet day in Kendals, not many customers wanting to buy plates from Villeroy & Boch; business had been slow since the Manchester bomb. I dusted the shelves and hid a flask of water in the stockroom. My manager got annoyed when I slid a cheque into the till the wrong way round, but when I told him I had a hangover, he gave me a smile like this was a good thing. While I dusted the shelves, I felt hungry but unable to eat.
When I finished at four, I walked to the Central Library. The large round building smelled of old paper, of its millions of dusty books. I found the reference section and asked the librarian for a medical encyclopaedia. I secretly liked looking things up, researching. Though this meant I was good at studying for the meetings, underlining the answers in the Watchtower in multicolour pens, I sometimes wondered why I’d never be allowed to give a talk. Dad said maybe I could go to Bethel. Then it hit me. Perhaps I couldn’t go to Bethel now. I’d got drunk. I’d sucked someone’s wrist! I hadn’t abstained from blood. Why had I done that? Maybe I should go straight to the Elders and confess, but then I’d get Craig into more trouble. I’d already got Tanya into trouble, telling the Elders I’d seen her with the boy from school. Though that’s what you do to keep the congregation clean, and she was now happily married to a Brother, she still didn’t talk to me years later.
I sat down at a long desk and opened the encyclopaedia, each turn of the page reverberating around the room with its high domed ceiling.
I looked up “blood disorders” and “haematology” and then “porphyria”.
Porphyria is a group of seven inherited metabolic disorders (diseases), caused by seven different faulty genes.
Erythropoietic protoporphyria (EPP) causes people’s skin to become sensitive to light. In some cases, prolonged exposure can lead to painful, disfiguring blisters. People with EPP are chronically anaemic, which causes fatigue and paleness with increased photosensitivity. This rare disorder is often treated with blood transfusions with high levels of heme, plus the avoidance of ultraviolet light.
That didn’t make sense. Craig said he caught it off that Sister. I found myself scratching the cut, so I peeled off the bandage. Around the scab, purply spidery lines spread out over my wrist, like some kind of infection. I ran downstairs to the toilet in the basement and held my arm under the tap. I felt heavy, as if my legs were filled with stone. My forehead was sweating, and in the mirror I looked pale, my skin papery dry, like I’d aged overnight. Then I remembered where I’d heard that word before: in a poem at school. I wanted to find it in the library, but I was so tired I got my coat and hurried home.
*
The next day, I woke up shivering with pains in my head and stomach. I told Mum I wasn’t going on the ministry, then fell back in bed. The day passed in strange, feverish dreams, the poem coming back to me: a woman with long blonde hair sat on my bed. I wrapped her hair around her throat and strangled her, then lay her dead body next to me. I’m sorry, I said. I’m so sorry.
I came to with Mum standing over me. My stomach lurched, and I leaned over to vomit on the carpet. My sick was watery purple. Mum leapt up to get a cloth, and while she was gone, through swirling fog, I thought how strange my room was: the blue and pink flowery wallpaper I’d chosen from Fads now felt like a floral tomb. When Mum came back, she tried to open the curtains, but the sunlight stung my skin. “Please, leave them closed.”
She sighed, saying she had called the GP, but they said we should go to A&E. I might have meningitis or something else. “Look at your skin!” she said. “It’s practically see-through, and you’ve got a blister on your cheek.” I touched my face while Mum cleaned up the carpet, saying. “Have you been on the Ribena? We’ll wait until Dad gets home. I’m not going on my own.”
*
When we got to the hospital, it was nearly five pm, and I’d vomited until nothing more came up. I thought I could see the blonde woman from the poem sitting on a chair in the waiting room, her long hair wrapped around her neck. I called out to her, “Don’t let him do it. Put your hair in a bun!”
“Ssshh,” Mum said. “You’re hallucinating.”
A while later, I found myself in a hospital bed in a single room, with nurses around me. Mum was standing nearby crying, with her hands over her face. Dad had an arm around her shoulder. Then two Brothers appeared. I thought I recognised them from the Convention. Dad grabbed my hand, saying everything was fine because they were from the Hospital Liaison Committee and would make sure I got bloodless treatment. They talked about blood expanders and other things to get my blood count up. I asked Mum if Tanya would visit me, and she said, “She’s busy with her baby. You know how it is.” I said, “Yes, I know,” even though it hurt.
I must have gone unconscious again because I woke with drips attached to my arm. My parents were sitting on plastic chairs. One of the Brothers kneeled down and squeezed my hand, saying I was a brave Sister and not to worry.
Over the next couple of days, I seemed to get worse. I slept on and off, my skin sore and peeling. When I tried to eat, I was sick. But beneath the nausea, I felt ravenously hungry. One morning before my parents had arrived, a young doctor came to stand by my bed. She had blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and wore small glasses. I wondered if she was the Porphyria I’d been dreaming of. “Be careful,” I said. “Don’t trust him.”
“Who?”
“Him! He says he will help, but he will just strangle you.”
“Natalie,” she whispered. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“I … I don’t know.” I blinked at her. She was pretty, with rosy cheeks, not pale like Porphyria or the Sister from Prestwich. More like Kate Winslet as she set off on the Titanic.
“I wanted to talk to you on your own,” she said, sitting on a chair. “You’re eighteen and an adult, so you are legally able to decide your own treatment.” I nodded a little though I knew she was going to talk about blood because doctors were always trying to force it on Witnesses, instead of alternative treatments.
“You are quite severely anaemic,” she said. “Even before you presented with these symptoms, you had low iron stores, which is related to your low body weight. As you know, we’re giving you iron infusions to get your iron up. But we are unsure yet what is causing these symptoms, especially the skin lesions.”
Up until now, I’d not mentioned the word because I hadn’t wanted to tell anyone about Craig. But now, I said, “I think I have porphyria.”
She sat back a little. After a moment, she said, “That set of disorders are very rare and usually genetic. I’ll run some tests. Did you know you had a genetic predisposition to this?”
“No. Only my friend has it. Erythropoietic protoporphyria,” I said, slowly pronouncing each syllable.
“You don’t catch it like a cold. However, there can be environmental triggers so that your body’s demand for heme production increases.” Then she whispered, “I have your card. Your signed blood card, but can you confirm for me that you want to refuse all blood products? You don’t need to inform your parents of your decision.”
“No blood,” I said and turned my head away.
*
That night, Craig appeared beside my bed. I was half asleep. I blinked at him, trying to sit up. “How did you know I was here?”
“My dad came to see me,” he whispered as if the Elders were listening. “He told me you’d gone into hospital. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have bitten you.”
“Then why did you do it?” I asked. His apology made me realise that he had caused this. “Why?” I demanded more loudly.
“I don’t know.” He looked around, but the corridor outside was quiet. “How are you?”
“A bit better.”
He leaned in. “You need to let them give you a blood transfusion or you’re going to die.”
“I can’t, you know that.” Then I said, “Have you had one?”
He nodded. “I have one every two weeks.”
“And still, you bit me and made me like this?”
“Don’t you remember what I said?”
“Not clearly.”
“I said I’d never felt more alive. Like I’m suddenly awake. I can see everything clearly. I think all these years I’ve been in a dream. I… I thought you’d understand.”
I lay back on the pillow and closed my eyes, but Craig carried on talking about how he’d been looking into things and everything we’d been taught might not be true.
“You’re an apostate,” I said, turning away.
“What does that even mean?” He placed a hand on my arm, saying that that word was just used to shut people up. Close down discussion. “Don’t you feel it? Don’t you feel yourself waking up?”
“I just feel ill.”
“But underneath, don’t you feel hungry?”
I blinked at him, not replying.
“Natalie,” he said, grabbing my hand. “Why don’t you come and live with me? We could be together, get the treatment, live a new life. I’ve so much to tell you.”
I pulled my arm away. “I don’t know.”
He rummaged in his pocket and got out a piece of paper and a tube of cream. “This is my phone number,” he said, placing the paper on the bedside table. “You can call me. Think about it, OK? And this is mineral sun cream. Put it all over your skin.”
A nurse appeared in the doorway, saying visiting hours had ended and he should leave. Craig said goodbye and slipped out. The nurse came back with the same doctor as before. Suddenly, my stomach lurched again. I heaved and dry-wretched. My forehead started to sweat. The nurse took my temperature and blood pressure. “Natalie,” the doctor said. “You were right. There is a new blood disorder, something contagious. There have been cases with similar symptoms in the North West. You need to have a transfusion,” she said. “Trust me.”
*
I stared at my arm as the blood ran down the tube. A whole bag of bright, crimson blood clipped onto a stand next to my bed. The sight of it made me almost heave again, but I didn’t move. I could feel it coursing into my body, warming me, making me feel alive. It was three am, hours until my family would arrive in the morning and find out. Abstain from blood. I’d already tasted Craig’s blood on my lips, but that had been a moment of weakness. This was a deliberate decision.
“How are you feeling?” the doctor said from the doorway.
“A bit better,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Katherine, I told you, Dr Katherine Stone.”
“Ah,” I said. “I knew you were a Kate Winslet. A survivor.”
She frowned. “You’ll feel more lucid when you’ve had the transfusion.”
“I’m very lucid,” I said. “Everything is so much clearer. I might run away.”
“Why don’t you rest,” she said as she left. “Don’t make any more decisions, OK?”
Run away, I thought, as I stared at the bag of blood running into my hand. I could find a big coat and hat, pack my belongings in a rucksack, slather myself in sun cream, then hide in churches or the empty factories around the Northern Quarter. I’d roam the dark, oily streets of Manchester, a nightwalker, going to outpatients for transfusions. I breathed, letting out a small laugh. Who was I kidding? I’d never do that. I’d be homeless. No money. I had no savings. A beggar. The thought was terrifying.
I squeezed the tube with my fingers, trying to stop the blood. I could rip it out, and when my parents arrived, tell them I was sorry. The doctor had forced me. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? I thought of the hours on the ministry, trying to witness to people, and overcoming my fear, of that moment of joy when I’d said yes to the baptism questions at the Convention, and a Brother had dunked me under the water. I thought of the happiness I’d felt when thousands of Witnesses sang together, knowing we were the chosen ones who would inherit the earth. But now, I wasn’t part of that. I was no longer in The Truth, but I could still tell the truth. I’d have to tell them what had happened; it would come out anyway. I’d need more transfusions in the future. And after that? “Disfellowshipped,” I said aloud. No one would be allowed to speak to me, and if I want to be reinstated, I’d have to sit at the back of the hall until I’d shown enough repentance.
I looked at Craig’s note on the bedside cabinet with the carefully written phone number. For years, I’d dreamed of us courting and getting married. But now the thought of living in his high-rise flat in Salford Precinct, of lying in a bed in a dank room while he explained his new ideas and told me what to think made me feel suffocated and depressed, let down by the ordinariness of my romantic dreams.
When I could get out of bed, I’d screw up the paper and throw it in the bin.
I released the tube and let the blood seep into my hand, feeling my skin prick with warmth, awakening the euphoria. Leaving was a lone thing. Porphyria on her own.
I often think about books I haven’t read, small gems and ragged masterpieces whose rainy day has not yet come. I have removed some of their dust jackets in preparation for the serious bout I cannot, for some reason, schedule. I have even, as if managing bright students who always raise their hands, shoved others into an artificial prominence. “Look at me!” I’m having them say, but to no avail.
Some of these books I have started and put down. I’ve found, over the years, that it’s harder to take up an old commitment than to begin anew. It’s that phone call you always want to make, but never do – even if you’ve promised the person in question. The book sits there, reproaching you. You sidle away from it, like someone who has jilted you – when, in fact, you’ve done all the jilting and can’t face your swinish behavior and moral decay. This is a good book you’re ignoring. And yet you can’t stop. At this point, it’s habit and obligation – very hard things to break.
Not all of these books so beckon. Others I’ve simply forgotten – a bookstore pact I have failed to keep. What if I’d written these books myself? I’m willfully forgetting them. I’ve launched a campaign. I want to kill something in me – or in them. Or is it just the natural human tendency to move on, which means that things you’ve put aside are likely to stay there. It’s not your fault. It’s just the way things are.
I have the Irish tendency for regret. I will look at the wide crockery bowl in the kitchen, notice a neglected orange, and bemoan its outcast state. I ate an orange yesterday, but not this one. How could I be so insensitive? I could have eaten both. But no, I was crazed with impulse. I’m a taker and a user. A selfish git. An unredeemable blackguard. I have become, unwittingly and without malice aforethought, a one-orange guy.
My Irish tendency will not read Finnegans Wake, though it’s not among the unread books I’ve been mooning over. No, it’s buried deep in the vaults of a failed imagination and a wretched sense of fealty to my forebears. I loved Ulysses, but, in terms of difficulty, Ulysses is like a pulp novel. It has people and episodes and funny little bits you can chew over as you’re reading. Finnegans Wake is the boot-camp I have refused to attend. And even if Finnegans Wake is nowhere to be seen, it haunts me. An unfinished project. So many leaves unraked. A bastard episode that turns my guts to ice, if not acid. I will die before I read Finnegans Wake. I will die without ingesting its polylingual puns and playful digressions. My ashes will be scattered without a single page that might, in whatever fiery crucible such things turn up in, be shown at Eternity’s Coming-out Party. Extinction is a forever-thing. In it is engraved all of the projects I have started, but put aside. All of the love affairs I wanted to have, but was too cowardly to throw myself off the ledge. All the broken sentences I have written. All the people I have failed, both obscurely and spectacularly. The places I didn’t go; the ethnic cuisine I wouldn’t sample; the tree I wouldn’t climb because of its higher branches. I’ve missed Morocco and Majorca and Milwaukee. The places you go are the places you know. Oh, the lacerating eloquence of that phrase! It means that we are all creatures of habit, sit-beside-the-fire lumps, couch-potatoes for whom the remote button is forever out of reach. Because we don’t seek out new places and sensations, we are nowhere-bound. We live in a sort of limbo, with boundaries that are set in stone. We appeal to gods that do not listen, lovers we should have had, fictional characters that have grown tired of our pleas. We are not drifting. We never set out! We are not lost because we stay at home. We have regrets because they accumulate, like so many newspapers that wind up inside of an empty lot, willy-nilly. We are not masters of our own fate; we are lifers who don’t wish to serve. We are idiots whose tales are stricken from the record. Though we may lose, our misaimed throws are not recorded.
Life is pathetic, we say, only if we make it so. Gifts are wasted only if they are unexploited. Vows that could have been heard sit idle on the tongue because to say them might have risked something that could not, at the time, be surrendered.
And once the spark of youth is gone, we settle in. No, we settle. Yes, that is what we do in life: we settle.
Yet Finnegans Wake is that unseen exception. The books I haven’t read are on that shelf and they haunt me. The lesser novels that are said to be good. The travel books that might get me off my duff before it’s too late. The pithy essays and philosophical treatises. The great sprawling histories that tell of who we were when we were not who we are now – which, in my opinion, is the way we should always be. The Jacksonian Empire. Who knows of it today? But there it is in a book, waiting to be in the world again. Andrew Jackson, another Irishmen whose forebears came to this country without a dime in their pockets or a lick of sense. Risk-takers and up-at-five-in-the-morning lovers of life and pretty women. Guys who said no, but wouldn’t answer to it. Women who were strong, but also sensuous. Nobody looked for safety nets because they were too busy daring. They didn’t expect fairness. All they asked was to rise in the darkness of the morning so that they could get a jump on the other fellow. I don’t get up until the sun awakens me. Then I stir without much sense of whatever possibilities may lurk beyond my door. Or even inside of me. When I go to the grocery, I wait timidly in line. Then I walk home, stepping around obstacles that may or may not include other human beings. My unassertive syllables blend in with a babel that speaks out of turn because it cannot seize a single moment for itself. My flabby muscles are conduits of shame, reminders of the palely loitering mentality that feeds them sob stories and lame excuses and all sorts of under-nourishing things.
The sun should never rise for me again. I am a worthless piece of dung whose ambition is not to live, but to wither away. I could have served, but I was permitted to be lazy. And now look at me. I can’t even ask an old book to sit on my lap while I draw its contents into my system and discard it without thanks. Yes, a worthless piece of dung. I wish I’d just eaten that orange. Perhaps things would be different. But it is too late. Too late to do anything. Too late.
Scourings, the ragged leavings of the groups that had passed before us, that is what sustained us during our journey westward. Scattered beneath rocky overhangs or shoved into the rotten bellies of ancient trees, we found cans of preserved vegetables, heavily salted slices of rabbit meat, dried-out noodles. And usually a smudge of ash and cold cinders somewhere nearby. Usually. To say whether these treasure troves of rubbish were months or years or decades old would not have made sense to us. We had lost all sense of time and cared only for distance: how far we had come from the East and how far until we reached the utmost West, an accurate idea of which eluded us completely. These left-overs seemed always to be sufficiently abundant to prevent us from starving to death. Well, with the help of the rare berries and roots, the odd trapped bird or rat, the occasional lifting of a stone to consume the insects and grubs that lay beneath. On deeper reflection, it seems clear that the abandoned stashes were not even our main source of food, but their importance went beyond the energy they gave us, beyond the proteins and vitamins and carbohydrates they donated to our thin, famished bodies. For they told us that people had passed here before, people had lived before, had passed these same spots, people who survived, at least for a time, people who knew how to do more than just search the thorn bushes for blackberries and scrape into the soil in search of mud-clung tubers. This was an immense comfort to us, for, although we knew nothing else, although we had no memory of a time when things had been different, we were sure that in some distant epoch, perhaps in the time of our grandparents, things had been easier, and so could be easier again, would be, when we finally arrived in the West. You cannot imagine the loneliness a band of half-starving families feels as it crosses the huge wastes of a land seemingly without end. You cannot imagine the vulnerability we felt, the indifference with which we shed members of our tribe, skeletons of skin and bone that drifted off from the group unobserved and settled themselves on the sodden ground somewhere, a heap of bones soon, sinews rotted out, crows cantering about the prize, jostling for the last scrap of meat or marrow, us too in turn, eventually, leavings for whatever creature’s journey could find sustenance in what we left behind.
There was only one distinct memory from the past that remained with us. Not a memory really, more a saying. It was the first thing we said in the mornings, the last thing we said at night. We had few feelings about these words, nor did we necessarily believe them, at times people would discuss such things by the fire, briefly, for someone would always get upset and so the conversation would end.
These were the words we mumbled daily to ourselves:
“You have found once more your rightful place within this world, within the circling wheels to which you belong, within the endless rivers of atoms, within the unquenchable torrents of energies. Be grateful and ask for no more. This is all there is.”
Each morning we recited these words and each morning we began to march once more.
Step 1. Smile. Everyone would agree that a smiling person is far more approachable than a gloomy and surly one. Smile more often. It will make you seem easygoing and happy, which will draw him to you. But don’t overdo the smiling by making it obvious.
Step 2. Sporadic Eye Contact. If you don’t want him to think that you are too attracted to him, relax on the little staring game. Look, but always look away just as he looks at you. By doing that, he will never be sure if you are staring at him, especially because in that corner coffee shop where you both are buying your fair trade pour-overs, he might think you’re looking at another white male donning Warby Parkers and a messenger bag between the age of 25–32 whose name is also Bryan or Brad or Brent or Brock or Chett or Chip, but whose name would never be Cookie. When you use this little trick, a tech bro will start getting more and more curious about you.
Step 3. Flirt With Him. The best way to flirt is by asking questions. It appears more sincere. Perhaps you see his t-shirt that advertises his startup. Ask him what the app does, how it benefits all of humanity. If the words evolve, progress or revolutionary spill from his lips, you’ve got him. If all this fails, ask him about the hazing he had to endure in his fraternity. He’ll dismiss this question at first with “It was just a way to make friends at Stanford,” but really he is still a little embarrassed admitting that most of the workers at his job are Sigma Alpha Epsilons. Just make sure you follow up with your own frat horror story. You don’t have one? Oh, you went to a state school? Well, make one up. But cease inquiry if his lip quivers, because that means he’s not yet comfortable admitting to the after-party bro-jobs where he was “soooo fucked up” to remember.
Step 4. A Little Peek-a-Boo. It’s always strategic to reveal yourself just enough to your tech bro. Wear shorts that cover, yet provide great suggestion of your ass. Brief engagement of visual repetition also goes a long way. We are creatures of myth, acolytes of serendipity. Seeing you at several of the same fifteen-minute 3,500 dollar junior one-bedroom open houses in the Mission adjacent to “bomb-ass burrito joints” and a Google bus stop will get him thinking: kismet. And just before you leave, tell him you can make out the outline of his cock through his beige Chinos.
Step 5. On December 20, 2013, an unnamed dissenter hurled a rock at a Google bus in Oakland during a routine protest, shattered the window. Three of the passengers suffered cuts across their faces. The Chronicle determined this action to be the fever pitch of growing disparity between the rich and poor in the Bay Area. Karl Marx was quoted in the SF Gate, in response to the action: “only with great violence, comes change.” As a result of the action, Google lost approximately 2,400.00 in work-hour productivity. All of the passengers eventually went to work. The bus window was fixed. No one quit their Google job. The protestors, part of the anarchist artist group Counterforce, claimed, “it’s not personal. It’s political.” And, Jonah Wilson, a resident who witnessed the action, claimed, “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
Step 6. Unexpected Touches. This is important if there is already mutual attraction. Lightly grazing his knee or his lexicon is key to sealing the deal. Mention API, GUI, BAP, CDMA, VC, especially because you’re a woman and/or person of color that hasn’t immigrated from East Asia, and he’ll be surprised as much as impressed. Mention that you felt people were too harsh on Justin Keller, who was just voicing what all of us were thinking – I mean, why would any “wealthy working people” living in San Francisco want to see the “pain, struggle and despair of homeless people to and from their way to work every day”? Right?
Step 7. Don’t Throw Yourself At Him. It’s good to keep him guessing just a bit. Just as he tells you how his startup is changing the world, remind him that Dumpster, the app he designs informing when “friends” are taking a shit isn’t really fostering interactivity in instances of need. When he tells you how his colleagues are the world’s 21st century’s artists, tell him that art is the conduit between humanity and the sublime, and that while a certain sublimation is involved in discussions of user experience, the irony does not escape you.
Step 8. I was in love with a boy named Chris Cortina, in high school. He was densely sandy-haired, full-lipped, big-eyed. He listened to REM and Operation Ivy and drew celestial figures across the grids of his Geometry notebook, organic loops betraying rigid lines. His ass filled a pair of shorts like two planets. We hung out in his room all night interpreting Tool’s Psalm 69. He cried about our shared mortality over my lap and a bottle of Mad Dog. But when I leaned in to love him, to really love him with the length of me, he pushed away, denied the kiss and our history, left the circle we had drawn amidst the grid. With the silence came my fury. A week after the refusal, I keyed the body of his Honda and gutted his tires with a steak knife.
Step 9. Sympathize With Him. It must be so hard to be a tech bro, where everyone demonizes your existence. You’re blamed for gentrification, for sterilizing formerly dynamic city-centers into consumer-driven cultural wastelands, for displacing blue-collar workers and artists. But this is a free market economy, right? Just because tech bros were clever enough to get themselves an education, work hard, and land a six-figure job doesn’t mean they are required to buy art, or go to the theatre, or attend readings. This is Neoliberal America. Why blame them just because they prefer to spend their hard-earned money where they like – at bars with mint-flavored ice-cubes and restaurants with repurposed communal wood tables, and Cross-Fit classes? They have the right to spend their money wherever they want, right? The free-market economy is a virtue, like obeying your parents or neutering your pets. It’s not tech-bros’ fault that artists aren’t clever enough to get people to buy their stuff. Maybe they should launch a Kickstarter. If they would just evolve or plug in to progress, then artists might not have such a bad go if it. Innovate or evaporate, dude. That’s what Daniel Pink says. You know Daniel Pink? A real thinker, that Daniel Pink.
Step 10. Imagine the frustration of that protestor, the one who was so incensed by the rent hikes, by the displacement of the poor, by the white supremacy, by Atlas Shrugging all over Market Street, by the injustice, that upon sight of the rock’s crude heft, the vulnerability of the thin glass, felt compelled to pick up and throw it, to exact harm somewhere. But where exactly? Anywhere more specific than merely beyond themself?
Step 11. Ignore Him Just Enough To Want You More. Allow for desire to bellow as you deflate the balloon of his own self-importance. Make him check and re-check his IM, fidgeting at the ergonomic desk in his favorite co-working space, called Würk, or Spæce. And when he asks why you haven’t FaceTimed him before lunch, remind him that this is a free-market economy. Right? You can choose who to buy, and when.
Step 12. Convince Him To Move To Wichita. Or Providence. Why not? Why the fuck not? I mean, who needs place when we are all progressing towards an interconnected reality? Aren’t we all the pages of The Whole Earth Catalogue?
Step 13. Think about Charlottesville. One group feels they have been disenfranchised by the self-righteous. The other group feels they need to quell the rise of a destructive force. Who is who? Well, perhaps that question illustrates a problem larger than either group attempts to resolve.
This list is obviously banking on you being angry, dear reader. Maybe you’re nodding to some of these jabs at the tech bro. Maybe you’re laughing out loud, thinking snap!. Maybe you’re even seething. Have you figured out why, yet?
Think about what lists do: how they whittle complexities to taglines, to Buzzfeed articles, to Twitter handles; how they whittle our integrity, how they carve us into singularity. How they take away our multitude. How they are born of refusal.
It’s so much easier to exact fury on an individual than a complex, on a group than a system. Artists will tell you that our eyes require a focal point to locate within the entire field of vision. Activists are trained to know this. They could tell us this. The point? We want our shared mortality to be felt. That rock on the Google bus windshield insisted, “you will die too. Don’t think you won’t.” But, to no one who could hear, not at that moment, anyway. The cracking of glass, the violence, was all that anybody heard.
Step 14. I know. The magazine you’re reading promised thirteen, but there is always another and another, if we are walking nowhere. These steps are not dedicated travel. Progress is never a formula, and only fulfills itself when it’s aware of what it affects. Where is the awareness in this? Say this to your tech bro. Say the word formula. Watch to see if his lip quivers.
Step 14 could also be: Don’t throw rocks at Google buses. Or it could be: Listen to one another. Listen.
And that’s the only step, really, to secure a tech bro, to secure a prom queen, to secure Peter in Finance, to secure the grumbling poet, the fixie rider, the hairdryer, the hordes of looking lovers; to secure anything akin to justice. Listen. You’ll be surprised what that level of willingness and generosity reveals to you about us all.
And smile. Make it as obvious as you can.
I bet you never thought you’d be hearing this from a dead girl. There are those who call you a coward, hiding behind YouTube while you send people to perdition. As the only other top story in the news, I want you to know I do not share this view. I bet you’ve been too busy to realize I exist. I will tell you about me, but that is not the reason I have occupied your head. My voice in your head will probably unhinge you, a cheerful young billionaire with no interest in death. That is not my intention. It is just that my dying coincided with your famous video, the one in which you call on the people to take to the streets. In that video you talk about cemetery children, families that are so poor they inhabit abandoned tombs in the city’s sprawling cemetery. If this was a righteous regime, you say, it wouldn’t let children grow up with the dead, and it occurs to me that, having fallen out with the leader, you fled the country just as my ordeal was starting, my most infernal ordeal, thirteen days before. Now that you feel safe enough to direct the course of history, maybe it is time for my ordeal to end? I watch you say, We’ll keep protesting till the leader stands down, and it’s as if an angel has stepped in. I can see your face now, more clearly than I saw it on Khalo’s smartphone screen that day, tied up while I got my dose of bread and water in his lap. As your lips curl to form the last vowel, your big brown eyes widen for emphasis. Heaven unfurls as you smile. In thirteen days I’ve suffered enough to make god stand down, but not until that moment can I let go of life. History happens while I’m disembodied and free. That’s how I get to be in your head now, to know things you don’t. No one actually saw the big protest that you denominated the End Night, anticipating it would bring down the regime, but as you say in your new video, if no big protest happened why would the authorities react? Your friends in high places are telling you the glass tower is cracking. Your Facebook fans swear you’re the hero of the shantytowns. All I ask is that, while you pat yourself on the back and ponder your next move, you stay hinged long enough for me to explain.
It might unhinge you but it is not accidental. My mother tells me I am your estranged daughter. She calls you her hot sweetheart and winks. Apart from Khalo, her younger brother, I have never had a father, it’s true. Is it possible that, six years ago, you paid for the company of a petite dark girl with blue eyes and a mole like a miniature nipple to the left of her Adam’s apple? She would’ve called herself Stella, the way Khalo goes by Cowboy. At the time she claims she looked so gorgeous she could work the bourgeois bars on her own. Mama is an inveterate liar as well as a gold digger, but whether or not your blood runs in my veins I know you and I are connected. I haven’t been dead forty-eight hours and already I am halfway across the world, whispering in your head. Even before I died I had access to your mind. It was spotty and irregular, like the wi-fi Khalo sometimes stole from the makeshift cybercafe at the end of the alley above our section of the tomb, but it was there. I was practically a toddler still. Who would’ve thought dying is growing up. Maybe the quality was bad because my modem was still sprouting. I’d had little human contact outside the graveyard we lived in, so when I went into your mind I rarely recognized what I found, the white powder you sniff insatiably or the fairytale places where you play with people. I did recognize the deliberate arrangements of bared body parts that make your heart race and leave you feeling like a child, as happy and as helpless as a child, but being a child myself it was as if I recognized me in you and was glad and jealous at the same time. Khalo had been arranging my parts in similar ways for as long as I could remember, but they were smaller and uglier than the ones in your mind and, even if his heart raced when he looked at them, it made me sad to think they were there for him to hurt, not for me to grow till they made a good-looking man feel happy and helpless. Who would’ve thought dying is knowing all this. When heaven unfurls it furls again and then you’re part of it. You can go wherever, whenever. You have the words to transport you in all the languages of the living. I died on my fifth birthday, that’s right.
I haven’t been dead forty-eight hours but I can tell you what will come of this revolution. I trust you will manage to forget these spoilers, otherwise as the movie of your life progresses you’ll second-guess yourself insane. You’ll probably have to purge your memory of me entirely, but the truth is I can see the city’s future. I can see its past too, as far back or forward as I like, and whatever I focus on becomes present. Who would’ve thought. A year after your thirty-fifth and final video, nobody remembers your name. People still talk of the End Night, they say all kinds of things about what happened at the city center, but no one seems sorry it failed. When you watch them closely, you get the sense even your militant followers are relieved that it’s over. Not many things would surprise you. Torturers and terrorists still play cat and mouse while activists tweet truth to power from the safety of offshore workstations, unless they end up indefinitely jailed. Having amended the constitution so he can stay in power, your former best friend and mentor is running for leader unchallenged. Stellas look for rich boyfriends that Cowboys can blackmail while pushing drugs. Except for one little detail, everything is as you left it. The city is equally overpopulated, children grow up with the dead, but even in the busiest places, the informal economy of parking and public transport has diversified into mugging. Begging is a dying profession, and the sidewalks look clean. At any given time few people can be seen anywhere. Nobody says it in so many words but nobody doubts this is the End Night’s legacy. Over the weeks, then the months while more and more people went missing, a kind of chronic absence overtook those who remained. Everybody was scared of the police, it’s true, too paranoid or dispirited to step out, but once it became clear the police weren’t responsible for everything, there emerged something stranger, something supernatural in the outcome. It was as if the End Night had been the people’s pledge to become ghosts and, without planning or discussing it, they transitioned to that state. Who would’ve thought ghosts are so radically unlike the dead. In their homes, among their loved ones, people remained normal human beings, but wherever they might encounter the authorities they became invisible and unreal, as frightening as they were frightened, so that even if the city didn’t quite empty it still turned into a ghost town.
Everybody was scared of the police before there was an End Night, but as my caregivers watch your first few videos while I hang hogtied by the stove like some horrible human hammock, they manage to keep their cool. I have returned to the days of my ordeal and everything is in the present again, but it’s a present that feeds on the knowledge death has given me, so that even in my dumb four-year-old state I can make sense of things. I’m being disciplined for soiling myself. Khalo is squeezing where the pee spurted out, his other hand sealing my mouth while, holding the gravedigger’s spade over the fire, Mama tells me the skin on my thighs will come off easily once the blade glows white. It hasn’t crossed their minds that their pictures might end up in the papers alongside that of my corpse while they are beaten to death by fellow inmates, literally beaten to death. I realize what’s happening to me is exactly the kind of thing people are scared the police will do to them when they try to bring down the regime whether or not a former crony of the leader’s is telling them to, and I’m struggling with my sphincter when it occurs to me that only people who can hurt other people are immune to fear. They’re good at ducking when you lunge, weeping and trembling and begging for mercy, but they know nothing of the paralysis and despair of real fear, the fear that everything you live for will turn out to be on loan from a despicable stranger who can claim it back at any time, that the meaning of life is contained in a plainclothes man’s slap. Khalo keeps kicking my tailbone with his army boot, squeezing my nose without releasing my mouth. The pain becomes unbearable as I begin to asphyxiate. My eyes are level with the spade’s flame-licked blade, upside down, so that the fire seems to descend from a miniature metal heaven, an ersatz heaven, and it’s as if I can feel the fear of every one of them over the years and the decades, the centuries, millions of people who stood up for what they lived for only to realize the regime owned their lives, and suddenly an immense sob unravels me, a sob the size of an ocean, so that, struggling to break free of the clothesline, my sphincter finally gives, blobs of poop splash my face and I quiver till I black out.
My eyes are level with the flame-licked blade but let me come back to real time. It is crucial that I explain to you what’s happening. You’ll probably have to forget it all, but I’m here and I can’t be elsewhere. Our connection compels me, not my being your alleged daughter but the fact that you’re mounting a revolution while I am the victim of oppression, even if it’s not the authorities that oppressed me and even if I was a toddler when it happened. That just makes it more real, a picture of victimhood with all the posturing squeezed out. You too, being a protégé of the leader’s, are a more authentic dissenter, innocent of the vile pretense that dissent can be driven by anything other than self-interest. Maybe there is such a thing as a historical daughter, the way there is a biological one, a daughter by virtue of historical role. That would explain how I feel about you considering you probably never fucked my mother. It would explain how I know you need this. Like a policeman gesturing for your identification card at a checkpoint, soon the universe will require a dead girl’s account of the events you initiated, and if you don’t store it in your unconscious while you can, who knows what the universe will do to you. Listen. No one saw the End Night because the End Night never happened. By the time you make your video everybody will be sure of that. No protesters gathered anywhere in answer to your call, but as people, perfectly compliant people swarmed the city center as usual, the police decided to move in. Sirens blaring, the cavalry drove into crowds, and when people ran for their lives the infantry gave chase. Batons came crashing down on bare skulls, rubber bullets pierced the jelly of unprotected eyes. The night sky glittered with incredibly bright explosions but, while cyanocarbon outmuscled oxygen in the air, there appeared in the shimmering cobalt-blue of the sky idyllically white clouds. Since then the police haven’t stopped rounding people up, occupying traffic intersections and perusing the smartphones of passersby on pain of instant disappearance, dragging people out of houses and cafes and escorting them blindfolded to undisclosed locations where they suffer unspeakable things before resurfacing in prison. I bet you never thought you’d hear this, but there are those who call you a secret agent of the regime’s, your falling out with the leader a ruse and your sole purpose to justify the crackdown.
Our connection compels me to share the view from here. In one of your videos you ask, The man who spends the day torturing his charge, how does that man sleep at night? He sleeps very well, I can tell you. He snores deeply, sometimes sniggers through happy dreams, or his hairy arm, so sinewy it looks like the sculpture of an arm, will suddenly flex, rehearsing the uppercut which is his principal interface with the world, and with which he grabs more often than he strikes. He can wake momentarily to slap his charge the way you’d swat a mosquito, laughing, or to draw her to him by the hair so he can bite on her Adam’s apple like a lozenge. He loves her. As your historical daughter or the only other story in the news, I want you to know I am not convinced by your rhetoric. It doesn’t become you, making appeals to the essential goodness of humanity when you obviously know the thing to appeal to is the beast. That man would fuck his sister if he didn’t have his preferred breed of bed partner to send himself to sleep with. He would do it with a clear conscience, the way he genuinely believes the least he deserves is a beer and a joint and an hour with the girl, and just like the leader telling his people he knows what is best for them, he would take an earnest pedagogical attitude. I’ve been a good girl, so afterwards he gives me a bar of chocolate to put in my mouth. If I keep quiet while he does what he does no matter how much it hurts me, maybe I get a hot meal. I’ve been a bad girl so, never mind him coming all over it, he’s going to have to spank my sweet little bottom till it bleeds. Sometimes I’ve been so bad he ties my wrists and ankles together with a clothesline and hangs me up from a hook in the ceiling by the stove. He can adjust my height as he pleases, and if he is sick of me crying he can stuff a roll of cloth in my mouth, holding it in place with a piece of string he ties behind my neck. Sometimes he leaves me there for a day, only the occasional uppercut announcing he’s still around. When Mama comes home and finds me that way she scowls. What have you done this time, she snaps as she passes.
I’ve been a good girl for a whole week when I commit the indefensible transgression of wetting the bed. This is the day you flee with enough money to set up your own country, and I don’t realize that this time I am to be suspended indefinitely. There is only one bed in our tomb, large enough for all three of us though Mama rarely spends the night at home, and pretending to be angry out of concern for me, Khalo is impatient for my punishment. He has a hypochondriac streak, and when I used to pee in my sleep he would savage me so thoroughly I ended up pooping as well. It became his excuse for time on the stove, as he calls it, tying me up and hanging me like something freshly slaughtered at the butcher’s. Before today I’ve never been on the stove for longer than a day, so until I realize it isn’t over after I am taken down to be fed, this isn’t especially distressing. Thirteen days before my fifth birthday I am still soiling myself not just because I’m terrified of knuckles and blood, pining for a breast, an embrace Mama never gives, but also because I was never potty trained. I haven’t even had the benefit of a diaper. Budgeting made the disposable kind out of the question, and the sole cotton diaper Mama sewed out of rags when I was born, she has never bothered to wash. Until the age of two they had a plastic basin for me to wallow in, Khalo hosing me down when he had use for me. By the time I wore clothes and moved onto the bed, I was expected miraculously to have the faculty of continence. That is how Mama started branding me all around my groin, with the white-hot blade of an ancient but unused gravedigger’s spade that they found here when they moved in, to punish me for bedwetting. The perpetual pain of untreated burns actually helped. I learned to start awake whenever something was about to drop out of me, even blood from my nose or a cut, and this made the spade a regular feature. It feels normal at first, not too scary, a little more muscle pain, that’s all. I just hope he won’t hurt me too much where I’m sore. I can see me now, skeletal, bruised and blackened, obviously gangrenous in places, docilely lying on my back while he turns me into a human hammock. It is heartbreaking.
It feels normal that during a crackdown people will suddenly go missing. They won’t show up at home or at work and you won’t get through to them on their phones, then you know they’ve been arrested or, in activist-speak, subjected to a forced disappearance. Within a week or a month those people always reappear, though, if not at their homes then at court being given a heavy sentence, the media having turned them into criminal fiends. This too would not surprise you. Sometimes people never resurface, it’s true, whether because the regime has killed and disposed of them in secret or for some unknown reason, but even in the worst crackdown, that never happens to more than one in a hundred. In the months following your thirty-fifth video, by contrast, thousands stay missing. Nobody believes the authorities when they say they know nothing of their fate, but there has been no civil war, no invasion or natural disaster, and as it becomes clear there is no force at the regime’s disposal that would be physically capable of disappearing people at this rate, a different order of terror reigns over the city. Even activists are talking about unexplained as opposed to forced disappearances now, blaming the regime for facilitating or not investigating rather than perpetrating them. I am at an earlier point in the future, most people do remember your name, the End Night is still more event than legend, but while an eighth, then nearly a quarter of the population goes missing without a trace, the streets are emptying not because there aren’t enough people left to swarm them but because more and more people have stopped going out. The hive mind is in flux, people talk about the authorities using ancient magic, they talk about zombies and demons and spirit dwellings, even an imperceptible invasion from outer space, but no bodies, no evidence, nothing to hold onto is uncovered. People are scared of the police but, more than that, they’re scared of the unknown power the authorities evidently unleashed on the End Night, a horror more unspeakable than anything they can conceive of, and to which what the police do to them, the assaults and the arrests and the interrogations, is merely the portal. The big question is how aware the authorities have been of their role as a bridge between the world we know and that other place. I bet it hasn’t occurred to you even now how many have come to associate that other place with you.
The hive mind is in flux while the crackdown peaks in real time and, dead for just under forty-eight hours, I am moving across your head as I whisper, past the spot where you’re planning out your next video, sensing it is time to exit back into the void and seek out my dead-girl fortunes. Handsome and moneyed in your pretty surroundings, you blame the leader for hunger and sickness, for penury and humiliation, while cornered in their respective cells, facing death with neither remorse nor real fear, Stella and Cowboy are being systematically, mercilessly beaten. I know now how, within a day of my death, while the cavalry and the infantry were savaging the city center and people scampered around for shelter, a rival pusher had managed to report Khalo to the authorities. He did not report him for abusing his helpless niece, which he couldn’t have known or cared about. He did not report him for pushing drugs while pimping his sister, for which ventures Khalo had made the appropriate arrangements with the relevant authorities a long time before. He reported him, dear otherworldly father, for regularly watching your videos, something Khalo had made the mistake of mentioning in passing, being a fan of the renegade billionaire who’s been inciting rebellion on YouTube, and the police coming in search of one more non-existent protester, one more ghost of history, they found Khalo making tea on the stove, the veins on his hairy arm like thick metal cords glowing, while my lifeless body lay unburied with the spade on top of it beneath the hook in the ceiling. He didn’t manage to exonerate himself, but he told on his sister in trying. Now he is barely conscious on all fours, tissue-spattered blood spurting from every part of his body while the streets heave. As to what’s happening to Mama, I don’t want to look. Forty-eight hours after the End Night, people are still running around deleting photos from their phones, purging their Facebook timelines of political jokes, bracing themselves. The city center looks eerily desolate even as plainclothes men scatter all around it, but elsewhere the streets are even busier than usual and, warily navigating them, people avoid eye contact with strangers while they circumvent the major intersections, walking fast. As they mutter your name and that of the leader, voicing prophesies, prayers, they laugh nervously or shudder and, except for a dead girl floating above them while she whispers in your head, nobody knows they’re turning into ghosts.
Shelton had no time for the crusty shenanigans of a sexual interlude with Beatrice.
“Your back door man is busy tonight.” He ended the call before she said word one.
The phone exploded. EX-WIFE ALL CAPS popped onscreen. Under the table during their arbitration, Beatrice had typed it into his phone – including the words ALL CAPS. She’d also programmed Wagner as her identifying ringtone. Wagner slipped from Shelton’s fingers and was muffled in the Bokhara hallway runner.
Nothing stands in the way of optimum dental health.
So there was vigorous brushing, swishing, flossing, and bloody gums. He smiled. His teeth felt loose and looked like peppermint pinwheels. He fainted. Blood always took Shelton down. It’s why he dropped out of dental school. One sink-borne head injury later, he crawled toward “The Ride of the Valkyries.”
“Can you take me to the hospital?” he said.
“Only after you fix what needs fixing,” she said.
Five out of five dentists recommend against concussion euphemisms.
“Priorities,” she said.
Shelton and Beatrice were married again in the springtime. Toothbrushes were scattered as favors. The good soft ones that didn’t shed like nose hairs or get stuck between your teeth. Some people took more than is reasonable, but nothing should stand in the way of optimum dental health. A Scandinavian honeymoon followed.
Towards the end of our time in Mozambique, my wife and I had arranged to meet a friend in Metangula, a small strip of a town on the shores of Lake Niassa. After my wife had finished working a practicum in Beira’s central hospital, we moved through the country as tourists. Our friend, a Peace Corps volunteer teaching at a local school, had invited us to visit her. We arrived on a hot dusty afternoon, falling out of the crowded bus tired, and with sand in our hair and teeth. There had been no rain for weeks and the fine red dust thrown up from the roads covered everything and everyone.
Our friend’s address in hand, we made our way through the chicken-scratched town. Long meandering furrows were carved into the dirt road by sluices of greywater running from each house. Loud, bass notes reverberated into the ether, pumped out by some hidden speaker. It was a common noise, much more common than birds, which I rarely heard. Still, the echoing din made my temples ache.
The address was useless to us in the confusing maze of numberless houses and nameless streets. In need of directions, we stopped a man as he passed us by. He wasn’t sure what to make of the address, but as we knew our friend lived near a bakery, we asked if there were any nearby. In Portuguese, the words for bakery and battery, padaria and bateria, have a very similar inflection and in English, the conversation went something like this:
“Excuse me, could you tell us where is the nearest bakery?”
“The nearest battery?”
“No, a bakery.”
“Batteries? I don’t know.”
“No. A bakery. Bread.”
“Bread and batteries?”
We thanked the man and gave up. After a few more attempts at directions (limited to “Excuse me, where does the white lady live?”), we found the house, a large brick building surrounded by a metal gate. A wide door was ajar and we pushed our way through into a dirt courtyard. On the steps of a house, three women, two old and one young, were pounding maize in large wooden bowls. In the shade of a scrawny tree, several children played inside a tractor tire. They all sat motionless at our arrival, the women holding their pestles high, the children gripping the tire rubber with their scaly hands. With the thumping bass notes as accompaniment, we introduced ourselves and said who we were looking for.
“She’s gone,” the oldest women said. “Not here.”
We had missed our friend by only a few days and the women couldn’t tell us where she’d gone. Her quiet departure was surprising, but after a month of travel and the inevitable delays and setbacks, we were becoming accustomed to the unexpected. We asked if we might stay in the meantime, to wait for our friend. This elicited an indifferent shrug from the old woman, who commanded the girl. Rising just as indifferently, the girl rose and went into the house. She returned a moment later with a large key and unlocked a small metal door leading into a separate house off the courtyard.
The house was tidy and clean, the kitchen well stocked. Two large rooms were completely unfurnished, and we avoided them. In the third, a bedroom, a single white sheet was spread over the bed. A knotted mosquito net hung from the low ceiling. A plastic table, the only other piece of furniture in the house, was stacked high with an assortment of things – a pile of clothes, a clunky water purifier, an American Vogue magazine, a first-aid kit. There were also notebooks and teaching supplies – the textbooks indicated that she had been teaching chemistry. In a separate pile were Peace Corps documents, leaflets with names like How to Survive in Mozambique, and Things to Do in Rural Places When You Are Bored. Underneath the bed was a pair of dainty shoes paired neatly together.
The normality of the scene was disturbed by the graffiti on the walls. Dozens of phrases and quotations had been written on the concrete walls in our friend’s hand. Some were so high that she would have needed to stand on the table to write them. Most were from the Bible, others were silly inspirational quotes. All of them were large and dark enough that, sitting on the bed, they could be easily read.
Tired and sore from the long bus ride and the terrible midsummer sun, we lay on the bed to rest. My wife was soon asleep. I tried to close my eyes but the noise of the music pounding through the window kept me awake. I lay on the bed, sweating, reading my way around the room and remembering our month.
*
For it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his purpose. Philippians 2:13
In Beira, we stayed on the edge of the affluent Macuti district. My wife had organized the flat, as it was close to her work at the central hospital. Like all the other buildings on the street, ours was surrounded by a wall topped with a long curl of razor wire. Unlike those large, spacious buildings, there was no guard. The last one had been fired after he sold the dogs which belonged to the flat’s owner.
In the summer of 2016, when we arrived in Mozambique, no cargo ships had been able to dock for weeks. Supply routes to Zimbabwe, Malawi, and Botswana had been cut. Guerillas had gunned down buses on the roads heading inland and north. Trucks had been burned at the Malawi border and buses on their way to Gorongosa National Park had been shot to pieces. News of these events came in dribs and drabs. Sometimes we heard about them days after they had happened, like the discovery of a mass grave where 120 people had been buried after being executed.
Crabmen and fishermen appeared almost every morning at our building, announcing themselves by rattling the front gate. They carried scales and kilo bags of flour to prove their accuracy, but we always used our own bag of flour just in case they had tampered with theirs, which they never had.
Every day my wife went to the hospital and spent her days moving between beds in the internal medicine ward. Most of the patients had HIV, tuberculosis or malaria, and most had come too late for anything to be done. The supplies were limited – one pair of rubber gloves a day, one protective mask per doctor and the risk of infection was very high. Many of the doctors were Cubans doctors on humanitarian missions and they took the problems in stride.
While my wife was at work, I prowled along the streets and the beaches. Most days I walked as far as the Macuti shipwreck, then turned around and walked towards downtown where another rusted and rotting shipwreck abutted a small market. Between the rows of tarp-covered stalls were mounds of tiny, silver fish, rows of aligned plastic sandals and stacks of colorful cloth. A lanky man standing beside a large pile of mattresses and wooden bed frames wore a shirt that read You Snooze, You Lose. Occasionally, someone would show interest and the salesman would drop a mattress into the dirt and plonking down to flaunt the springiness. One day, he sold a twin-sized mattress to an old man who hoisted the thing onto his back and, gripping the bottom edge with the tips of his fingers, sauntered off into the distance.
On the way back home, I would stop at a food stall near the hospital and drink beer while young boys loitered nearby, waiting to collect the bottles. They declined my offers to buy them beer but accepted soda and candies. I always waited for them to ask me for money, to begin begging, but they never did. They were much more interested in the empty bottles than they were in me.
At home, Deolinda ruled the roost. She never spoke but did plenty of lip pouting and eye rolling. She did all the cooking, cleaning, washing and scowling. Whether she was sluicing clothes in a large plastic tub or sweeping with the thin cornstalk broom, her sunken, dour face never changed. After placing the plates of boiled chicken or fried fish and rice on the table, she would listlessly mop the floor before sitting on the couch to watch TV. Her obvious displeasure with us was unnerving, but there was nothing she would allow to be done to help her. I tried to be friendly, but she rebuffed my smiles and stuttering offers for her to sit with us. Without my wanting it, my friendliness became pity and then resentment. Through it all, Deolinda retained the sneer on her smooth, shiny face.
At night, we sat out on the caged veranda until the mosquitos drove us inside. Lying hot and sticky on the bed with the slatted wooden shutters pulled tight, we listened to the intermittent dull pops and guessed aloud whether they were backfiring motorbikes or gunshots.
One morning, the taps coughed and gagged, shooting out only hot air. There had been no rain for weeks and the entire city had gone dry. Deolinda didn’t seem to notice and went on cooking our meals in spattering palm oil. At the same time, the hospital ran out of oxygen tanks. The front page of the newspaper ran the headline Não Agua, Não Oxigênio. No Water, No Oxygen. The same paper wrote about the ongoing drought and impending food shortage. When I read such things, I felt extreme guilt for not only being another mouth to feed but someone in the small class of people able to buy the food I ate. I felt as though I was playing a part in producing the misery I saw around me.
*
Be present. Be intentional.
My wife woke up wanting a swim. She was hot to the touch – everything in the house was – and I was happy to leave the cloying atmosphere. I had hoped our friend would have appeared but we were still alone. In the courtyard, the women and children were gone. We picked our way downhill to the lakeside, sidestepping potholes and little piles of shit positioned like tiny, brown inuksuit guiding the way to the water.
When I had imagined myself in Africa, I had usually pictured myself alone, usually overlooking a vast plain scattered with giraffes and elephants, maybe a baobab tree or two. But I was rarely alone, and certainly never felt that way. On the shore of this remote, far-flung lake there were no fewer than fifty people in sight. On the soggy meadows, groups of boys were playing football – I counted at least three different games – on what was used twice a week as an airstrip. On the beach, motley groups of young men prowled along, passing liter bottles of soda and glass jugs of sugar cane liquor.
While my wife swam, I sat on a rock and watched a fisherman trawling from a dugout canoe. The canoe was so narrow it seemed a miracle of physics that it kept upright. The stringy man aboard was dragging a mosquito net through the water, pulling the fine mesh aboard and dumping masses of tiny silver fish into his deck. Kneeling, he picked the fish over, throwing overboard small bits of plastic that he had collected.
I had brought my friend’s guide Things to Do in Rural Places When You Are Bored. I flipped through the advice: send children on scavenger hunts, plant a tree, find the oldest person in town. I closed the pamphlet and put it into my pocket.
In the water, separated by a large rocky outcrop, were men and women. The men were bathing, some wearing shorts, others nude, their shining buttocks gleaming in the sun. Occasionally, one would grab a passing plastic jug, plunge it into the water and douse himself. On the other side, the women washed clothes. They drowned the clothes in the lake, wrung them out and slapped them against stones along the shore. A massive volume of soapsuds was being produced and the bubbles swept into the rocks where they accumulated into a giant frog’s nest of white fluff. Where there was no soap covering the water, it looked grey and greasy. There was garbage floating everywhere and knocking against the rocks on the shoreline – plastic bottles, mostly, but also sports balls, pieces of broken boats, rotten wood.
There were occasions when the garbage in Mozambique was overwhelming. Conservation workers threw candy wrappers from jeeps moving through town, restaurants were encircled by bottle caps, plastic cutlery, and chicken feathers. Children watched their parents toss plastic containers on the ground and then copied them. In the beginning, I set myself a mission of putting my trash in the bin. But there were no bins and I found myself walking around all day with bulging pockets full of papers and plastic wrappers. Soon I was throwing my garbage on the ground like everyone else.
In Lichinga, a city near the Tanzanian border, the mounds of garbage were set alight every evening. The elderly gathered around the heat while youths dared each other to jump over flaming pits. The acidic smoke was invisible in the dark but in the morning the pile was still smoldering and everything was covered in a fine coating of ash.
*
We are so far from home but we’re so happy
We typically went about the country in small minibuses called chapas. They went everywhere, taking everyone and everything to all corners of the country. Refitted with extra rows of seats, they could hold eighteen people comfortably, but it was abnormal for fewer than twenty to squeeze in. Luggage was lashed on the roof and was quickly plastered with the fine red dust of the roads.
Traveling between the tea plantation town of Gurué and Lichinga, a distance of 500 kilometers, took some twelve hours. On this particular ride, my wife was able to snag the enviable front seat while I was consigned to the back and the crush of twenty other passengers.
Our driver bore a striking resemblance to the Egyptian queen Nefertiti. He drove erratically, swerving from this side and then to that, and refused to open the windows. It kept the dust out, but without air, the bus became a musty hotbox. From my position, I could see that half the dials on the dashboard were broken. The oil temperature never rose above 0°C and the fuel gauge jumped fitfully from empty to full and back. Somewhere in the Namuli Mountains, we sputtered to a stop on an empty and dusty stretch of road. At first I assumed our fuel was dry but in reality, a bridge had collapsed. The growing lineup of traffic was being slowly led over a makeshift road through the tangle of bush. Nefertiti went off to buy a sack bag of charcoal, leaving us passengers locked inside. Our moving and groaning shook the chapa’sframe and only when someone was able to break the door handle did we tumble out. As a unit, we ran into the bush to relieve ourselves behind leafy trees.
A crew was already beginning construction of a new bridge and there were several Chinese foremen sauntering around the site. They wore clean overalls with the names of their company imprinted across their shoulder blades. The workers, Mozambican to a man, wore ragged t-shirts and jeans.
When our turn to circumnavigate the bridge came, we re-boarded and jammed ourselves into place again. Soon, my arms and legs had gone numb from being squashed. Hoping to restore some feeling into my extremities, I started running my hand up and down my leg. It was no use – I couldn’t feel anything. Some bumpy miles later, I looked down in horror to see that I hadn’t been rubbing my leg at all, but that of the woman next to me. “Sorry,” I said, snatching my hand away. She looked at me blankly and handed me a banana. She was a large woman and the man on her other side was using her as a pillow. Her bulging pink shirt said Fashion Mistake.
*
My grace is sufficient for you; for my power is made perfect in weakness. II Corinthians 12:9
It wasn’t our friend who we finally met, but her replacement. We had noticed her pale skin across the marketplace and made a beeline for her, thinking our friend had finally arrived back from wherever she had gone off to. Sonya stiffened at the mention of our friend’s name and made one lone remark that she wasn’t coming back. We were dying to know what had happened but, in the meantime, we let it go.
While our friend was a teacher, Sonya, a twenty-one-year-old history major from California, had been assigned to a local AIDS community group where she was meant to do something with community outreach. She wasn’t sure of her role herself, but as she had been on her way to the local group’s weekly meeting, she invited us along.
The meeting was held in a small, dimly lit building on the outskirts of town. We were late and arrived to a dozen people sitting around a large wooden table. At the head was a man with albinism dressed entirely in white. The low light reflected sunnily off his clothes, adding to his wan, angelic look. This was João, the group’s leader. While he spoke, which he did softly and slowly, he drew sloppy figure eights in the air with his hand, as though he were conducting an invisible orchestra. “The people here have a great stigma against AIDS,” he said. “No one wants to admit to having the disease. The official figures are much lower than the reality because people are afraid to take themselves in for treatment.”
It was a sobering thought. There were 1.8 million people with AIDS in Mozambique, the eighth highest prevalence in the world.
“They take the ferry over to Malawi to get treatment. They are afraid that if their spouse knows they have AIDS, they will be excommunicated. It’s all done in secret. People hide their medication and stop taking it if people become suspicious. They have no one to help them. For many people, the social price they pay to treat their disease is worse than suffering the disease itself.”
The rest of the group sat wordlessly, nodding and looking at their hands. My wife gave a small summation of what she had seen in the hospitals in Beira and there was more talk about further meetings. All the while, Sonya sat with pen and notebook in hand. Judging by the stupefied look on her face, it was clear that despite Portuguese lessons in Maputo, her grasp of the language was minimal. She smiled whenever the group turned their faces towards her but otherwise struggled to hold her attention. At the end of the meeting, she came to and, smiling, snapped her blank notebook shut and slid it into her backpack.
*
Jesus is the love of your life. Hands Down ♥
“You can’t trust anybody here. If you leave your land for one second, there’ll be somebody claiming it as their own.” This was Ken, a missionary from Kansas. He had lived in Mozambique for ten years, slowly beating back the jungle on a piece of property he had bought from the government.
“I’ve got to keep somebody there twenty-four hours a day. The minute they think I’m gone, they’re on it and I’ll be out. Usually I’m there myself, but I’ve been paying a guy to sit there for me.”
His land was a scrubby patch north of Lumbo, across the two-mile causeway separating Ilha do Mozambique (Mozambique Island), where we sat at a bar eating fish and drinking beer, from the mainland. It was Independence Day in Mozambique – June 25th – and we’d expected to see a celebration of some kind. But the celebration had run up against Ramadan and most doors on the largely Muslim populated island were shuttered by 7 pm. On a search for a place to celebrate in our own way, we had run into Ken when his large 4×4 Land Rover had blocked one of the small, winding alleyways in the old Stone Town.
“I’ve been here ten years,” he said. “But they still don’t see me as a local.”
Ken wasn’t the only missionary we met. In Nampula, we saw a gaggle of cherubic, apple-cheeked Mormons. Dressed in starched white shirts, black ties and wearing nametags with names like Moses and Ezekiel, they were crowded around a hamburger stand clutching their black and gold books in one hand and a large, greasy hamburger in another.
Missionaries love a fight, and at one time they had a strong opponent in the country’s ruling party, the Mozambique Liberation Front or FRELIMO. Declaring state atheism in 1975, FRELIMO effectively censured religion by nationalizing religious institutions and taking control of schools, churches, and houses. Very soon after, they had jailed members of various clergy and persecuted over 200,000 Jehovah’s Witnesses. Hostilities officially tailed off in the late 1980s, and although now nearly three-quarters of the population identify as Christian, there is still much work to be done in the eyes of a missionary. The stories about witchdoctors and black magic that still pervade the countryside wet the chops of missionaries whose particular bugaboo is anything they consider primitive. The drought was worsening and by providing necessities like food, shelter, jobs, money, they could lure in the needy, the desperate and the lost.
The call to prayer rang out from the minaret dominating the skyline. Ken smiled, lifted his head and breathed deeply. “There’s a lot of work left to do,” he said. I imagined that at night he dreamed of saving the souls of cannibals.
*
I have given you the authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and the overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you. Luke 10:19
Hunters in Mozambique were easy to find. There weren’t many, but their characteristic earthen colored clothes, shell-stuffed vests, and drooping wide-brimmed hats were a dead giveaway, as was their invariably white skin.
We were sitting in a café in Lichinga when two such men walked in. Other than their gear, it was their mustachioed faces, their bronzed hands, their pistols and, above all, the comfortable, self-assured manner in which the two khaki-clad men held themselves at the café which betrayed them as hunters and not tourists. Curious, we sidled up and asked.
“We are hunters, yes,” they said, professional big game hunters. Vitor, Portuguese, ran a hunting camp out of Quelimane on the coast, while Jorge, a white Mozambican, headed a 2400-hectare hunting block in Niassa National Park. Both were on leave, looking forward to spending time at their homes after months in the bush.
“Where are you from?” Vitor asked me.
“I’m from Canada,” I replied.
“I would love to go to Canada,” he said. “I want to hunt your small bears.”
“Fantastic.”
“Are you here to hunt?”
“We’re not hunters,” I said. “But what’s out there if we wanted to?”
“Anything. Elephant, lion, crocodile, leopard, hippo. There are lots of nice things to hunt in Niassa. I myself have killed fifty elephants,” he said, handing me his business card. The card had his name and number overlaying a picture of himself standing under an archway of elephant tusks. At the sides of the photo, two black Africans squatting on their haunches clutched large rifles. “Elephants make the best hunting because they are smart,” Vitor went on. “They are like a man in their intelligence. But behind elephant would be lion. Another very tricky one.”
“I’d never kill a lion,” I said.
This produced a leer from Vitor. “Why not?”
The thought of shooting one felt heinous, like a crime against nature. It seemed like an animal that was above being hunted, especially by pot-bellied farts such as Vitor. Instead, I said “You can’t eat it.” He shrugged at my excuse.
Jorge, by staying quiet and not revealing any bloodlust, seemed the more stable of the two. When I asked him what good hunting really did for species in need of protection, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “People come in, business types mostly, presidents of companies, that kind of thing. They pay so much for an animal – fifty grand for a lion, forty grand for an elephant, plus expenses. We find the animal for them and they get to feel like a hunter, like a tracker. They get the skin, the horns, whatever. Then with their money, we can pay the villagers not to kill the animals for meat. Without us paying them, the villagers would have killed every animal in Mozambique by now.”
It was the same trope used to justify trophy killing anywhere. A portion of the population was sacrificed to save the rest. It didn’t rest well with me and, later, when we met a Mozambican conservationist, he said. “It’s a load of shit. The easiest – the only – way to save an animal’s life is to not shoot the goddamn thing. Obviously, it’s more complicated but it’s a good excuse, isn’t it? And it’s a great way to help yourself under the pretext of helping others. Mozambique is becoming full of people like that.”
That day, walking through Lichinga’s market and desperate for a piss, I slipped behind a low wall where, covered in banana peels, shreds of plastic, food stains, rusted metal barrel bands and surrounded by little mounds of human and dog shit, I discovered an elephant skull. It felt blasphemous, seeing the remains of the venerable animal there, dirty, stinking and forgotten. Rage rose up in me, then a sense of overwhelming defeat. There was nothing I could do, there was nothing anyone could do. I pissed against the wall and went back out into the street.
*
Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken. Ecclesiastes 4:12
That night, we met Sonya again at a bar near the marketplace. The same loud, obnoxious music was playing from a large speaker kept behind a locked chain-link door.
“Do they always play it that loud?” she asked, wincing.
We bought beer and drank sitting at a plastic table set on the verge of the road. Chickens pecked around us and mangy, scabby dogs skulked at the limits of the light. The dogs in Metangula were the saddest looking of Mozambique. Nearly all of them had an open, festering wound somewhere on their body. They moved slowly, barely pulling themselves out of the way of the motorbikes that zipped down the streets. I had the horrible idea that somehow these animals were playing chicken with the cars and scramblers that careened down the broken roads, hoping to be squashed to relieve their pains.
We were leaving the next day, catching the chapa to Lichinga, then flying to Maputo and home. “Oh, darn,” said Sonya. “That means I’m going to be the only one here.” She picked at the label on her beer, looking anxious and unstable. I asked her if she was nervous.
“It would have been nice to know somebody here.”
She was staying with a host family, sleeping in the same room as the mother in the bed of two young boys who were turned out and would be sleeping on the floor of the main room.
“The people here are friendly,” my wife said. “Just give it time.” Still, she looked nervous.
“About our friend…” I said. We still had no sense of what had happened to her. Sonya, if she knew anything, was still holding out on us, and I hated not knowing.
Sonya looked away. “I don’t know if I can say.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” I said. “We just want to know if she’s alright.” There was another silence and I pulled on my beer, finishing it.
When Sonya finally spoke, she was shaking and close to tears. “She was raped. By someone at the school, one of the other volunteers. Her mother came and took her back to the States.”
We were stunned into silence. I suddenly felt repulsed by everything around me, the dirty streets, the flimsy plastic tables, the God mongers, the animal killers, the loud music. It was made worse by the realization that, had we arrived a few days earlier, we might have prevented a terrible act and our friend might be sitting across from us, unharmed and still teaching her students about molecules and covalent bonds. I was repulsed by my own inability to change any of it. Full of blind injustice, I forgot about the Cuban doctors, the group of community organizers, and the conservationists. My mind was full of drought, cracked water pipes, and demolished bridges.
I buried everything but the thought of leaving. The Africa I had expected, had wanted, had collided too fiercely with the Africa I had seen. Both had ceased to feel real. Being there began to feel like an irreconcilable mistake. It wouldn’t be until years later that I realized what I had mistaken for apathy in Mozambicans was really an ability to carry on in times of duress. Being unfazed by and tolerant of broken bridges, glory-hungry hunters, and missionaries was a consequence of having problems I didn’t have to deal with – the hunger, the thirst, the disease. Reality was their burden, expectation was mine.
The three of us sat in defeated silence while the market pulsated around us. The music thumped on. Throngs of people jostled for goods and fruits, laughing and yelling at each other. A drunken man lurched up to us, extended his hand and asked for money. Somewhere, beyond the reach of the streetlights, there was a fracas. A dog yelped and careened from the gloom into the light of the street. Hot on his heels were three other emaciated and salivating dogs. The three of us watched as they dashed the street, narrowly avoided being crushed under the wheels of a passing truck before disappearing into the darkness.
After the breakup, she couldn’t stop thinking about the spinach.
They had planted it together on a seductively mild February afternoon. The way he had put his hand on hers to guide it as she sprinkled the seeds into the little trenches they’d made. Perpetual Spinach. It had felt like some kind of charm against the future.
Mid-morning on a Tuesday. He would surely be at work – and yes, the empty driveway confirmed it. She pulled up opposite and took the bucket, fork and gardening gloves from the boot of her Clio. Powered by fairy dust. She’d bought that sticker almost just to spite him. In those final days she’d somehow become a caricature of herself she thought as she strolled casually down the drive and through the little gate to the back garden.
It was July and everything was alive and buzzing. The lawn was verdant. Verdant. She could still hear the word bouncing from his mouth.
The hydrangea was starting to come out and looked to be the pretty faded blue he had hankered after. She remembered the weeks of ground coffee, eggshells and lemon peel collected in a bowl by the kitchen window. Hydrangea flowers wanted to be a garish pink he had said, but with careful attention and patience you could have them bloom an ethereal silver-blue. She could kick it to pieces. But no, deep breaths, she had come for the spinach.
Of course Perpetual Spinach wasn’t actually spinach but a type of chard. He had informed her of that one evening when she had mentioned looking forward to trying “the spinach”. She imagined him polishing a wine glass and holding it up to the light to inspect it.
Real spinach or not, there is was, in the raised bed along the back wall. It was thriving. Verdant. She knelt down, put on the gloves he had bought her (genuine leather trim, ladies fit) and began to dig, sliding each plant carefully from the soil, placing it in the bucket beside her. She wasn’t sure if she would eat it or simply dispose of it, but it wasn’t staying here, with him.
A sweep of silk along the small of her back made her jump. Nigel. He came purring and head-bumping his way round her crouched form. She scratched him behind his ginger ears and he tipped himself over in bliss. He hadn’t forgotten her. Nigel was an excellent garden companion. An honorary dog. A scrupulously fair and neutral party in those final days. She noticed he no longer wore the glittery collar she’d bought him. He rolled where the spinach had been, tilting his head back to look up at the house.
She followed his gaze to see a face at the bedroom window. Pale, like a petal, or the moon. Sylvia.
What kind of name was that for a twenty-eight-year-old? She supposed it was quirky, boho, chic. Sylvia was ethereal and waiflike, wore long silk dresses and floated round the house looking pensive. At least that’s how she imagined it. She’d never been introduced to her replacement.
She turned back round, straightened herself and resumed digging, waiting for the sliding sound of the patio door.
When she had finished, the bucket was full. She peeled the gardening gloves off, clapped them together and threw them down on the empty spinach bed.
She turned to the house. Sylvia had disappeared from the window. Probably on the phone to him, telling him to come home, now.
She picked up her bucket and strode back through the gate and up the drive. Nigel came chirruping along behind her. She placed the bucket of spinach carefully in the boot. It was Nigel’s decision to hop in beside it.
They could stop off at the pet shop to get a replacement collar. Garish pink, extra sparkles.
“What about them Grundy tins?” I said.
“I aren’t quite done with ’em yet, Boss.”
I knew what he meant. When God invented fish he should have made it easier to clean up after them. Bony was scrubbing so hard to clear the tins of scales, the mermaids tattooed on his forearms looked alive. The sweat patch on the back of his T-shirt made me think of a map – South America, maybe, or Africa.
“Ever been to Africa, Bony?”
“Yeah, Cape Town, Boss. Spent too long in a bar, nearly missed the ship.” He turned from the sink, laughing. “One of me oppos did miss it. He got six months for that.”
“Don’t stop scrubbing.”
He grinned. “I’d rather scrub a deck than this.”
Sandra came up from below and showed me her tips.
“Stingy buggers, Red.”
“You’ll survive,” I said.
Pecs joined us, unclipped his bow tie and unbuttoned his shirt to show off his chest. He kept his tips to himself. They don’t have a tronc.
He said, “Yeah, Sands, what about that Kraut yesterday that tipped you a twenty?”
She pulled a face. “He was kale-eyed. Prob’ly thought it was a fiver.”
I saw Bony give her a look out of the corner of his eye. She ignored him and went to the far end by the fridge. Leaned her bum against it as usual to get the vibration. Says it’s as good as a massage. I thought I’d like to be that fridge, but decided that thought would get me nowhere and carried on wiping spice jars. Pecs rolled up his sleeves, joined his hands above his head, flexed his biceps. and turned his head back and forth, taking in me, Sandra, and Bony, obviously amused. Sandra checked her phone, maybe to see if she’d been called after audition. She’s a dancer, which is why she gives off “not really here” vibes. Me, I’m present, if you know what I mean, and glad to be.
Ahmed sidled up to me.
“We must be ordering more turmeric.”
“I can see that, mate.”
“Oh, you are sharp. Are you my friend? Not my friend?”
“I’m your friend, Ahmed.”
He’s small and thin but wiry – the opposite of Bony, who’s tall and wide but flabby, with an overhanging belly. Ahmed sends money to his family somewhere up-country in Bangladesh. Says now his daughter’s thirteen he has to pay for a jewel in her nose so she can marry. Thirteen!
He said, “I ask Mr Giorgiou I can make a cake.”
“No need to ask him, mate, you can ask me.”
“But he is owner. And chef.”
“And I’m sous-chef. That’s French. Do you know French, Ahmed?”
“Yes, I know, ‘Voulez-vous coucher?’ ”
“Yeah, but the important bit is ‘avec moi.’ ”
He smiled and nodded. “Too kallever you.”
He checked the dumb waiter. It was empty apart from one soup bowl, which he dropped with a flourish in Bony’s foaming sink.
*
The only time Mr Giorgiou gets fresh air is a twenty-minute walk round the block when the last punters leave. Who’d own a restaurant? At least when I’m tired of his moussakas I can go to Spain and make tapas. Back from his walk he makes us souvlaki for supper – one of the few perks of the job.
We cleared the island unit and stood round.
Ahmed said, “Mr Pecs? Lagow last night?”
Pecs knew what the word meant. “Many times, druh. Muff diving, the lot.”
He nudged Sandra next to him. She yawned and carried on texting. He tormented her by staring down her cleavage with its film of sweat. Mr Giorgiou undid his neckerchief and shook it out. His jacket was still pure white after the evening’s efforts. I never knew how he did it. Mine was well splashed.
He said, “This life. Why is it like this? I would like to go on one cruise.”
He says “one” instead of “a”, as in, “Give me one cigarette.”
Pecs groaned. “I worked on a cruise ship. We docked at St Petersburg. Bastard Russkis! Always if I went ashore they made me wait to go back aboard. Kept sending me to the back of the queue.”
Mr Giorgiou nodded. “They don’t like Ukrainians.”
“Fuck them. I nearly missed my ship.”
Bony nodded too, and laughed. “I know that feeling.”
Sandra piped up, “Who asked your opinion?”
A person’s haircut tells you a lot about them. Hers is lopsided like a bird with one black wing, and that broken. Pecs shaves his head to try to look tough. Mr G is naturally bald. As for Ahmed, I reckon his haircut is self-inflicted. Mine … don’t ask.
I pulled the pitta breads out of the toaster, showing off how I can hold them hot without flinching. We stripped lamb and onion and peppers off our skewers, dropped said skewers on the worktop like spillikins, then filled our pittas. A familiar ceremony. Ahmed squirted a sea of chilli sauce. I prefer mayonnaise.
Sandra said, “Boss, some customers ask why we don’t do kebabs.”
“What did you tell to them?” Mr Giorgiou asked.
“Same as souvlaki.”
“Yes. Kebab is a Toorkish word,” Mr G the Greek Cypriot said with a sneer. “Enough said.”
“In America they call them kabobs,” Pecs announced.
Sandra yawned again. “How interesting.”
Bony said, “I did them Grundy tins.”
He went to the rack and held up a couple. They flashed like mirrors.
Sandra said, “Bet there’s still fish scales on them.”
“No, no.” He ran a nervous hand over his hair, a long buzz cut, probably number four clipper, then fixed Mr G with a look. “Something I meant to say, Chief.”
The boss’s eyelids fluttered. “Yes?”
“It’s just … I has to keep me missus happy.”
Pecs laughed. “He is a chef not a sex advisor.”
Bony frowned. “Thing is, Chief, she says I has to ask you about me National Insurance.”
“What National Insurance?”
“She says you should be paying it for me.”
Oh dear. He’s never paid it for Sandra, Pecs, Ahmed, or me. Did Bony think he’d be the exception? Mr G wiped his mouth on a napkin and went up to him. Bony backed away against the sink. Mr G stopped with his nose a few inches from Bony’s. You see that on TV when there’s a ding-dong, but I’d never seen it in real life.
He said, “Well, Mr Bony, you can tell your missus to fuck off.”
“Here, Chief, that’s not nice. I don’t mean to cause trouble, like.”
“You are trouble from day one. You upset my waitress.”
Sandra, watching this exchange, put on a convincing scowl. I knew what this was about. To raise the dumb waiter from the restaurant you shout, “Up please!” or if you’re feeling crap just, “Up!” What you don’t do is jerk the rope without a signal. Old Bony must have thought he was raising the ensign double quick. Sandra’s hand got trapped between the dumb waiter and the hatch. No damage to her wrist or fingers, but Pecs sneered that she couldn’t forgive the threat to her nail extensions.
Bony said, “I told her I was sorry.”
“Then did it again,” Sandra hissed.
But I also knew the dumb waiter wasn’t the issue. One slack half hour, when there was just her and Bony and me in the kitchen, Bony took me aside and asked why she “had a sad on”, as he put it, and I said, “Her mother’s dying.” Next moment he had her in this great bear hug and whispered something. Sandra screamed, “Get off me, I don’t want sympathy, got it?”
Mr G was still on Bony’s case. “Why do you make difficult my life? You think it’s easy to run a restaurant? And look at you now. I see all the anger in you.”
“I didn’t mean no offence.”
“I don’t want to hear any more. I have work to do.” He moved away, but a thought struck him and he came back. “And always you are watching the clock.”
“It’s a habit. In the Navy you have to—”
“This is not the Navy!”
“I thought you’d be pleased with my work, Chief. You got a testimonial from my skipper.”
“Fuck your skipper!”
That was too much. I saw Bony’s right hand reach behind for the worktop. He grabbed a fillet knife and waved it in the boss’s face.
“Ram it!” he yelled.
Now it was Mr G who backed away and Bony who pursued him – the previous action in reverse, like some horrible tango. They were both the same height and similar build, the main difference being Bony’s torn T-shirt and the boss’s white jacket. Sandra scooted out of the way. I kept my station – I wasn’t going to intervene. Pecs tried to, but Bony – his eyes rolling now – made a feint at him, and Pecs wasn’t going to risk his lovely muscles. Mr G ended up cornered by the fridge, with Bony making jabbing motions.
I don’t know how long that standoff lasted. Probably not long, but it seemed it. A year before I’d have enjoyed it. My life was crap then. I was full of resentment, in and out of dead-end jobs, emptying several bottles of vodka a week, yelling at people, lucky not to get a beating. I was hooked on graphic war movies, cage fighting, the worst TV news. Then I ran into an old girlfriend.
“Bloody hell, what happened to you, Red?” she said.
I woke up. She and I are together now. I’ve got something to live for. And violence turns my stomach. So watching Bony threaten to slice Mr Giorgiou’s neck I felt like puking up my souvlaki. I wanted it to end – but how? I saw Ahmed shake his head and turn away from them. He saw my expression and looked shocked. Next thing I knew he was on hands and knees between the two sets of opposing legs, worming his way upright. His head was no higher than their chests. He faced Bony.
“This shall end,” he announced. “Give to Mr Bossy the knife.”
Bony was so surprised he loosened his grip. Ahmed felt carefully for the handle, took the knife off him, and gave it to Mr G. Bony put his hands to his face and moaned.
“I didn’t mean to flash up,” he muttered.
“Now you have crossed a line,” Mr G said, in the same tone as when he said, “Toorkish”.
Bony said, “We can sort this, Chief. You had to with shipmates. You couldn’t let things fester.”
“You have crossed a line.”
“Can’t I pull back from it?”
“No!”
Mr G still had a firm grip on the knife. I thought he was about to stab Bony. I’ve always thought a kitchen’s the worst place for an argument. I passed out and sank down on the quarry tiles. I came to hearing Mr G say, “Give Mr Red one glass of Metaxa.” I normally hate the stuff, but it did the trick. I struggled up. Mr G draped his arm round Ahmed’s shoulders. “Bengali Babu,” he said.
Ahmed looked at me. “Are you being all right now, Mr Red?”
“Yeah.” The brandy must have loosed my tongue, because I said, “Christ, I thought one hothead Greek in a kitchen was enough. Now it’s like there are two.”
Sandra laughed. Pecs joined in. Mr Giorgiou came up to me, his eyes very wide. “Are you saying Mr Bony is like a Greek?”
I felt my job was on the line. But something made me blurt, “Yes!”
He turned away, went up to Bony – who was standing stupefied – and grabbed a handful of his T-shirt.
“Fucking Greek!” he growled.
“He made a bloody good job of them Grundy tins,” I said.
“We see what happens when you persecute people. They fold into themselves…”
—Mahershala Ali, 2017 SAG Awards Acceptance Speech
On 29th of July 2017, a relatively hot Saturday, around 3:30pm, police raided the Vintage Hotel at Weigh Bridge in Owode Onirin area of Lagos State. According to witnesses the Nigeria Police had been tipped about the hotel harbouring gay people, and on that day as the men gathered, the police swooned in and the men were caught in the “act”.
The Lagos State Police Public Relations Officer, Olarinde Famouse-Cole confirmed the arrest by saying: It is true. About 42 suspected homosexuals were arrested and the hotel has been cordoned off while investigation continues. They are in custody of the Lagos State Task Force and will be charged to court soon.
The forty-two people were paraded before the media, meaning they appeared in all the local news media, meaning also that friends and families saw them.
No attempts were made to blur their faces during the broadcast or reports.
What the police didn’t tell the public was that the forty-two men and boys were between the ages of twelve and twenty-eight, and were arrested while attending a HIV intervention programme organised by Access to Health and Rights Development Initiative, led by an LGBTI and AIDS activist, Peter Kass.
The United Nations reported that Nigeria has the highest rate of HIV in west and central Africa, with an estimated 3.5 million people infected with the virus, and according to Avert.org, “…punitive laws against homosexuality [in Nigeria] have meant that men who have sex with men are now even more vulnerable to HIV infection and face many difficulties accessing HIV services.”
When the media got a hold on the HIV status of the men arrested, they splashed the results on the screen and in the papers.
“It was shocking,” Friday (not real name) said. “I mean, my life ended that day.”
Most teens and adults involved in the raid lost their homes and jobs. Some were physically attacked on the streets they lived. Others went into “self-imposed” exile; running from the state.
*
Ademola is waiting for me at the other end of the road as the city of Lagos hugs me. I am not sure what to expect (we’ve been Facebook friends for almost a year), tall, black and handsome, or just some fake person with a real Facebook account, luring me into a trap. I do not want to believe my negative thoughts. I have few options and one of them isn’t surviving. Two weeks before, I woke in the hospital. I had done something to myself and was ashamed to tell anyone. I had ingested some drugs into my system hoping to be found dead any moment someone walked in, instead I was found writhing in bed. I didn’t know how people found my personal contact, took it upon them to dish customised threats to me. I felt someone was watching every step I made. On the phone with my partner, I cried like a baby. And even though they tried lifting my spirit, I knew I was gone. My predators had won.
“Come to Lagos, I’ll play the host. You don’t have to worry about anything.”
The phone beeped, Ademola had texted after hearing what happened. “We could go to Fela’s shrine, Patabah Bookstore; watch Okey Ndibe read from his books, take random walks or do everything you wanted. LOL.”
I dropped the phone.
“Hey, what do you think?”
Still no reply, till finally the midnight of that day, I said would take the offer. That was actually a way of confirming that I was still alive and had the right to choose where to die: some doggone small stuffy city overpopulated by both ghosts and humans wasn’t a bad choice – where no one would give an account of me. It sounded interesting.
Chibùihè Obi, the queer Nigerian writer, had gone missing after publishing an essay on Brittle Paper, We Are Queer, and We Are Here. A month earlier I had called to tell him how some group of guys ran over me with a motorbike, confiscated my gadgets, and issued threats. He said I shouldn’t worry, everything would be alright. The only suggestion he frowned upon out of many I made was leaving Nigeria. Two weeks later my partner called to inform me Chibùihè had gone missing since June 1st. He was abducted by unknown men who sent his friends messages, accusing him of preaching “Satanism”.
At the end of the road is sunset, is Ajah, Surulere, Iyana Ipaja, like that, going back and forth till I am hitting on the Diamond Bank along the Abeokuta Express Road.
It is a minute past twelve in the morning, Saturday, but Lagos isn’t tired yet. Not even hungry or dreamy like Abakaliki, the place I had left behind, walking in between shadows to avoid lurking dangers till I was on the bus. Abakaliki sleeps at ten in the night. I am going to know how long Lagos has to stay awake before it kills its own.
I was singing Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman” when I left Abakaliki. I am leaving the burning river to the sea, all on that day. If Lagos hears this, perchance I’d get a new life.
Don’t you see me down here praying?
*
I’ll tell your crime & I’ll tell you very well. Have a seat, take this drink if you like, look into my eyes & tell me you never fell in love. Just say it.
Your crime is outrageous. You have deflowered the constitution. Tell, what do you want my goons and I to do you?
Don’t look at me that way. Plead guilty as I read these offences to you.
1. You have fallen in love in the most awkward ways against nature.
2. Your name is Peter not Lizzy.
3. Why are you always in the shadows? Are you afraid we are going to kill you? Don’t you want to be stoned? It is your civic right & you dare run away from it?
4. You have preached against the sacred truth.
5. Who are you to fall in love with a fellow man?
6. You are even poor. Tueh! Are you a ritualist? I know it. Homo!
*
The arrested gay men spoke of their stay in the police custody as “hellish”. They were beaten with a stick, hammer and plywood. At night when it was time to sleep, they were stripped naked and asked to sleep on the floor bare till when thirty of them were bailed.
*
I lost my one room apartment after leaving the university. I couldn’t afford it anymore, there were debts to settle. The naira had taken a dramatic fall against the dollar. One thousand naira could get you absolutely nothing. I was going blind, walked in and out of Eye Clinics, wandered the streets of Abakaliki, barely getting bread with mayonnaise or cooked groundnut for breakfast. The country’s suicide rate had skyrocketed, students, business people, and etcetera.
I couldn’t go to mum’s because I had failed her. There were many things I could never tell or make her understand, and two of them were my sexuality and why I left university without a degree.
2017, I am on the road. There’s no home & if there was I’d have started from there, I started from my mum’s instead. There’s a haunting Facebook article I read about gay teenagers or youths in Nigeria living in the streets or being murdered for coming out, or the gay adults who got arrested for loving differently.
“Everything is different in Lagos. No one has the time to point out who is gay or not,” Ademola assures in a chat while he tries saving me from myself. I think I understand how quick he is moved to come to my rescue; to avoid another newspaper headline.
I feel so about these gay men, bringing their stories to the world. I have promised to travel the breadths of Nigeria with a question: how do queer people survive in this place (do they have the kind of protection Lagos promises as my friend pointed)?
It is because of this that made me accept the “Lagos offer” from Ademola.
I can’t tell what exactly I wanted to do with that story when I left (to know I wasn’t the only one who would be killed soon or risk going to jail for fourteen years?), maybe, add it as one of life’s experiences because I was also on the street or add it to the horrors one has to know before death. I think though, I know better now, a broken person going after broken affairs in a broken country.
Many are dead. Sometimes I think am too.
I wish this essay was written in the voice of the dead to which I have sought. All efforts to reach them proved futile. None of the victims answered the phone or replied to their Twitter mentions or emails.
*
We are at Soluchuks Nightclub. Me, Ademola, and two friends of his – one had just returned from Ghana. We spend some minutes talking about what we both like about Ghana. We are laughing, I am wondering when was the last time I laughed so well without pretence. Ademola had told them I am in Lagos just to cool off. They comment that it is needed. “The young have to leave their comfort to know what is or not working in their life.”
The only thing not working now is the president of the country. You wake to the news of politicians found with cash belonging to the people or buildings gotten from the state’s coffers, and to your dismay none of them is ever tried or sentenced or fined.
The media comes next to say those recovered loots are now in the possession of the EFCC and soon the government would flush them into the system, and with that done, the economy would bounce right back.
None has ever happened. Instead those loots fund the president’s medical tourism to the United Kingdom. And while no one questions that, the media houses in Nigeria, along with the Nigeria police and the Minister of Information and Culture, devise a means of manipulating and keeping Nigerians busy, anything to make them understand there’s a common enemy to exterminate:
Nigerian gays: swimming in shark infested sea
28 adults being arraigned for engaging in homosexuality before the Yaba Magistrate Court by Lagos State Government…
Prosecutors in the northern Nigeria state of Kaduna have charged 53 people with conspiring to celebrate a gay wedding…
The government is working; at least the people are one with their leaders on this. This is a good sign, Ade and I joke.
According to a 2015 poll conducted by NOIPolls, 87% of Nigerians are not willing to accept a family member that is homosexual. Same percentage supports the Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act. And 90% do not think people are born homosexuals – that it is a learned behaviour which could be corrected by beating or lynching or getting locked up in a prayer house. This also reaffirms the 2013 survey in which 60% of respondents believe homosexuality is a “sinful” act.
Also on the 22nd of July, 2015, while the president was visiting the United States, his media aide, Femi Adesina tweeted: “The issue of gay marriage came up here yesterday. PMB [President Muhammadu Buhari] was point blank. Sodomy is against the law in Nigeria, and abhorrent to our culture.”
“I know some people who might help,” Ade chirps as we leave the club temporarily to buy Nescafé from the man selling hot coffees outside the block.
“When you are ready, we can talk to them.”
“Won’t they run from me?”
I hear myself, the awkwardness of what I just said. “Do you think they’d be open to discuss these issues with me?” I correct myself.
“They are my friends, if they don’t trust you, at least they trust me.”
“Sunday?”
“Deal.”
Some hidden speakers stuff the air with King Sunny Ade’s Merciful God as Ademola and I leaf through the suburbs of Iyana Ipaja to Ozone Cinema, Surulere, where my partner joins us. We are waiting for friends: one a writer, the other has a flair for the written word too, but has hardly ventured, Ade informs me. We are here, tempted to order something while waiting for their arrival. We resist the temptation because we are mostly broke. A dollar is three hundred and sixty-five naira. We count our teeth with our tongues before we make orders or purchases.
Our friends call with a new venue, maybe because of security concerns. We leave to meet them. While we place orders we take turns scanning ourselves, we were strangers till now. How on earth did we make it, why even?
“What is your story?” KC, the one with the bag asks me. And while I talk it occurs to me that outside my partner and Ademola, this is the first time am talking about myself without pausing to think. I used to think there are few of us on earth.
“I assure you we are many,” KC corrects.
“Well, there’s no place for my love,” Soma declares. Till now, Ademola, KC and I had been doing the talking; KC counts his words though.
There’s this thing that without trying a man who’s been made a fugitive by the law does: in every situation he creates an exit strategy by not speaking freely and observing the room. KC is not relaxed. I might as well be a member of the DSS, Ademola has come to sell them like Judas. No one voices this, I know because I feel the same immediately I stopped talking.
“Nobody understands. Sometimes I just want to run, hide from the stars. I am tired of everyone’s eyes – looking at me like some dude who emerged from the trashcan.”
He stops to drink from the bottle of Star Radler tired of waiting for his touch. He is sweating under the ceiling fan pretending to be in motion. He is battling with some un-fond memories.
“Everyone makes jest of my butt, how big stuff is and how I behave like a woman.”
The content of the bottle is exhausted. I offer him more over the chicken and crisps. He doesn’t accept the drink yet.
“I don’t know what to say, there are lots of stories, what exactly do you want to hear?”
I don’t want to hear anymore. There’s much said already in the silence bordering where we sit, the silence is enormous. We know what we are saying without moving our lips.
“The guy accommodating me found out about my sexuality,” Soma says suddenly. I shoot my eyes at him from across the bar cum restaurant. “He is scared of me now; he is afraid I’d fuck him.”
“That’s absurd,” I say.
“We’d been friends for years and I hadn’t fucked him. How come he thinks that now? I know he wants me to leave the house but doesn’t know how to say it. He doesn’t eat anything from me anymore. It is depressing. I have lost everything.”
King Sunny Ade must really be the King of Lagos; “Let Them Say” comes up immediately, albeit not loudly, like the former on the street.
“Love will come,” Ademola assures. We hope.
*
Last night I did two things: told the random boy I met on Facebook he could be anything he wanted, dared the homophobe who fantasised raping and beating me.
“We are winning the war,” president Buhari assures Nigerians. Maybe the war against the right to live…
The next day on Facebook friends are posting RIP on the wall of the boy I had a chat with. He had committed suicide. Another boy who had been unknown to me till now has been flogged, punched and kicked multiple times by people who accused him of being gay. Another had run off their family house because he didn’t want anyone to know what he had been trying to hide.
I am in the streets looking for the rainbows, they are scattered all over, something about them, beautiful, reminding me of my childhood when I hid only from aunties and not from a country, the lost innocence.
Four days in Lagos, it is still raining and the roads are useless but the court of justice, the last hope of the common man, is still executing the common man.
My phone rings. It is one p.m. in the afternoon. Soma, he is calling to tell me that sometimes our angels are Lucifer in different shades.
“Our mutual friend is avoiding me. I told him I loved him, he said to give him some time. He avoids me everywhere; in the public, in a group chat. He dodges my greetings even. He pretends never knowing me.”
He sounds stressed. He wishes things are different. I assure him. I assure, hoping that the things I say to him make sense, even to me. They don’t.
One of the arrested boys, when he was released said: “I wish something could be done … about me. I am tired; I just want to live like every normal person.”
Jericho Brown’s “Homeland”, though maybe written as a result of the racial injustice in America, resonates with the situation of queer Nigerians.
Nobody in this nation feels safe, and I’m still a reason why.
Every day, something gets thrown away on account of long History or hair or fingernails or, yes, of course, my fangs.
*
At Oshodi, some people are gathered, not in a communal festive way, in a communal violent way. According to all the people I ask, said boy being torn apart is a renowned gay. I am staring at the stark naked beautiful man reduced to nothing.
In time of war we often pick a side. I look at all the people cheering for the head of the “animal”, the number is up compared to the few people advocating the boy being handed to the police. I am talking but my voice is not heard. I can’t even hear myself. It is my fear overcoming me. I am planning my exit.
No place is safe. I was a fool to have believed that some place was without a sin. All the bad things happening to people against the promise of a better life are happening in Lagos, in my own very presence. Maybe I had sung Nina Simone for Lagos to hear because of my brothers who came to make money but got lost in their pursuits. Never because of this, or I sang it hoping it would confess its sins by itself and now it has, I think.
There’s no place for my softness, my brokenness, my love. No place for my dreams. Nobody cares whether I live or die.
In “La Prieta”, Gloria E. Anzaldúa wonders why people enact violence on each other. I still haven’t figured the correlation between love and violence – familial bond and rejection. Why God had to demand blood before making Abraham the father of the world? Why in the movies witnesses seldom survive the night?
I am not the messiah. I am not the Moses. I dived into this river hoping to save the fishes from pollution. It is me against the tides now. I am drowning.
Maybe one day, as I pack my belongings into this backpack, stealing myself out the way I came, I’ll return, not in Lagos, but in Abuja, at the doorstep of the President, asking him why the country is not safe for even his cattle, asking why I have to die whenever I say love like rainfall, asking him how laws are made and how no one is even safe to say a prayer to their desires or deities.
One day I’ll ask the president a question, and it won’t be about the secret behind the erection of more religious buildings from the government’s purse, but why this essay has to be written in the first place.
Another scalding bath, radio on the urine-weathered floor playing Bohemian Rhapsody.
I’m standing at a mirror, naked and not yet dry, while someone looks at me while I look at me.
“You like ‘em, huh?” the voice asks. “Queen?”
Today I bit a kid’s ear off during lunch. At recess, I rammed the toe of my boot through another kid’s crotch. I didn’t apologize once.
In the mirror, the looking goes on.
“Yow-wee, that water was so dirty,” the voice says. “Wasn’t it? I’ve never seen anything so filthy.”
I already know every trick, but still I can’t stop my toes from twitching, my skin from prickling.
“In the morning,” the voice says, chin propped upon my clavicle, “that tub’ll need some serious scouring.”
Today I wrote my first poem. It rhymed and was about a girl I thought I liked. When she told me it was actually really shitty, I slapped her so hard her face spun around twice, though this all happened in my head.
“Don’t listen to what anyone tells you,” the voice says. “Dirty like that never gets clean.”
I tally hummingbirds that aren’t there. I calculate their wing speed while the bathroom fan sputters and croaks like a hearse stuck in neutral, telling me everyone’s home who shouldn’t be.
“But I’ll get you clean,” the voice says. “A different kind of clean, know what I mean? I bet you’ll like it.”
Today I heard a man once bounced around the moon, played a round of golf, though I don’t believe that either.
Today I counted to twenty-seven—the exact number of pubic hairs I’ve grown so far.
Today, I stole my brother’s switchblade and hid it in the drawer.
“Give me a smile for once,” the voice says, pressing scalding flint against my spine. “After all, you’re almost pretty when you smile.”
The voice has arms and hands and fingers that drape a towel across my shoulders, cotton catching the blood-stained bathwater as it drips off my cheeks and chin.
“See what I mean?”
Today I–
“With the towel around you that way,” the voice says, grinning and grinning while appraising me, “You look—what’s the word I’m searching for? Regal. Yeah, that’s it. My god, kid, you look like a queen.”
Imagine a cat, a stray, that became a woman every sunrise, a fierce black-haired woman named Lucia, who marched through the streets as though she owned them, although she was, in fact, homeless. In brown rags Lucia made her rounds, burst into restaurant after restaurant favored by the wealthy, stood aggressively close to the tables with their plates of sweet rolls and eggs and smoked fish. She thrust out a filthy hand and demanded money.
“You with your soft bellies, and me hungry. You can spare it!”
Her boldness was so shocking, so different from the other beggars in town, who kept humbly and quietly to the street corners, that most people complied with a coin or two, if only to get her to leave. Most that is except one old man, new to the city, Nico the rug dealer, with skin as rosy as ham, hair dyed the color of charcoal, angry blue eyes, and rings on every finger.
“Go away, you dirty slut,” he told her. “Shoo!”
“A little change is nothing to you,” Lucia spat back. “Those rings alone! And,” she hissed on tiptoe, leaning close, “if you lost each and every one, you would still eat, you old shit.”
Nico turned purple. Snapped his fingers and shouted at the wait staff. Two of them escorted Lucia roughly out. Her luck was bad that day – she collected scarcely enough for a small roll of bread.
After that Lucia searched for the old man. She relished a battle. It pleased her to enrage – it was, often, the only time people looked her in the eye. A few days later, she found old Nico eating stuffed trout under a green umbrella. This time, his eyes showed fear as well as rage. The waiters hustled Lucia away, but she savored victory nonetheless. The old man wondered how she’d tracked him down, she was certain of that. She chuckled as the waiters thrust her into the street. “I’m a hunter, you’ll never escape.”
That evening, right after sunset, when Lucia was once again a skinny black cat with golden eyes and a proud tail, she happened upon the lush garden of the enormous house that belonged to old Nico. She visited gardens throughout the city every night, lapped water from their fountains, hunted tiny mice and large crickets, slept curled on tiles still warm from the sun.
She wound her way along the high wall, daintily avoiding the broken glass mortared to the top, leaped to the branch of a jacaranda tree, shimmied down the trunk, and cautiously explored the perimeter of the garden, her ears alert, claws pricked in case there was a dog.
Instead, to her surprise, there was old Nico at a table on the patio, drinking a glass of sparkling wine, his bejeweled fingers straying now and again into a bowl of fat, salty nuts. His face sagged, the skin gray without sunlight. His thin hair was the dull black of a chalkboard. Only his blue eyes gleamed, like another pair of jewels. They watched the cat as she settled at the other end of the patio and began to groom herself. He smiled at her. Him! Lucia’s skin tightened but she kept working at her tail. He was, she saw, the sort of man who prefers cats to people.
What had made old Nico this way? Perhaps it was the nasty business of dealing in rugs. Decades ago in one of those difficult countries, he’d seen mothers sell their own children. In this place, he’d found his servant, Mezar, and taught him how to make a bed, set a table, and decant wine. Now that Nico was old, he and Mezar had come to live in this small pink city at the edge of the sea.
The old man called out to Lucia, his puckered mouth making noises somewhere between a kiss and a squeak. She ignored him, licking dust off her sleek belly. The garden smelled of jasmine and bird droppings. There was a pedestal fountain, and flowering vines, and glowing lanterns, and rows of thick hedges that contained the shadowed darkness she relished.
Nico finished his wine and gave a shout. Lucia, tracking the shy stink of a mouse behind a potted plant, froze, but it was Mezar he shouted at, a tall, strong man who came up quietly and poured more wine, and a few minutes later returned with a saucer of cream. Old Nico instructed Mezar to place the saucer at the edge of the patio, close to the cat but not too close. “Don’t scare her!” Mezar, dark and unreadable, studied the cat with his yellow eyes, and went back inside.
Lucia’s furry jaw hung open as she smelled the cream. She would wait to drink it until Nico left – safer that way. Several times, people had attempted to trap her with a lure; she’d escaped just in time. But once she completed her bath, she decided to tease the old man, who, now that she was a cat and not a woman, suddenly wanted to be friends.
Nico had finished his wine and gazed at the sky, at the faint stars that struggled to be seen in the city twilight. Lucia bolted across the patio in a sudden streak, and the old man shrieked like a hen. Slowly she circled back, approached his chair, and flicked her tail against his bony shins.
“You sly creature!” Nico cried. “Come, come.” He patted his lap.
She looked at him steadily, walked away and delicately lapped up the cream, her ears flattened backwards the better to detect a stealthy approach from behind. He seemed too slow to sneak up on her, and the servant was inside, but Lucia had been around long enough to know carelessness can be fatal. The cream was delicious, so sweet and fatty, and there was a lot in the saucer. She had not tasted anything so good in a long time. When she’d licked up every drop, she felt quite sleepy.
Old Nico himself appeared to be dozing. His eyes were closed, his head sunk to his chest, he had a thick blanket draped over his thighs. Up she jumped, claws sinking into the wool.
He yelped, and Lucia’s fur stood on end as she flew back into the hedges.
“No, no, come back, sweet!” he called. “My deepest apologies,” he said. “You startled me that’s all.” He patted his lap and danced his fingers across the blanket. Perhaps she should have jumped over the wall then and there, but the bellyful of cream made her lazy. Instead, she hid among the hedges.
He called again and again, but all cats know how to hide so they can’t be found. She heard the servant clearing the table and picking up the dish she’d licked clean. Mezar tried to coax old Nico inside where it was warmer.
“In a moment,” the old man said.
When Mezar had gone in with the dishes, Nico creaked up out of his chair. His slippered feet slapped the tiles and crunched on the gravel paths. He called out again with mouse-like kissing sounds. “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said. “I’ll leave my window open in case you want to come out of the cold. My bedroom is up there, on the second floor.”
He was inviting her to sleep with him! Safely hidden, Lucia rolled onto her back and laughed as only a cat can, silently, invisibly. “Fat chance,” she thought.
But after he’d gone inside, and the patio doors closed, she reconsidered. She’d not had a good night’s sleep in years. Even in the walled gardens where she preferred to spend the night, she must always be alert – on the lookout for dogs, other cats, large rats, insomniacs, early risers. Imagine a real bed, a real mattress! She couldn’t. She’d never slept in one. As a child, she and her mother dozed on straw. The old man was rich. His bed would be soft, warm, safe – too bad he was in it. She would look, just a peek.
She climbed the tree and from there saw an open window she could reach only by jumping through a space twice as long as she was, landing with a thump and scrabble on the ledge. Which she did. She peered into a large, dark room.
What a bed it was – enormous, canopied, curtained, a row of pillows lined up behind old Nico’s head like fat geese. His eyes widened and gleamed. They watched one another.
“Welcome, lovely!” he said, and patted the brocade bedcover.
Lucia stayed where she was. The room smelled of another cat, not a recent scent but ancient, from months ago, or maybe years. It smelled of the musty, perfumed old man. It smelled of lavender and pine. She didn’t trust it.
She watched as the old man slid deeper under the covers, and turned to one side, where he sighed, belched, and began to snore.
Night after night, Lucia visited, drank the cream, allowed the old man to scratch her furry neck, and hunted crickets and mice in the hedges. Sometimes she perched in the window and watched him sleep. There was never anyone else in bed with the old man; he always had the whole enormous mattress to himself.
Several times, quite late, she slipped into the house and ran silently through rooms filled with rugs from around the world. Archways, tiled hallways, sofas, and in one room a terrifying piano with black and white teeth. She investigated the toilets and sniffed the rugs, in which she detected donkey piss, cigarettes, goat milk, spilt coffee. She killed a cockroach or two.
Mezar the servant slept downstairs in a narrow bed off the kitchen. Even in his sleep he scarcely made a sound, his breathing deep and smooth, except when he dreamed and his eyelids twitched. Then, sometimes, he whimpered or snarled. He was handsome, with thick black hair and sleek muscles, but Lucia was afraid of him, a being so consumed by duty he seemed to have no desires of his own.
She always jumped out the window long before she felt the need to curl up, and always scaled the garden wall long before sunrise. There was a particular warm spot on the tiles where she liked to doze until the early hours, when the clatter of the garbage trucks told her it was time to leave, and where, on the other side of the wall, a pile of brown rags lay waiting to cover her.
Days, Lucia made her usual rounds. Her human hair was thicker and shinier from the daily bowl of cream. Not as hungry or as tired as before, her pleas were softer, and, strangely, coins poured into her hands. Instead of plain rolls, Lucia bought herself sandwiches piled with onions and grilled meat. A sliver of padding emerged along her ribs and narrow hips.
Now and then she spotted old Nico in a restaurant, always alone, glaring at other diners with his blue eyes. She no longer approached him in her human form, no longer had any desire to expose his ugly side, which lay right on the surface anyhow. She crossed streets to avoid him, and he didn’t even notice.
Late one night it rained, a downpour. Cold and drenched, Lucia jumped onto Nico’s windowsill. She made certain he was asleep, listening to his snoring before she entered. She investigated the edges of the room with its many odors, rubbed her wet fur on the Turkish rug, licked herself clean where dirt and leaves clung, blinked.
The old man was sitting up in bed staring.
“Well, hello,” he said, groggily but also gloatingly, a seducer who knows his victim has at last succumbed.
Lucia hissed.
“All right,” Nico said. “Never mind. Do as you please.” He turned onto his side and closed his eyes. She walked a circle on the rug, curled up. Wind blew in through the open window. Icy rain spattered the tile floor. She couldn’t sleep.
At last, she slipped under the heavy gold curtain onto the soft bed, the brocade quilt pleasantly rough against her fur, the mattress so soft it gave her the strange, almost frightening feeling of floating. The old man, though bony, was warm, a sharp heat, and the warmth reminded her of sleeping with her mother as a child. His scent when asleep was different, heavier, blurry, another blanket. She curled closer and closer, he under the covers, she on top, until they lay back to back.
She woke once to the old man stroking her fur. He whispered, “I think we shall become friends.” He lay a hand on her head, scratched it expertly, and began to snore. The vibrations were soothing. Despite herself, she purred.
In a moment, I’ll go, Lucia thought – as soon as the rain stops. The bed was so warm and so soft. Impossible to stop purring, impossible to stay awake. She kneaded the covers. If he tries anything he shouldn’t, I’ll scratch his face.
It rained all night, it didn’t stop. Because of this she overslept.
Morning came, cloudy, the sun floated higher; its dim light fell through the window and touched the bed. Lucia smelled the hot skunky odor of coffee brewing, opened her eyes, and found herself face to face with the old man, whose own eyes sprang wide.
“What the hell?” he shouted, his morning breath hot and foul. “You hussy! How did you get in! In my bed!”
Lucia scrambled away, the tile floor slick and slippery with rainwater. Impossible to spring out the window in her current form. She could already hear Mezar running up the stairs.
“You idiot!” she shouted back. “You invited me. That’s right, you left your window open for me night after night, fed me cream, called to me in those silly mouse squeaks. What a stupid, stupid man you are.”
Nico’s mouth hung open, his wrinkled hands plucked the quilt, his blue eyes were cloudy marbles. He tried to speak but all he said was, “Gah,” as if he’d had a stroke.
Lucia snatched the old man’s robe to cover herself.
Mezar arrived – tall, strong, angry – and grabbed Lucia’s shoulders and pushed her through the house, a mouse hooked to a claw, helpless. The house looked different through human eyes, all the colors, for one thing – the hallway was green, the bathroom red, the piano golden brown. A rich but treacherous place. She told herself it would be the last time she would ever visit.
Mezar shoved her out the high metal gate, a shove that sent her to her knees. “I don’t take kindly to trespassers,” he said. “Next time, I call the police.”
Insults quivered on her tongue but she kept them in her mouth. Police were everywhere in the wealthy neighborhoods and she knew how rough they were. Mezar wiped his hands on his trousers as if touching her had soiled them. He slammed the gate shut.
She stood, dusted off her scraped hands and knees. Immense walls on both sides of the street, the only signs of life maids and gardeners plodding up the hill to work. A police jeep slowed as it approached and she started walking.
It seemed as if she must still be asleep. The wet streets gleamed. The purple robe was light but warm. She reached the park and sat on a wet bench. Such a terrible old man, and his servant no better. Stunted, selfish, unhappy people. But the bed, the bed had been lovely. She’d never slept so well in her life. She closed her eyes and remembered the brocade quilt, the bloated pillows. She sat so still that after a while small birds began to hop along her knees and shoulders. Carefully she opened her eyes, admired their fluffy, juicy lightness. Her mouth watered slightly. Little innocents, they had no idea.
Of course, Nico’s window would no longer be left open. And, if it was, she couldn’t trust it. The two men could be plotting – a trap, a cage, a sale to the circus, as her mother had threatened whenever Lucia displeased her.
She slept in other gardens after that, under chairs, and inside sheds, hiding the robe somewhere safe for morning. She wandered the dusty outskirts of the city where people were poorer and thus more generous. She couldn’t say how she’d come to be the way she was because it was the way she’d always been.
Nico looked for her. Something like that should be locked up, studied, dissected. How dare she sleep in his bed under false pretenses! He hobbled from the center to the waterfront and back again, needing a cane to support his right side, weak from the shock of that traumatic awakening. He searched for a glimpse of wild black hair, his purple robe. He couldn’t find her, though daily he sat, waiting, in the very same restaurant where they’d first met. And as he waited and stirred his thick coffee, sipped a bittersweet aperitif, ate dumplings and slices of cake, strange thoughts entered his mind. He remembered her face that morning, how she’d looked neither cunning nor fierce but shockingly young and innocent. Her slippery, peeled nakedness. He tried to remember what he’d said to her and couldn’t. He remembered her eyes, amber, cat’s eyes.
He wondered what a life like hers was like, one animal by day, another by night, how lonely, so lonely. He himself was lonely.
Weeks went by, the rain heavy, and he worried. Perhaps the strange creature was dying or dead. What if one day he stumbled upon a hairy heap of black, neither woman nor cat. Should he try to save her? And for what? He’d seen the look in her eyes. She would kill him and laugh about it afterwards.
That winter was long. Nico drooped. He began to bite his nails and scratch the insides of his ears. His limp grew worse. He decided he needed a cat, a nice one that would sit on his lap. He sent Mezar searching for a kitten, and Mezar brought them home, little balls of energy – a gray one, an orange one, a tabby. But they never stayed. Their little tongues protruded as they smelled Lucia’s powerful musk, imperceptible to humans, an odor that told them that she was strong and ruthless, that this place was hers, and off they fled to other houses, other lives.
Spring came at last. The cherry trees in the park exploded with white blossoms, and Lucia trudged back into the city. She’d eaten nothing but stale bread and mice all winter. The padding around her ribs had vanished, her hair was dull, her skin ashy, the purple robe had faded to mauve. She smelled asparagus and peas, spring milk and sardines. By now, she hoped the old man and his servant had given up looking for her. She was hungry and tired of hiding.
The fizz of pollen, sweetness in the air, the longer days. People were distracted and generous. Lucia collected enough coins that morning to buy a cone of fried sardines from a corner pushcart. She took it into an alley to eat secretly, beggars should never be seen eating, and devoured the lovely crunchy fish, bones and all. She licked her greasy lips and continued down the thoroughfare. But a full stomach can dim the senses, make you careless.
Nico’s sharp blue eyes saw her before she saw him. He limped hastily out of the restaurant with his new jeweled cane.
They nearly collided. “Come back,” he said hoarsely. “My home is your home.”
No one had ever said such a thing to her.
Lucia sneered. “So you can trap me in cage.”
He paused. “No, no!”
Which should she believe – his words or the pause before them?
Lucia ran. Nico followed, making a fool of himself in front of everyone. But she was fast and he was slow. She disappeared among the alleys.
Nico ordered Mezar to search for Lucia. “Cat, woman, cat,” he stuttered, repeating this again and again, waving his hands. Nico handed Mezar a gold ring. “When you find her, give her this.”
Mezar believed the decline he’d feared for some time had come. He slipped the ring into his pocket and left it there. His fervid sense of duty was crumbling like rotten wood. When old Nico died, Mezar would be out of a job and a home. He had no intention of hunting for this cat-woman or woman-cat or whatever she was. Look at what she’d done to Nico. The old man could scarcely talk, and sometimes, worst of all, he wept. No, Mezar didn’t want to go anywhere near that silky skin, that silky fur, alarming things he’d spent a lifetime avoiding. He tucked Nico in at night and helped him out of bed in the morning and changed the sheets when necessary.
Late one evening, as she trailed the scent of roast lamb, Lucia found herself back on Nico’s quiet street. The truck and its portable grill had vanished, leaving nothing behind, not even bones. What a trial this stuffy neighborhood was! She’d seen no sign of either Nico or Mezar since Nico’s disturbing invitation, although she’d been particularly alert in case one or the other might sneak up behind to clap a net over her head. If only the two had vanished along with the truck of roast lamb. She sniffed at the base of their wall, not detecting much. Perhaps they’d been swallowed by Nico’s piano or maybe they had floated away on the enormous bed.
Curious, she climbed onto the garden wall and hid behind the purple jacaranda tree, ready to flee in an instant. The garden smelled of roses, a rat or two, the brief tenure of the kittens. A saucer of cream waited on the tiles. Lucia watched as Mezar helped the old man to a chair and swaddled him in thick blankets, although the night was warm. Nico was slowly dying, a strangely calming thing for a cat to witness.
She stayed hidden, as the old man was helped inside and to bed, as Mezar brought in the bowl of cream and swept the patio. She watched as the second-floor window opened. Listened as Mezar turned out the lights and whimpered in his own lonely bed.
What harm could they do to her now, these two sad creatures, one near death and the other weak with fear? Lucia trotted along the wall, along the long branch of the tree, and leaped. She jumped into the bed, sniffed at Nico’s cold nose and wrinkled ears, and nestled herself against his warm back. She slept all night. In the morning she stayed.
Was old Nico happy at last? It was hard to tell. He no longer spoke, his eyes were dim, but when she sat on his lap, his face relaxed and he scratched her neck. Who knows what his life might have been like if he’d been kinder sooner. In no time at all, Lucia gave birth to a vast litter, all of them fond of Nico’s quiet lap. No one knew who the father was. Was it Mezar, whose step was lighter, who sometimes even smiled as the children banged on the piano and tussled on the rugs, or was it old Nico, although that was hard to imagine, or had Lucia managed to produce her children through another kind of magic? She herself wasn’t saying, having become plump and languid. She drowsed and dozed and ate, curled in the garden with sardines and cream and pillows, as her lively offspring scrambled up the jacaranda tree and over the garden wall, sparkling through town.
The first time I shaved my legs, I was a few months away from my sixteenth birthday. No one was home when I locked the bathroom door, took a pack of six Bic razors and laid them out in a row on the side of the bath – their garish orange-ness offering me more hope than I’d felt in years. Climbing in, I stretched out my legs, pushing my big toes into the mouth of the taps. There they were: long, dark strands of hair covering almost every part of my legs. I shaved. When the lather ran out, I didn’t stop; I continued, rubbing the smoothness that had been underneath the entire time. I discovered marks, scars and bone shape I never knew I had, and when I finally dropped the razor into the soapy, hair-ridden water, the white bath had taken the brunt, almost completely covered in hair – a lazy apology for causing me so much grief. I took the shower head and blasted them into nothingness.
That moment unmasked more than skin and soon, everything my parents did annoyed me; I was ready to attack at any moment. If they spoke with their mouths full or mispronounced an English word, I snapped. I asked questions I knew they wouldn’t know the answer to just so I could magnify the difference between us. They had no advice to give me because they had never truly lived in the UK. We had been born at the same time and if I were to navigate the city, I’d have to do it on my own. The British me – once so obsequious – was demanding things that the Greek Cypriot me couldn’t deliver, and with bare legs and a new-forming self, I threw my own stone at the Greek Cypriot community – belonging was no fun when you had to be someone else.
And so it began: the forceps of British life yanked me out of my Greek Cypriot womb and with furious urgency, the next decade was spent cultivating a self. I refused to let a single person dictate a thing to me: wedding invitations from tenuous relatives were declined; visits to Cyprus were replaced with multi-trip holidays to America, India, Europe. When older relatives asked me if I was getting married, I looked them dead in the eye and told them there was no way I was living that life and they’d better get used to it. I spent endless days with books, reading my way out of ignorance, seeking the different minds I’d missed out on over the years. I learnt about people so far away from who I was that my appreciation of their lives alone made mine better. I went to university and studied a creative course. I travelled to obscure places that had my mum praying for me every night. I lived without tongue-biting, incense-burning or wood-touching. I experimented with choice, saying yes to some and no to others and I revelled in the different outcomes steered by me. I became ridiculously free, separate, self-grown. It worked. By the time I was thirty, I finally recognised myself in my actions; the things I believed in were mirrored in the things I did.
When I moved back home temporarily, it was like meeting my mum for the first time. One evening, we were eating glyko: crystallised fruit bobbing in copious amounts of thick syrup. She told me her family used to buy them from Varosha in Cyprus.
“Where’s Varosha?” I asked.
“Varosha is another name for Famagusta. Bappou used to drive us there every week where we bought glyko. We kept it on top of the fridge, saving it for special occasions.”
“I didn’t know you had such a sweet tooth, Mum!”
“Where do you think you get it from?” she smiled the way parents do when something affirms that we’re really their child. “When war was declared, the first thing I said to my sister was to get the glyko and eat it because we were going to die.”
I laughed, but her story reminded me that my rebellion, like a cancer drug, had killed off the good stuff as well as the bad. I asked for more, on an ardent mission for specifics, ready to learn about my own prologue from the safe distance of an authentic self. She spoke, narrating a story we had both buried for different reasons. I learnt about my grandad who swerved his car to avoid falling bombs; how they left their great-grandfather on his bed because he refused to leave his home; how Ammochostos means sand that covers because it’s so soft, you can hide in it. Her stories christened a Cypriot life I’d never known. Something inside me was waking up – now that I knew who I was, I wanted to know where I came from.
I’m still scared of something – my something, my mum’s something, her loss that had nowhere to go except into the pores of my own skin. I sometimes carry that coat on a sunny day, and often wonder what life would’ve been like had my parents been born British. But then, maybe we are all raised with lines that separate parts of us we had no say in cultivating. Maybe there is always a flit, a dance between different selves before we become who we are, and have the confidence to undulate freely between them.
I see the worms and I eat the fig anyway. I am no longer partitioned.
Sailboat
What if you die? What if you die before I die? I asked him. That’s when he decided we should drive to the bank. He took the bottle showing the percentage of the ingredients; matcha, ginger, kale, pear, spinach, banana and apple. A green smoothie bottle full of coins. He is the one who chose the smoothie, he is the one who transferred the coins into the bottle. At the Stadtmitte, the personal banker threw the coins into the counting machine. 750 ml of coins worth 79.80 Euros. He told the banker to deposit the money into my account. He told the banker we needed a Visa credit card in my name, linked to my debit card account. Told her, as I had told him, that the MasterCard debit card was useless in most places outside the continent. We had to wait ten minutes while she tried to pull up the card designs. “Slow connection”, she told him. “She can choose any when the connection is back,” I told him. “We have to wait, the design choice step precedes all the others,” he was right. She kept looking at the computer screen, looking at him, apologizing. The card designs were many. Overwhelming. Sailboats at sea, the Petronas Towers, Burj Khalifa, Eiffel Tower, winding paths with greenery on either side, slanting wine fields, BASE jumpers free-falling off dizzying cliffs and some already drifting away under colourful canopies, Swiss cows with full, pink udders threatening to burst open, and various flowers in various colours; pink, violet, yellow, red and more pink. I felt stressed. What I knew for sure was that I wouldn’t choose flowers, let alone pink. The woman doing yoga, I will go with the woman in the lotus position even though she is white. I giggled, the thought of walking around with a white woman doing yoga in my wallet, inserting her into POS terminals, handing her out to waiting staff. Don’t they have black ones? “Do you have black ones?” I asked her in English, pointing at the design. “Unfortunately not, but you can upload a picture of your choice and email it to us,” she answered in German, looking at me out of good manners and at him for translation I didn’t need. Sometimes, understanding was easier than talking. “Go for the one of the boat on sail,” he said. “The sailboat please.” He was right about the sailboat. It was my second preference after the yoga lady. But I had wanted to voice the choice myself; tell the banker my requirements myself.
Nine years after it ended, it started again, history repeating itself so elegantly it was like something out of Brideshead—
Oxford, choked in an Edwardian haze, everything still there, waiting—
The cemetery wedged at the junction on the Woodstock Road, boasting heavy green sycamores—
Colleges, once open to us, locked and alluring—
And I see you lean yourself delicately against the dark spikes of Wellington Square and it is golden—
My lips are smudged dark with wine and I invite you to my room, quickly, before we go to get a drink—
I make you climb three flights of stairs, holding my books, and wipe my lips on a towel, knowing you can see the lace of my nightwear on the back of the door—
*
That summer a self, that felt ancient and new and lay under my skin like a soul between blood and bone, shimmered and came to life—
Enchanted—
*
Autumn catches us and the enchantment sinks a little deeper as I watch—
Other couples take selfies of underwhelming cappuccinos, all knitted hats and Sunday mornings, sleep deprived and perky from all the sex—
I sneer at them, but as the syrupy summer evaporates and winter sweeps into view with a woman you have made promises to in tow, I, too, itch to document—
I tell my phone too much – who you are, where I am, enough that it becomes my familiar, my demon, my spirit companion and it turns on me—
I turn off the location settings, delete Instagram, try to remember what I would say about my day before, when I was not lying, practice some more, get a little better—
I begin to take photographs, usually just the one, and only landscapes, taken with my coat on and melancholy in my fingertips—
Most are of concrete landscapes from the corridors of hotels—
The first, a view over Covent Garden, Seven Dials specifically, is dramatic – bruised storm clouds and concrete—
Melancholy. I think melancholy is what makes affairs so good. The angst, which looks and tastes like the green yellow of unripe lemons, cuts against the euphoria—
*
Except it wasn’t an affair for you—
And it shouldn’t have been an affair for me—
*
When we sleep together, a fortnight after we meet in Oxford, after five years of being apart—
In a Travelodge in North London, I think of the first time in St. Anne’s College, almost a decade earlier, and like then, we are both unable to enforce a measured pace—
I think of the months that followed the first time—
The other girls you slept with—
The other boys I slept with—
The clumsy conversations about monogamy—
How we wouldn’t be “exclusive”—
*
We leave the hotel room and sit on metal chairs in a cafe—
My skin feels hot, my jeans too tight, and you look at your phone—
Explaining that you are trying to write a message to your girlfriend, telling her about last night—
I wonder whether I can buy a foundation thin enough but good enough to conceal the bruises on my thighs—
We order smashed avocado—
I pour oat milk into my coffee and make flat jokes about hipsters—
Part of me laughs at me—
As I watch you type—
And I know that I won’t tell at all—
*
December brings a westerly wind, straight from a storybook—
And a thick white fog that I sit in, outside a hotel, on the outskirts of Oxford—
The sky is black and grey and I sit in the car, the poetry in my hand black and white—
You only have hours before the airport pickup—
*
I don’t see you for a month—
And when I do, we drink wine by the river in South West London, and eat Bavarian food that I insist upon, have sex in a hotel room until we run out of condoms—
And we try a bit of functional polyamory—
go to an exhibition at the British Library—
as a three—
no one is sure whose date is whose—
we drink in a bar—
and she tells us stories from a decade neither of us really remember—
It was the early nineties and she was dropping acid in college—
And we were not old enough to attend school—
She tells me what it was like to be in Manhattan on 9/11—
I tell her about the sixth-form girls who had a portable radio in the changing rooms at school, and had tuned in to play the news—
And bug-eyed eleven-year-old me had asked what the twin towers were—
*
Spring comes and you leave—
On a cargo ship on a long fortnight—
Your girlfriend laughs every time you tell her your itinerary—
We have a kind of friendship now, and I laugh too—
She catches a flight, fortnights don’t exist in America—
I try to tell myself stories of our relationship—
our love affair has lasted since we were teenagers—
there is no domesticity to us—
I might smoke a joint with you but I won’t buy a pot of mint—
which is a shame—
because—
mint is good for tea and smells like tomorrow
and marijuana makes me nauseous…
I haven’t seen you, except on Skype, where your presence is—
An extra dimension of being—
You do it well—
*
As the enchantment seems to fade, and before I can feel nostalgic for our first summer, everything changes and I, too, am in New York—
There are volcanoes in the street, in the middle of the tarmac, tiny and angry, expelling steam from the subway—
I read Woolf’s diaries and letters, draw apples with soft pencils, whilst you work—
The fish that was on the wall in England is on the wall here and I ask you why it follows you—
Something about a boy you were in love with—
With glitter in his blood—
Who dumped you on Hallowe’en—
I smile when you say this and spend too long with acrylics painting a cat—
To go with the fish—
Because I too want to be something that you love—
I don’t ask where your girlfriend is—
or why she has seemingly vacated her apartment for us—
For reasons I don’t really understand—
and that you are reluctant to explain to me—
she no longer likes me—
I came because you asked—
And so we get to know each other a little better—
I learn I like you in a hat with a cigarette half in your mouth and your jaw tight for me to watch—
I try to remember to buy ice cream without nuts—
We get the ferry to Staten Island and watch pools of rose light on the water—
We walk through parks to the same grimy Italian diner—
We pit olives and talk about your mother—
And so we conduct an experiment—
We thank each other a little too much and give type-two solidarity apologies—
We talk about the conundrums of feeding cats vegan diets, the problems of ownership, whether activism is the rent for being alive—
The best way to kill a mouse—
Or not to kill a mouse—
Drink tea, throw kisses, the sounds of habits crystallising—
We run down the East River again and again, talk about weed dependency, oppression, the anti-fascist movement, stress dreams—
We try a few times to talk about abortion, eat ice cream, scramble eggs, sort each other’s laundry. We listen to music, drink wine, drink beer, take drugs, watch Scandi noir on Netflix and deplore the misogyny in Game of Thrones—
I cry on the subway about familial approval, you cry on at the platform at Union Square about abandonment—
We watch a cop menace a homeless man—
And try to stop it by just standing there—
I don’t know if it works—
We eat cider donuts, cycle through the city, make a friend on the L Train, go to thrift shops and art shops, argue over the merits of Central Park—
We try to decide whether to worry about hurricane Irma, drink too many milkshakes— And then your girlfriend arrives—
And I leave—
And autumn comes—
And now—
I can hear the puff and blow of the sea, the Atlantic, the East River that is not a river actually but a tidal estuary, I can hear its puff and blow on your breath, your voice through your nose as you say you would have loved it there all the coke and mirrors and you describe your three-night party in a dark green bit of Pennsylvania, although Pennsylvania is gold to me and what you tell is a circus of debauchery under a thick cold canopy of early Advent nights—
I’m interested because it is not my life right now and then you say and there was a really cool drug and I try not to let my voice blink like I didn’t let it blink when you told me that you had taken MDMA the last ten evenings in a row – how are you not so sad you want to die?—
Or when your girlfriend, whose intensity now exhausts me, tried to break up with you because she’d misheard something you’d said—
But it is a really cool drug that you are telling me about it is a mixture of heroin and coke and I cannot stop myself I ask heroin heroin?
Although I heard it, yeahhhh deliciously dangerous but they had run out—
We have a pact not to die, remember? I say—
And you laugh and I can no longer hear the puff and blow of the sea or the whir of sky trembling above it because you have switched off your fan and dropped your rollie in the bathtub and you say lightly, a repetition from a night in the summer on a balcony, I thought it was you that wanted to die young—
I let some round, symmetrical seconds clunk and bump by and I say as lightly as you, oh I do, I do, I’m only half committed to life itself, like everything else, for now.
*
We practice bad habits on everyone else and I think that is why our relationship has the rub of perfection, but it’s been weeks since I’ve heard you ache for me—
I lie to others—
And I’m unsurprised your girlfriend feels she has given up her life for you—
But maybe you are oblivious to your charm—
*
After you – the first time – I used to test other people’s mouths for the taste of coffee and smoke, you made the taste of smoke black, grey and erotic for me, but it is your words that are my pleasure. I listened for them on others and now I wish for my abandoned confidence of then—
I am in love with the discovery of other people’s perception of me; I like to think of it as a narcissism that is superior to plain narcissism because it is nuanced. I pass the time you are gone by going on enough dates to cultivate the perfect persona, the one where my anecdotes are funny, self-deprecating but salted with slight arrogance, that my confidence is winsome and I can twist an admittance of my beauty out of them. The ones that do this, I fall into bed with, and the ones who subvert this I keep around, confused, for months, while I wonder whether to dump them or fall in love with them—
I’m not really sure who you think likes coke and mirrors—
but as I change the cartridge of my pen, sip mint tea, try to conceptualise us again—
I just cannot think
it can be me.
He hadn’t slept in two days and held a human heart between his palms like clay. This was the last painful hurdle before bed. He worked his magic, the frail man on the operating table survived, and the lights all faded out like dying constellations as the staff left the sterile room. Alone, he ran his hands beneath scalding water and watched the crimson streams from his gloves finally run clear. A cough erupted from deep inside his chest. The noise echoed against the walls and flew back at him. When he looked into the mirror ahead, his grey eyes drooped, and his lips tightened around his teeth. Here, each night, he was presented with the same choice. The same test he usually failed.
“Get rest, old man,” the young nurse playfully called to him from behind the counter where she shuffled patients’ files like playing cards.
It was all the same game of luck, really. The doctors tried their best. The nurses tried their best. But the universe played out its hand each time and if the cards were low, there was nothing to be done. He liked that freedom. Each and every time he could simply do his best. He put his heart and soul into the surgeries and prayed silently beneath his paper mask. But the choices he made were clinical. Decisions he was trained for after years of school, practice, and intuition. As he got into his car, hours before anyone else would reasonably get up, the street lines blurred and he slipped his phone onto the seat next to him.
She had texted three times. His wife, however, hadn’t messaged him once all day because she was busy with the children and a dying mother and knew eventually her husband would return to her. His mistress, though, enjoyed no such security. At least she didn’t think she did, so she piqued his interest with stories of her day. A man had hit on her at the corner bodega, offering to buy her the ripest peaches. The doctor pounded his steering wheel a little, jealous. She mentioned a job offer in Arizona where the air was dry. He gripped the wheel, digging in his nails, as if he could grip her hands, too, and keep her from leaving Philadelphia.
The last text simply said “I need you,” and he swerved off the freeway, making a quick turn back towards the city whose lights were harsh against his eyes as a headache pulsed up from the base of his neck. He took medicine. He sipped water. He thought of texting his therapist who sometimes, not usually, but sometimes convinced him to get back on the freeway, but tonight he had no strength left. His shoulders ached beneath the bones. The city pulled him back as if he were caught on a string. Soon, he entered her parking garage and used the spare key, letting himself into the slick apartment where she had presumptuously set two plates and poured bourbon.
She knew his last surgery ended at one and that he had two luxurious days off. His wife had no idea, because he never gave her the real schedule. Doing so would mean he would be forced to make the right choices. The real luxury of two days off was being able to choose what to do with his time.
“You never messaged me back,” the mistress scolded.
“No time,” he mumbled, taking the drink all at once and pushing the glass forward, a silent request for another.
“So you make time. I worry when I don’t hear from you.” She unwraps her hair from its bun and lets the burgundy curls hang over his shoulder as she embraces him and presses her cool lips against his neck.
“Never worry. It’s frantic on surgery days and if I’m not careful, a nurse could see my phone and our messages. What if they told my wife?”
She withdraws and moves to the kitchen, picking up a peach as a silent threat, now pressing her lips against the soft fuzz. See? the action says. Other men want me just as much as you do. And they are not tethered to wives. This is her punishment when he brings up his wife, but he is compelled to do it each visit to torture her … or himself. He isn’t sure.
“You’re pale. Eat the dinner. I’ll get you another drink.”
She is a masterful cook. The food anchors him to the table and the room. There is no space for his confused thoughts between the meal and the way her body moves as she tells him about her day. He feels the heat return to his own dogged frame and soon he wants nothing more than to be next to her. They met accidentally seven years ago in the train station. She dropped her bag, and its contents scattered along the cement cracks. He picked up each piece to help her, and he felt needed. He felt like he was getting to know her with each item, gently placed back in her black gloved hand. It was a scene from a film. It was the moment the hero, or the villain, wakes up to the world.
In her apartment, after they eat and make small talk, he delivers the line perfectly that he must say each time.
“I’ve got to get home soon. I can’t stay the night.”
She shakes her head. Not yes or no but an understanding that their time is finite, and she should know better than to hang her hopes on this relationship. But she’s become too fond of him to let go and when they kiss, she’s back at the train station, too. He is neatly picking up the scurrying pieces of her scattered life and handing them back to her. Love is strange that way. Never kind, in her experience. At least, he is the kindest man she has been with in some time.
This man, she tells herself, is built to save lives.
*
In the bedroom he is precise, undoing her dress and bra, folding them and placing them into the hamper. She rolls on the bed, wrecking the sheets before he gets in, not allowing him to be precise there. She is his tornado, and he releases his fears and frustrations, moving with her the way a grain of sand navigates the stormy dessert. He is utterly enthralled and despite his best intentions, he falls asleep in her tangled arms, exhausted.
His wife is used to his absence, he tells himself. She is better when he’s not there. Perhaps happier.
In the morning, after sleep and coffee, his life comes into focus and his mistress is wound tightly again. She is dressed for work and will not look him in the eyes because he is leaving, and they never share two nights in a row. He won’t go to the hospital now. He’ll drive across the bridge and find his small neighborhood where the morning has raced along without him. He will shower in the basement, then climb the stairs and emerge a new man to his family.
“I’m taking the job,” his mistress announces as he laces his shoes and stretches out a cramp behind his shoulder blade, readying himself to find his way again.
“That’s a shame,” is all he can muster. He has already left her apartment in his mind and second-guesses the space his absence leaves in his home. He is imagining the bed his wife slept in alone. The sheets are barely crumpled, and half of it is desolate because it is unused. He swore he wouldn’t stay the night here, but he always does.
“You’re sick,” she says to him.
“I hope Arizona is beautiful,” he lies, because she won’t go and he won’t let her go. He may know the mechanics of how a heart works, but he is utterly unaware of the magic it can hold over someone.
“I’ll send you postcards and pictures that will make you ache,” she swears, slamming the door behind her.
On the highway, he plays old music. Loud music that reminds him of reckless days when so much wasn’t at stake. His muscles are sore, and his phone vibrates against his hip.
I need you the message says, only this time it is his wife, and a string of mundane items from the grocery store follow. Except he ignores the rest and clings to the first three words. I need you.
After running the errands, he enters the basement and steps into the scalding shower. In his mind he recites the rest of his week. Four surgeries. Four card games where he can only do his best. When he turns off the water and stands naked, dripping, and confused, he realizes what a shame it is that he can equally fix and break hearts so easily. The mistress. His wife. His own.
The cherry trees shed their electric-pink cherry blossoms this time of year and they collect absolutely everywhere, clogging up the drains and heaped high and dense against every corner and kerbstone, too.
Sometimes, though, there’ll be a peculiar wind’s risen and they’ll be lifted up and blown all about the place only to, once in a very rare turn, eventually come to rest in some completely bewildering pattern. There are vortex like shapes, sometimes, to these cherry blossom arrangements nature gifts the observer.
At dusk, when the light is best, and this is especially when I’m tripping balls, I’ll go out walking in the neighbourhoods…to see what I can see.
I love it this time of year, when the time is on the turn, when the birdsong becomes more cheery, when the raven call and the raven that regales us with that gloomy cry of his, shuts up shop for the season and goes God knows where.
There is optimism. The air is not so frigid, not at all, but we’ve not yet been subjected to the punishing heat of high summer so far, either.
Not that we’ll have long to wait, soon as May arrives. It seems this last 6 years, give or take, July and August, the traditionally sunny and bright and warm months – every day a halcyon day and just gorgeous during those two months – well, that all comes a little earlier now, mid/late May right through June, then it tapers off July, after which there’s nothing but muggy days filled morning, noon and night with rain.
*
One day in July I’d never seen such a deluge inundate the land as it did, and on that particular day of note in these parts, too: The Glorious 12th of July, as the natives called it.
I was living on the edge of the hinterlands then, working for a bankrupt circus and much too settled in on a very bad set up, domestically.
Anyway, on this very, very wet Glorious 12th, I’m stood in a shop doorway, smoking, keeping dry and waiting to start my shift at the circus.
I’m taking quick, rapid wee draws from my feag then holding off a good spell, trying to make it last, stretch it out before I’ve to go clock in at that hell factory I worked for.
A pair of men, decked out in their soggy regalia – garments that are in keeping with a strict observance of the Glorious 12th – shuffle into the shop doorway and huddle up round me, shivering and wet.
They look up at me, the rain pooling in the brims of their bowler hats. One of the men, his gloved hand, starched white – immaculately white the glove this man wore over the hand he was now thrusting out into the pouring rain – this man observed that, “…the rain, this lashin’ rain’s A Taig!”
And I really did scream the place down, laughing: such casual bigotry and such profundity in the one breath – that you could assign a sectarian pejorative to rain, rain that’s as old as night & day…as old as hate.
*
Anyway, the cherry blossoms; where we came in: those electric-pink petals strewn thick across the paths on which I passed.
So I’m going along, stoned, thinking about things. I’m looking up every drive of every house in the neighbourhood I’m passing through – the demographics here where I find myself being firmly middle-to-upper-upper class – and these houses are just so beautiful, too: French Windows, Juliet Balconies, topiary, a vintage sports car with its top down, sitting resplendent and never-driven (only for show) under the shade of a big Sycamore Tree.
But what draws my eye most of all, and just melts my heart as well, is this mass of staggeringly pink cherry blossoms running up the entire length of any driveway I happened to dander past, and right out onto the footpaths upon which I’m walking. It’s like a red carpet at a movie premiere…only pink.
Suddenly I’m struck by its resemblance to confetti – a sort of sad confetti – confetti that’s been scattered by over-enthusiastic guests at a wedding that’s already been cancelled the morning of the Big Day. Sad, useless and unexpectedly superfluous confetti.
And it all draws my mind back to that Glorious 12th, huddled in the doorway with those two men, them stooped and with shoulders slumped, weighed down by their heavy, wet clothes.
When they saw that the rain wasn’t for quitting, one of them said to the other, ‘Let’s just go back out into it, Sammy. We’re already as wet as we’re gonna get. Can’t get no wetter.’
‘You’re right, old hand,’ said Sammy. ‘Let’s go.’
And out they went, to get no wetter than they were already.
And as I watched them go, a shift occurred in my outlook: it’s as bad as it’s going to get, can’t get no worse, and you can’t get no lower…so…you either go up, or you go sideward – and if you’ve the means to go up, you go up…and if you’ve not the means to go up, you go sideward.
So I went sideward: swapped out one bad set up for only a very slightly improved one.
I tossed my smoke over a railing and I exited that shop doorway, and I never clocked into the circus that night, either.
I walked through the rain to the outskirts of the place I was living in, out on the edge of the hinterlands, and I hopped on the last bus out of there.
Gone.
The intricate sensations of coupling
Long-Drive Wistful
I have to cough bad, but she’s draped on me, asleep. I mustn’t rouse her. The strap-on is still wet, cold and ribbed and textured like an eel. My emotion is: long-drive wistful. Long-drive wistful is when you’re on the highway and see shadowy woods to explore. Long-drive wistful makes you book a vacation to a tropical island to go free and walk into the hills.
The phlegm shifts with each breath. We’d mated like frogs, my sticky fingers groped around her stomach. They call it applexis, how frogs fuck, my chest forcing her down, her eyes vacant just above the waves of bedsheets that she can hardly suck air through. The buckle chafes my hip and I’m not dominant but she likes the way we do it. Me personally, I wish we could mate like birds, with cloaca. It would feel even, the kiss of two cloacae.
I mustn’t cough or she’ll be disturbed. My soft animal body doesn’t care for this vacation climate. They say this island is alive but it’s not a vacation, no colonized vacation destination could be anything but Hold You Down and Enjoy. Its wildlife is unafraid, zoo-like. I booked the trip on a website that traps you, when the back button just refreshes the page. She wanted a rent-a-trailer with a hammock. I count how she’s touching me to distract myself from coughing.
Her inner thigh on mine: this thigh was used to kick footballs, all the way through high school. She was the striker on the intermural club. There was a manboy, her teammate. I’ve seen pictures of his handsome face, his dark grin. He planned long-term. He touched her here, a question posed to her inner thigh, and she closed it in a broomish sweep—a story I once loved.
Her elbow on my chest: my chest is flat and mistrustful and her elbow digs it. How many people have thought about her elbow? It’s not her most notable bit, just a hinge. She’ll bend it at a 90-degree angle, hand sculpted flat, when she pontificates about how the manboy won her over in college. “All in the past,” she’d say. No one can make a perfect 90-degree angle, not even mathematicians—it’s always a little bit off, in one direction or another.
Her chin in my neck: I never touch her chin, but she grabs mine when she talks down to me, when I mess up the grocery list, when I get upset about him, being ridiculous. I seem to be upset about him more often these days. I hate that she can fall in love with any shape and I can’t. I hate that he convinced her, that she gave in, when I can’t even cough. He planned long-term. Her chin is kneading my throat; I’m paralyzed with silent wheezes.
Her bare toes on my ankle: a relationship, especially if it’s scent-mixingly insular like this one, is mucky to watch fail. She was my biggest success. It was her toes that delivered her to me, because she’d painted insects on the nails, and I knew each species. I approached her about the stump stabber, which deposits its eggs in the larvae of the horntail wasp, hidden deep in wood bores. I told her that being a host organism, cultivated for another’s end, is just about the worst gig in the world. She said: what about a sucker stuck in a cobweb?
Her belly, slightly swollen against mine: we met because we both majored in biology. We vacationed to see flora and fauna, but really we vacationed because we’d been fighting. I’d seen the manboy’s name bloom out of her phone screen too many times, his faintly submarine glow on a late-night ceiling. “Just friends,” she’d say, making 89 and 91-degree angles, grabbing my chin. But I know that every time they get back together they exclaim about how they just can’t stay apart.
Her wrist, cuffed in the bracelet he bought, because? ‘You’re paranoid’: I cough hard. Buck up phlegm. My quisling brain says ‘STOP’ but I say ‘NO’ and hack great abrasive woofs against her. Heaves rack our bodies like earth tremors, the hammock swings, the suspension bucks, the split sidewalk swallows our Winnebago when I suck in, and she wrenches away from me, always her first instinct.
Moments later I’m gone. She’s slumbering peacefully again in her web, more than welcome to jog back to you-know-who in the morning. My pack is heavy but I’m walking free in to the hills. I lope into undergrowth, breathing vacation air, breaking lonely silk strands on my arms, some still attached to spiders, which swing like pitted ornaments from my elbows and shoulders, a twinkling dress. I am immensely pleased, and the dull itch of long-drive wistful fades behind me.
_______________________
Carlos and John had been business partners for many years and both men knew that Carlos would never have had the courage to start a business had it not been for John. John, after all, was a trustworthy man. He was tall and thin and yet weighted heavily with a kind of seriousness that settled like sand inside him. He was a man of great stature, too, and had a stray wisp of black hair that curled over his left eyebrow, a genuine laugh, and a gift of discerning intuitively what others wanted, leaning his tall figure down to listen, really listen, to what others had to say. Carlos was a small jovial man, with hardly any hair at all, a man who was practical by nature and yet shyer than people suspected. He felt comforted by the serious nature of his friend maybe because he himself felt vacuous some days, hollow, like the bones of a bird.
Carlos, his wife, and his three grown children trusted John intimately and all were grateful for the way he had been there for them throughout their lives whenever problems arose or advice was needed.
In turn, John was grateful for Carlos and his family. Carlos helped him gain confidence when reading the fine print of contracts and when sifting through the tricky minutiae of negotiations, and he loved that his friend trusted him to lead conversations during business lunches. And Carlos’s family accepted him for all he was and all he wasn’t in a way that his own parents never had. Carlos’s family had become John’s family. As the years flew by, the two men’s business efforts paid off. Their business was in something like the insurance industry but Carlos’s wife was never sure she could explain the business’s machinery to anyone but her children.
John had been there when Carlos and his wife were married, when Carlos’s children were born, and when those children went on to marry and have businesses of their own—just as Carlos and his family were there for John when he bought his first apartment in the trendier suburbs of Toronto, when he went through a health scare (that he would never tell his parents about), and when he decided to stop drinking alcohol.
On Sunday afternoons, they often dined together—John, Carlos, and Carlos’s three grown children—and the conversation would sometimes turn to esoteric subjects. One Sunday, the subject was happiness.
“Happiness. It’s a state of euphoria, wouldn’t you say?” one of Carlos’s children said.
“But it can arrive calmly, too,” Carlos nodded, putting a piece of chicken in his mouth.
“Happiness is having what you want, loving what you have, and not needing anything else,” Carlos’s wife said with her knife and fork upright above her plate.
John swallowed a warm mouthful of mashed potatoes, which got stuck slightly in his throat. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Whatever it is, it’s temporary.”
“Surely that’s how it’s supposed to be,” Carlos said. “That way we appreciate it when it inevitably flies off into the distance.”
“Maybe,” John said, pushing back the black wisp of hair from his forehead. He reached out and lifted his glass to his mouth, taking a sip of water. He sighed just enough for Carlos’s wife to put her hand on his arm as a way of comforting him.
John knew his friend was only truly happy when he felt the plane taking off at the start of a business trip, his forearm resting near the forearm beside him. Sometimes, if the two men had a blanket around them, they would hold hands as the plane separated itself from earth.
That Monday afternoon, as they arrived in the hotel room, Carolos unpacked his things immediately as he always did. He put everything neatly into drawers and hung his suits, while John scattered his clothes loosely about, here and there, leaving most of his clothes jumbled in his suitcase. The two men joked about the need for one hotel room—to save money—as they always did before lying down next to each other, still joking, still smiling.
When they settled beside each other on the bed, both men said how exhausting the flight had been and Carlos moved his arms around John’s waist and John slipped his legs into Carlos’s, pulling him near, and then nearer, until the two men together, devotedly, tenderly, tucked themselves away under the sheets of the day, a day in which want, love, and happiness peacefully if temporarily slept.
Translated from the Spanish by Allana C. Noyes.
I’d spend hours looking out my bedroom window at the glaciers that encircled the village where we lived. I’d lose myself, following the arc of birds migrating through the sky and wonder about the animals here before, if there really had been foxes, wild horses, other creatures.
One morning I peered through the kitchen window, and there he was, next to the bush, that great artic wolf wagging its tail. This was the fifth time this week he’d showed up, standing in front of our house. It was as if he’d come looking for me, calling to me, as if he wanted to show me something unknown.
I finished my oatmeal and placed the bowl in the dishwasher. I slipped on my jacket and went out the front door.
The sun poured down, glistening through his thick white coat, his sky-blue eyes giving off an air of self-assuredness. Spring had arrived, bringing all its kindliness to our village after an especially harsh winter, casting its renewed strength over the pines and fields of wild flowers down the valley.
The animal straightened its body, pointing its tail up which flitted back and forth, both ears rigid as two cones and began trotting down the road as if inviting me to follow. I walked behind him down the main road until the highway’s juncture. We crossed over it, trampling through a green meadow until coming to a lake recently borne from another glacier’s melting. The artic wolf approached the water’s edge, bent its muzzle down and lapped at the frigid water. Before us stretched out the towering mountain range, still working to rouse itself from yet another long winter. The wolf drank again. Then, shaking out his fur, began to walk along the lake’s shore until he arrived at the mountain’s base. He was familiar with this trail and was guided by the scents as they entered his snout. He walked sure of himself, body erect, sniffing out the obstacles that earth had placed in his path. When I stopped to rest I felt as if my lungs were folding in on themselves and the wolf fixed its piercing eyes on me, wagging his tail as if to signal that I mustn’t stop. We climbed for several more hours until we arrived at a crystalline stream and that’s where we finally stopped. We lapped up the glacial water.
As I sat in the field looking down into the valley we’d crossed, I felt a shiver run through my body, my hair standing on end. How far did we trek? Thirty, forty miles? The sun was beginning to set, and I could hear the sounds of animals coming from different points on the mountain. Foxes emerging to hunt? Wolves in search of fresh prey? It was no secret that many had lost their way in the foothills of this mountain range, and everyone knew it was prohibited to venture out on the glaciers. Bears maybe, or who knows what other animals, I thought, swallowing hard. The wolf howled. I cursed myself for following this wolf out here, it was as if he tricked me, luring me straight to a pack of starving beasts. I could almost feel the animals nestled among the rocks following me with their eyes, waiting for their moment to pounce. My heart pounded in my throat, my stomach sank. I looked out at the lonely barns on the plain. Just beyond the lake, I could make out the woods and the houses of the town lined up in three main streets, but they seemed so far away, so inaccessible from where I was seeing them. I felt the sweat coming down my back.
Something in me fell silent. Time stood still.
The water rushed down pure and diaphanous from the mountain, bestowing life upon the town. I thought of how those small and secluded houses had been accepted into the fold of this mountain range’s millennia-old life. I watched the wolf with his extra senses, the subtle sounds emanating from all around us. Without changing his rigid posture, he sat next to me. I stroked his chest with the palm of my hand and with his damp tongue he licked my wrist, assuring me that he knew the way home better than anyone.
Allana C. Noyes is a literary translator from Reno, Nevada. She holds an MFA from the University of Iowa and in 2015 was granted a Fulbright to Mexico. In 2018, she was awarded the World Literature Today Translation Prize in Poetry. Her translations have appeared in World Literature Today, Asymptote, Lunch Ticket, Exchanges, and are forthcoming with Catapult/Soft Skull in the Tiny Nightmares Anthology of Short Horror Fiction.
El camino del lobo de hielo
Pasaba horas enteras en la ventana de mi habitación mirando las montañas con sus glaciares que rodeaban la aldea en donde vivíamos. Me perdía mirando las aves en cielo migrar. Me preguntaba si de verdad había zorros, caballos salvajes y otros animales.
Una mañana me asomé a la ventana de la cocina. Al lado de un arbusto, vi aquel lobo ártico, moviendo la cola. Era la quinta vez en esta semana que venia, y se paraba al frente de nuestra casa. Pareciese como si hubiera venido a buscarme, como si me hablara, como si quisiera enseñarme algo importante. Me terminé mi plato de avena y dejé la vasija en el lavaplatos; me puse mi chaqueta y salí al jardín.
El sol brillaba potente sobre su pelaje abundante blanco. Sus ojos celestes se imponían con seguridad. La primavera había llegado con gran bondad a nuestra aldea tras un prolongado invierno; proyectaba su nueva fuerza en los pinos y flores silvestres del valle. El animal se posicionaba recto, su cola apuntaba hacia arriba haciendo movimientos pequeños y sus orejas se mantenían erguidas como dos conos.
Empezó a caminar calle abajo, como si me invitara a seguirlo. Empecé a caminar detrás de él por la calle principal hasta llegar a la carretera; la atravesamos; y caminamos por la pradera verde hasta llegar a una laguna que se había formado tras el derretimiento de otro glaciar; el lobo se acercó a la orilla, inclinó el hocico y empezó a beber del agua fría. Frente a nosotros se erigía aquella cordillera inmensa despertando aun del largo invierno. Volvió a beber agua. Se sacudió el pelaje, y empezó a caminar rodeando la orilla del lago hasta llegar al pie de la montana; conocía bien el camino, se guiaba oliendo cuanto encontraba frente de su hocico; avanzaba seguro de sí mismo, cuerpo recto, oliendo cuantos obstáculos la tierra o el hielo le iba interponiendo.
Cuando me detuve sintiendo como si mis pulmones se empezaran a encoger, el animal clavó sus ojos garzos a mí, movió la cola y se acercó como pidiéndome que no me detuviera. Continuamos ascendiendo por varias horas hasta llegar a un arroyo cristalino, allí nos detuvimos. Bebimos del agua glacial.
Me senté en el prado mirando el valle que habíamos recorrido. Sentí un escalofrió en todo mi cuerpo, mis pelos se pusieron de punta. ¿Cuánto habíamos avanzado? ¿Veinte, treinta, cuarenta millas? El sol empezaba a descender. Varios sonidos de animales llegaban desde diferentes puntos de la montaña. ¿Eran zorros que salían a casar? ¿Eran lobos que buscaban nuevas presas? No era un secreto que muchos se habían se habían perdido en el pie de esta cadena de montañas, era bien sabido que era prohibido caminar en los glaciares. ¿Y los osos? ¿Y cuántos animales más que no conocía? pensé, tragué saliva con dificultad. Maldije el momento en el que decidí seguir a este animal; sentí como si aquel lobo me hubiera engañado para entregarme a una jauría de animales hambrientos. El lobo aulló. Sentí como si los animales me observaran escondidos entre las rocas esperando para atacarme. Sentí el corazón en la garganta, el estómago encogido. Observé las granjas aisladas en la planicie. Mas allá del lago, podía ver el bosque; las casas del pueblo se presentaban ordenas en las tres calles principales pero lejanas e inalcanzables desde donde las observaba. Sentí las gotas de sudor bajar por mi espalda.
Todo quedó en silencio en mi interior como si el tiempo del mundo se hubiera detenido.
El agua seguía bajando pura y cristalina de la montaña abasteciendo de vida al pueblo. Sentí como si desde hacia mucho tiempo atrás aquellas casas ya hubieran sido aceptadas por la vida milenaria de la cadena de montañas. Observé al lobo que seguía con todos sus sentidos los sonidos que emanaban de desde diferentes lugares. Se acercó a mí sin perder su postura. Se sentó a mi lado. Le sobé el pecho con la palma de la mano; él me lambió la muñeca con su lengua húmeda como asegurándome de que el conocía mejor que nadie el camino de regreso a casa.
Best known for her food writing, in Map of Another Town the American writer M.F.K. Fisher takes us on a virtual tour of the French town of Aix-en-Provence. She first moved there not long after the Second World War, taking her two young daughters with her, and this book covers two periods of the family living in Aix.
Fisher covers many aspects of living in Aix and paints a vivid portrait of the town and its inhabitants. We meet various people, from her inimitable landlady Madame Lanes and her head servant Fernande, to the stately waiter Ange, who works at The Glacier where Fisher and her children often eat. Mary and Anne, her daughters, are ever present in the book and we see them growing up through the two periods of residence, which took place some years apart. When the Fisher family first moved to Aix the effects of the Second World War were still being keenly felt, and nowhere was this more apparent than in the townspeople.
Describing Madame Lanes, she writes: “She was on guard when I first knew her, wary but conscious of the fact that she had survived the Occupation (which was really three: German, then Italian, then American) and had escaped trouble in sprite of being such a staunch worker on the Underground for all of its duration. She was remote and hard … When I saw her next, in 1959, she was younger. A year later she was younger still.”
The book is structured into twenty chapters, each of which concentrates on a particular theme, such as the lively main street in the town, or the two cafés that Fisher and her daughters frequent. Most chapters are subsequently split into three or four shorter essays, all loosely linked by the chapter’s theme. I really like the way the book is structured. The reader is taken back and forth through time, and is able to wander around the town with certain characters crossing our paths time and again, like old friends. One minute you are wandering down the Cours Mirabeau listening to the great fountains, the next you might be stepping down carefully down the narrow, slightly eerie Passage Agard, where the daughters think they are being haunted by a gypsy woman.
Regular readers of Fisher’s work will be used to her delectable food writing and there are some delightful flashes of it in Map of Another Town – she can make even the simplest ham baguette sound absolutely delicious. Describing one of the great pastry shops in the town, she writes: “the shop always smelled right, not confused and stuffy but delicately layered: fresh eggs, fresh sweet butter, grated nutmeg, vanilla beans, old kirsch, newly ground almonds…” If I close my eyes, I am transported into that bakery and I can smell it.
What really works for me in this book isn’t just Fisher’s writing (full disclosure: I was already a big fan of hers) but the way she takes us off the beaten track and away from the tourist attractions, really introducing us to the life and the heartbeat of the place. We meet doctors, tramps, priests, neighbours, students, shop owners and more, all of whom are described with intimacy and in Fisher’s trademark style. I have never been to Aix but after reading Fisher’s descriptions and after tracing her own personal map around the city, I would love to visit there myself and seek out some of these places – and ultimately create my own map of this town.
Map of Another Town is out now from Daunt Books.
They are your earliest memory. Beaked noses. Hair like clouds. You’re a child, four at most, and wear the dress your mother bought, the socks with scalloped edges. Your mouth is red with popsicles, your teeth rough with sugar.
“Remember me?”
The giants leer, red-nosed – great aunts and uncles on your father’s side. Bob, Wayne, and Bill; Geri, Fern, Jean, Mae. Russ died months ago but his name is often spoken. It’s hard to remember he’s gone.
Grandmother holds court in their center. With high cheeks and strong jaw, she is the handsomest in the room. Boxed wine fills goblets. A Tripoley board is brought forth.
Watch from the top of the stairs until the dog, a gray poodle, runs past. Chase after, down the hall to the back room where Grandmother sleeps now that Grandfather snores. A cat is there, curled like a pillow atop the bed, among handbags. The dog crawls under to hide; you crawl under too.
It’s a long time before Grandfather finds you. He is tan and thin; his limbs splayed like a spider to peer under the bed. Shriek. Run but not hard. Let him catch you round the waist and carry you to the basement, where he shows how to crack nuts with silver tools, build towers of magnetic flakes.
When you are tired, he turns on speakers that are built into a wooden bar. Colored lights dance the walls and ceiling. He dances too, growing as he does. He grows until the room is not tall enough to hold him and he must curve his back to fit. Even then, his elbows knock divots into walls. His head pushes the ceiling, raising the floor above, where other giants spill their wine and curse. Only then does he diminish back to size and cradle you once more in his arms.
Eyelids droop.
His face is all you see.
*
You moved from the city on the ocean four states away.
“To be near family,” Mother says. She does not add in case Father leaves.
But the town you’ve moved to isn’t hers at all – it’s Father’s – and she cries when she thinks you aren’t looking.
“This town is too close,” she says to Father. Everyone stares. Everyone knows her name. “Like being always on a stage.”
You’ve been on-stage, violin tucked under chin. You can’t see on-stage. You hear people watching but cannot see them. The lights hurt your eyes and you sweat.
Picture Mother there, the round, white light on her pale, pale face. Picture people staring, shadows moving, Mother pinned, blinded by the light of Every One’s stares.
No wonder she cries.
*
For Halloween, Mother paints your face with lipstick and shadow; your hair is braided into pigtails and you wear a blue gingham gown. A plush dog rests in a basket that hangs from your arm.
“Not in Kansas never looked so good,” Mother says.
It’s the first Halloween your baby sister can walk on her own, apart from the stroller, and she grasps your one finger with all of her own. Russ’s widow Mae waits, porchlight on, for you to knock on her door. She wears a black witch’s hat; cats curl the staircase behind her.
She croons, “I’ll get you, my pretty,” and your sister cries.
“It’s late,” says Mother, an apology.
Father carries Sister to the car. Mother follows.
You are the only one to see Mae slip into shadow, tall as the bare-branched trees, silent as a bat, seeing you safely home.
*
Swagger your steps at the supermarket, the church, the pavement outside Grandfather’s shop. You are famous. Joe’s granddaughter, Bob’s great-niece, Scotty’s eldest.
“Everyone knows me,” Mother cries to Father. “I can’t go anywhere.”
“You’ll get used to it,” he says.
She takes the keys and leaves. The door bounces too many times behind her.
Ask if she will return.
“Of course,” Father says. “Of course she will.”
Hold the Lucky 8 ball Grandfather gave you. Shake it and repeat, silently, to yourself of course, of course she will.
And, of course, she does.
*
She leaves you at Geri’s, to drive to the mall an hour away.
Geri’s lips are gummy and red. Her face droops more than Mae’s, more than Jean’s and Grandmother’s and Fern’s. She has her brothers’ faces, their own beaked nose. Her husband Bill sits, as always, beneath an afghan in the chair nearest the window. On her mantel are photos of children not her own. She walks you along the row, naming them and how she knows them. You’re older now – old enough to understand there is sadness here, but not old enough to understand why. She makes chocolate chip cookies for you and your sister, pours glasses of Sprite, though neither of you like chocolate or Sprite. Your sister, still very young, opens her mouth to protest. Kick her under the table.
When it’s time to leave, forget your coat. You must run back inside, Mother says. Find Geri crying in a chair beside Bill’s. Tears flood the floor. Children’s photographs float, knock about your knees. You must wade them to get to your coat, hung on a peg in the corner. Geri holds her arms to hold you, but she isn’t Grandfather and you’d rather not. Try to run but slip in the flood. You can’t swim. Drown. Feet scramble for a hold. Arms splash too hard for Geri to grab.
The door opens and there is Mother. Run to her, tears streaming the door, tumbling the porch, drenching the ground.
Mother.
*
The giants do not have many children, much less grandchildren. Run with your few cousins through the park, over fairy bridges to fountains made of limestone where you drink after paying the troll. There are geese to feed, monkeys upside down in cages. Pebbled paths. The giants bring you here – sometimes singly, sometimes in groups. Iron gates open at a touch from their hands. Magic, you think, slipping your own hand into one of theirs.
*
Bob’s house sits atop a hill, above a winding drive. It’s on the edge of town and everyone must pass it as they come and go. A welcome sign of sorts, tall and very white. You are proud walking to it, climbing the stairs that lead inside. Enter without knocking.
It’s Christmastime and the house is full. You know these people and run possessively through great halls. Drink juice mixed with soda until your stomach bubbles.
In the front room, giants and their grown children choose presents from a pile. They roar until they cry, steal booze and lottery tickets from one other, avoiding the flamingo yard ornament that will be wrapped and brought again next year.
You are still young enough to have presents picked especially for you. Fashion dolls, coloring books, glass beads for your neck, bottles of polish for tiny nails. Show these to the giants who smell of smoke and drink – the doll with her tiny waist, the beads sparkling against your neck.
Bob steals an ear when you sit on his lap, slips it from your head with a thumb and forefinger. He shows it to you, lying on his palm, when you begin to cry.
Only Jean, his wife, he says, can put it back and she does, setting the ear gently against the side of your head with a touch as hot as the sun’s, soft as a petal’s.
Then Bob laughs and it fills the room, lifting you on bubbles no one else can see. Jean pulls you back. She holds you as Bob wipes his eyes, pops bubbles with stout fingers. She doesn’t let go until the last bubble is popped and it is time for you to leave.
Hug Geri quickly, linger with Grandmother, hide from Mae. Blow a kiss, instead, near the bejeweled tree where bat shadows threaten. Watch Mae catch it, the print of your lips against a powdered cheek.
Outside, frost hovers. Stars reflect, like pins, in the snow.
Make a wish. Watch the air still. Flakes hang without falling; all the world cupped within a globe.
Breathe and it shatters.
*
Eventually, you move with your family away from the town where Mother was too well-known. You move into the country nearby, where there is no one. Woods line the back of this new house and there is a clearing where someone once built fires ringed with stone. The trees here are always bare – summer, spring, winter, fall. They are enchanted trees where orphans, when no one is looking, go to mourn.
At the new school, no one knows your name. Sit in the back with your head down. Tell everyone you’re an immigrant because you were born in the city on the sea. Blush when they laugh. Disagree when the teacher says it isn’t the same thing. It is.
*
Another Christmas, another house. Your own, this time. Giants stuff the edges of it. They are smaller now, unsure of how they used to be big. The cards and booze are claimed mostly by their children. Wayne and Fern are gone. Mae. Their absence is a hole that will gradually shallow. Mother demands Christmas carols from you and you play, violin tucked under chin, in a corner. Downstairs, your few cousins and sister play air hockey. The house is full of noise.
“Where are the jobs?” Father’s sisters ask. “What do we expect?”
The Gazette printed an article about the death of Small Town America. Children grow and leave, never return.
Grandmother, in slacks and matching sweater, strings of pearls along her wrists and neck and ears, pours sparkling juice into a flute for you. Finish your song and sit beside her.
She pats your knee. Says you play well. She’s proud of you. Her eyes water like ponds.
“Get out if you can,” she says. “This place is ugly.”
Paintings she’s made hang from the walls of her home, the walls of yours and your aunts’ and all the living giants’. They are of the prairie and are more sad, you think, than ugly.
Across the room, Bob and Grandfather laugh. It isn’t like Bob’s laugh of years ago, but it is strong enough, still, to push you and Grandmother against the wall, cracking it so that every time you pass that room from now on, you will see the crack and remember that night and that laugh. The way Grandmother sounded, urging you to leave.
*
Go with Jean when she visits Geri before Bill dies. Don’t enter the room he’s in – the room that echoes machine-forced breath. Let Jean enter that place alone. You stay in the living room, where the sun shines many windows and photos fill the shelves of a new bookcase. Geri serves chocolate chip cookies and Sprite. You no longer mind.
But she calls you by your aunt’s name and, this, you do mind. Look away. Ask about the children in her photographs.
“I don’t know them,” she says. “Who are they?”
Name them for her. Point to each in turn until Jean returns and says,
“He’s better. For now.”
“Who?” Geri asks. “Who’s better?”
“Your husband. Bill.”
Jean touches her shoulder. Geri’s eyes light.
“Bill,” she repeats.
But Jean must leave and you must follow, glancing behind to say goodbye. Already, Geri’s light is gone. She sets a trash bin beside the bookcase and sweeps her arm; children’s faces tumble.
*
Attend Bill’s funeral, then Geri’s. Curl your hair and paint your lips; you’re old enough now. Next is Bob’s, where Jean refuses to leave the casket and stands beside it through the entire service, clutching his hand as if, even this, she could heal. Remember your ear and think maybe she can.
She can’t.
Your giants’ powers, you’ve noticed, are faded.
“You don’t have to come,” Mother says about each visit to disinfected rooms, parlor viewings with bodies laid like wax upon tables.
There are scholarship applications, auditions.
“People don’t expect you,” she says.
Tell her you want to. It’s partly true.
Grandmother is handsome as ever, even as the others fade. Grief becomes her. High-collared black tickles her jaw. People calm as they speak to her, grow less teary. Even Jean, she manages to coax away from Bob’s body.
Afterward, always, Grandfather plays music from his disco bar. The lights still flash, but he slumps like the curved shrimp ringing crystal bowls upstairs.
The air that once filled him has been taken from him and given to you. When he asks for a dance, lift him with one finger, spin him as he once did you. Ignore the tears that fall like acid from his face, burning carpet, sizzling the wood underneath.
*
At auditions, fingers slide over catgut strings. Scatter notes like pearls from a broken strand.
Choose the school that is furthest away, in the city on the sea.
*
Here, music turns from pearls to stones.
Change majors. Get married. Work. Have children.
Mother calls to say Grandfather is fading fast. Tell her you know; you’ve seen pictures. Snarl your voice so that she knows – what she says must not be spoken.
The air tastes of salt. Dolphins curl from water. Your children take turns burying one another in sand. The pier is bloody from fish. Sand pipers run like the chicks your great-grandmother used to have, but you don’t think of Great Grandmother; you were too young. Think only of chicks without knowing why.
Waves hiss where the pipers run. Foamed fingers claw tracks from sight.
*
The days are long. Quit your job because, you say, you want to squeeze every moment you have.
But the days are long. It’s hard to remember to squeeze.
Find yourself crying often, the way your own mother did; stop as soon as you can, hope the children didn’t see though, of course, they did. Your youngest cries with you – over cheese that isn’t cut and cheese that is. Your oldest can’t quit touching you – hands slide under the long sleeves that you wear, stroke the undersides of your arms, where the skin is softest. When they hug you, it is as hard as they can, afraid that you’ll leave.
You’re afraid, too.
Pull away. Tell them it hurts. They have giant blood in their veins and are stronger than they know.
Lock yourself in the bathroom. Ignore their pounding.
Outside, they wait. Heavy breath beside the door. Four arms wrapping the moment they see you. Pulling away is like cutting vines.
*
When he dies, Father is the one who calls. You’re brushing the oldest’s hair.
“I have news,” he says.
Let your tears fill the room, trickle the door’s seams, rush the hallway beyond. A waterfall roars the stairs; your oldest nearly drowns. She floats beneath the surface, hair like seaweed about a petal face. Eyes like stones. Grab her from the flood. Dip your fingers to wet them, then draw them over the walls. Paint pictures with your tears to cheer her. Emerald and gold stretch where you paint. Paint a picture of Grandfather, the way he filled a room.
By the time your youngest enters, the flood has dried and your head knocks the ceiling. Hunch to fit. Splay your knees in a kind of jig, swing these girls about the room.
*
At the funeral, feel an intruder. The people filing past, faces shining, lay stronger claim than you. Shrink beneath the weight of your parents’ grief, your aunts’. Watch the faces of your sister, your few cousins – rounder and deeper set than you remember – watch their grief play out. Wonder if yours is real at all.
They say things and write things and read things.
Not you. Your mouth is a cave collapsed on itself.
*
Afterward, at Grandmother’s, is a box full of puppets. The room has been made into a stage. Children are a rarity; yours the only ones. Adults crowd to watch. Grandmother pours sparkling juice into goblets, hands them to your children.
“I shouldn’t spoil their dinner,” she says, “but who knows if I’ll see them again.”
Tell her this is nonsense.
Jean smiles like a Cabbage Patch in a corner nearby. She doesn’t know you and tried pulling away when you gripped her hand to make her remember. She cried and you let go. Now, she has forgotten again and her face is dimpled with smiles.
Above her, rests Grandfather’s shadow and Bob’s with him. Mae’s arms, like wings, fill the ceiling and there is Geri and Bill, Wayne and Fern; even Russ, whom you never knew.
Say, “We will always see you again.”
The girls finish their show and Grandmother pulls a turkey hat from a shelf. Its wings flap at the touch of a button.
“Gobble,” it says.
“Gobble gobble.” Grandmother mimics. “Gobble gobble.” Flapping her arms.
Your girls roll like beetles on their backs, laughing until they cry. In that moment, Grandmother stretches as tall as Grandfather that day he danced in the basement. Air lifts you to your back, above the chair where you sat, and you hear Bob’s laugh before realizing – it’s your own.
*
Light falls in the cemetery, where you’ve gone with your children for a walk. Your husband stays behind and your mother is with him, telling him she knows. The shock of this place. Your father sits in the chair Grandfather used to take, rocking in the window. The town is small enough you think you see him, the shape of his head in that window, from your perch on the hill.
Your children run between headstones, the way they couldn’t that afternoon when mourners stood like wraiths and a canopy spread the hole in which they placed Grandfather.
Now, the cemetery is empty. Mist creeps beyond the ridge. The girls twirl. When they run, their shadows reach to the tops of trees. Their arms spread for balance. If the straight and pebbled path were just long enough, they could lift off. Could fly.
Screech, “I’ll get you, my pretties.”
Their laughter is sharp as stones.
When they tire, point to the name they don’t know – the name that is your own.
“Trautwein,” you read.
Here, Trautwein. And there. And here again, across the path.
Read aloud names and dates.
“Parents of,” you read and your oldest is old enough to take your hand.
The youngest asks when you will die.
Tell her, “never,” unable to lie.
On the day I met Zack de la Rocha, I made a conscious choice not to be tear-gassed. Some people were tear-gassed that day, the anarchists and hard cases who showed up in DC with actual battle plans and gasmasks slung over their shoulders. They were down the block on F Street taunting the police at the barricades. I was on E Street, on a more domesticated path, walking in a slow, orderly parade of 30,000 demonstrators who were trying without much success to muck up a big meeting of the World Bank and International Monetary Fund.
That day – April 16, 2000 – would be remembered as “A16” in the annals of the anti-globalization movement. I had driven to DC from New Jersey the night before with Jake, a journalist friend. We stayed in a Holiday Inn downtown, and in the morning, we walked over to the Mall, jumping into the demonstration at 10th Street. The march was already underway, a big slow-moving parade headed down E Street.
Already this protest didn’t feel like others I had attended. There was an edge to it, a whiff of violence and unhinged possibility. In those days, the style of Leftist street protest was carnivalesque – a potent form of edgy performance art that was part block party, part Mardi Gras, part Red Brigade street action. At the center, you would find a peaceful street festival with giant puppets, drum circles, and floats, but around the fringes, the anarchists and hardcore revolutionaries were prowling, searching for weaknesses in the State’s armor. Often the boundaries between these two demonstrations were fluid, but on this day, the organizers had managed to literally channel them down different, parallel streets. The street party followed the police-approved parade route on E Street, pulling most of the demonstrators behind it in tow, but one block away on F Street, where the barricades were actually set up, the anarchists were fighting a running battle with the police.
If you had asked me that day in Washington why I was there, I would have shared a few David-and-Goliath stories about Indonesian labor organizers and Central American campesinos standing up to global corporations. Like many American liberals after the Berlin Wall fell, I was finally waking up to the great circuit board of connections linking me to people throughout the world. Globalization was forcing liberals like me for the first time to stare down the long supply chains that stretch from our supermarkets and big box stores back into steamy tin-roofed places where children work fourteen hours a day in a textile mill and labor organizers end up in a ditch with their throats cut.
I glanced over to the left, and there was the lead singer of Rage Against the Machine, the poet revolutionary of ’90s rock music, walking abreast of us in the crowd. In my wildest fantasy of meeting Zack de la Rocha, I could not have pictured this more perfectly.
I am of that generation that cares about authenticity in popular music. As a proud son of New Jersey, I had grown up on apocryphal stories about Bruce Springsteen materializing in the crowd at some honkytonk bar in Arizona and then jumping up on the stage to play with the house band. At a U2 concert in the mid-’80s, I had cheered as the band brought a teenage boy out of the audience, strapped a guitar around his neck, and let him play along to their cover of Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” To see Zack de la Rocha on the street in a hoodie marching against global capitalism – just one of the proletariat – confirmed everything I believed about the power and potential of rock music.
He was so close I could reach out an touch him.
At that stage of my life, I could count the celebrities I had met on one hand, so in my naïveté, I formulated a plan that in retrospect was quite silly: We would pretend not to know who he was, start up a conversation, and then hang out with him all day. But before I could say a word, Jake was pushing up to Zack to ask for his autograph.
The moment was spoiled, of course. In the end, despite the hoodie and the prince-and-the-pauper routine, Zack de la Rocha was a rockstar and we were fans, and no amount of political solidarity could erase the uncomfortable wall separating us. He quickly scribbled his autograph and then disappeared into the crowd without uttering a single politically significant word.
*
Seventeen years later, I am watching a YouTube clip of Rage Against the Machine’s first public performance, in an outdoor pavilion on the campus of California State University on October 23, 1991. There they are, fresh from the womb and already a perfectly formed rock band. Zack is bolting around the stage like a pinball in play, wearing a long-sleeved sweatshirt. Tom Morello leans into his blistering guitar riffs. Students and teachers are walking past the stationary camera, mostly ignoring the band, but a few students are facing the stage, obviously aware that something epic is popping off in front of them. For everyone else, it’s just another day on the quad.
In the mid-’90s, I thought that rock music was wildly incongruent with the zeitgeist, so I was – and continue to be – mystified by the mass appeal of Rage Against the Machine. There we were, in the midst of unprecedented prosperity and a genuine technological revolution, but our popular music was awash in angst and suffering and impotence. Whatever the mass psychology underlying the “nu metal” movement, Rage was trying to both harness its political potential and monetize it for consumer consumption. Their very existence in popular music seemed unsustainable to me.
Rage was always overestimating the political commitment of its audience. You can hear it in Zack’s rhetoric in the 1990s, in his tendency to regard his fans as an untapped ocean of radical political energy. “We’re not going to play to the [mainstream]; we’re going to hijack it,” said De la Rocha, in a 1997 Rolling Stone article. “The tour is going to incorporate everything which the rich, wealthy classes in America fear and despise. Each of the 20,000 people in the audience will be reminded of their independent political power.”
Did he actually believe that effective political action could cohere in a mosh pit? He seems unaware (though how could he be?) that many of the kids who bought tickets to see Rage and other nu metal bands in the ’90s were on a more visceral trip. This was made obvious to the world in July of 1999 when the Woodstock ’99 concert ended in a flaming riot. Earlier that day, Rage played a “blistering” set and lit an American flag ablaze. At the end of the concert, the mostly male concert-goers torched big piles of garbage and trashed the place. Some women were raped in the ensuing melee. People were beaten up. The police were called in to restore order.
Rage could never escape the marrow-deep contradictions of its devil’s bargain with Big Music. It didn’t matter how stridently they campaigned for justice for Leonard Peltier or Mumia Abu-Jamal in between songs, they would always be the band for upper middle class white kids who fretted over their sweatshop t-shirts and Nikes. The money from millions of record sales would always flow out of that sea of disposable income from the most privileged and affluent society in human history. There would always be Rage fans who grabbed ass and kicked ass at their concerts, whose politics were smashy smashy.
After I finish watching the video, my wife reminds me that it’s Monday – Trash and Recycling Day. I sort of drift out of the house on autopilot, and before I realize it, I am standing on the curb in brown crocs and blue-and-white-checkered pajama bottoms holding the blue recycling bin in both hands. In the moonless dark, the cul-de-sac looks like an ancient Stonehenge circled by giant stone monoliths, a place of solemn ritual. I am deep in the priesthood now, with my Ph.D. in English and my academic career and my slouchy dad bod, and my eight-year-old daughter asleep in the house behind me – a life like the one my parents had, but with a lot more plastic crap and stress.
I am thinking, what was it about that period from 1999 to 2001 that so captivated my sense of idealism? Why was I, at 34 years old, marching with anarchists and Guatemalan campesinos and the Socialists Workers Party?
It is difficult for me to resurrect the feeling I had on that day. The early 2000s have already sunk into a hazy miasma, in part because 9/11 so decisively divided my sense of personal history into before and after. Ideology decompiles our experience of time and then reassembles it according to new hierarchies of importance. From somewhere, I learned that whatever we were anxious about before – Y2K, the Dot.com bubble bursting, Saddam Hussein, the thoroughly fucked-up 2000 election, the Battle in Seattle – all of this was trivial when measured against the shadow of those falling towers and what happened after. I do remember believing that we could make a crack in the endless dream of consumer capitalism. I remember being gripped by a persistent uneasiness. I knew something was wrong with the world, but I couldn’t quite name it yet.
And here I am, nearly twenty years later, standing at the curb, still wracked by the same anxieties.
In quiet moments like these, the angels of my repressed desires step forward out of the darkness. Sometimes it is Tyler Durden, who wants to whisper prophecies in my ear:
“In the world I see – you are stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center,” he says. “You’’ll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You’ll climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. And when you look down, you’ll see tiny figures pounding corn, laying strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway.”
This is what happened to some of us, the last-wave Boomers and first-wave Gen Xers who only halfheartedly embraced the lifestyle our parents bequeathed to us; who moved to the suburbs with our irony still intact; who somewhat reluctantly took jobs inside the vast interlinked bureaucracies of corporate-academic-government power; who feel aggrieved by our rampant consumerism and tormented by our long commutes; whose true politics are still formless, still without a name or a party; who now find ourselves struggling to recall lines from late-’90s cinema in the dark to find metaphors for our lives. We fell asleep, but only halfway, and we keep trying to wake up.
Sometimes it is Morpheus, in his beautiful black trench coat and those cool stemless sunglasses:
“You take the blue pill – the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill – you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.”
Do I really want to know how deep the rabbit hole goes? Somewhat. Yes. I want to know.
Our fathers dreamed about being John Wayne and Neil Armstrong, but we fantasize about tearing down the system, or what it will be like after it falls on its own. For us, patriotism is dead, eviscerated by the zombie apocalypse. It’s all dystopian downhill from here. Post Skynet. It’s as if we are stuck inside of a never-ending fracture, like a windshield struck by a big rock – after Watts, after ’68, after Watergate, after the fall of Saigon, after the Great Recession, after the never-ending culture wars and the never-ending War on Terror, after the city-busting hurricanes and each heart-wrenching school shooting. The web of tiny fractures grows and grows.
Sometimes it is Zack de la Rocha, performing in front of a choir of angels, if angels singing sounded like a chainsaw cutting through sheet metal.
Tonight it is Neo, who flies stealthily out of the darkness like Superman and is suddenly standing there in the cul-de-sac, dropped from the sky. He has a message for me:
“I didn’t come here to tell you how it will end,” he says. “I came here to tell you how it will begin.” Despite everything I know – despite all of the compromises I’ve made along the way – I still so badly want to know how it will begin.
I was a wild kid, and when I got older, I thought back to certain incidents and adventures, dangers I’d put myself in, and bloody hell, sometimes I had to laugh. I liked that about myself, was never one of those ones that did everything by the book. Everything was so bloody boring growing up, especially in that school by the motorway. It was so dead there most people just went through it by car or the train, and the faster they went through it the better.
There was that cliché thing at parties of all the coats being on the bed. I had a clear memory of not wanting to do anything, of saying it, but feeling knackered from something more than Bacardi Breezers. And then I was awake and for some reason couldn’t talk.
Waking alone there, the coats all gone, I knew this was more than a hangover, it was almost like blindness, a stickiness around the eyes.
I realized I couldn’t tell anyone, even though I was hundred percent about what had gone on. And the longer I left it the harder it got to say. They already thought of me as the bike of the village. His word against mine.
You saw it on the news often enough, women getting dragged through the courts and even if they win the case the bloke only gets a year or something. So that would happen, if we got the conviction, and it was a big if, but yeah, say we got the conviction, then after a year he’s back in the village.
I went on cruise ships, all over the world. Caribbean, Greece, Cyprus, all the sunny places. What happened didn’t ruin me, I was determined about that, and I drank as much as I wanted, wore whatever I wanted. That wasn’t the problem. Sometimes there were men that were alright, like the one I almost got married to until he started acting weird. They always started alright, but I guess there was just something about me that changed them into arseholes.
I groan, rapping a loose knuckle against the heavy double-glazed door of my local McDonald’s. Trying the door once more – it doesn’t give – a familiar anxiety creeps up, leaping into piggyback position, without permission. When, earlier that evening, the doctor, a smug man with handlebar moustache touched his fingers to his naked chin in a light, affectionate gesture and asked, ‘but how do we cure loneliness?’, and with no answer forthcoming, nothing but mild, undeserved awe, had shrugged and smiled at the woman I had been following around the impromptu party, her body shifting but a fraction; still, this placing a chasmal difference in our non-existent potential, I should’ve come back with a quick quip, sharp as a whip from the hand of a matador cracking against a bull’s buttock. Something like-oh, I don’t know, but something.
I knock at the glass once more. A short woman appears, standing at a distance. We watch each other for a moment. I knock again. She takes the few steps towards me, and when close enough, I say:
‘I would like some nuggets.’
She points at the sign displaying opening times, like the glass is soundproof. Indoors, I can hear the sweet arias of Beethoven the company deployed as an anti-yob tactic, some genius from marketing deciding that the Moonlight Sonata could prevent a riot.
‘I would like some nuggets,’ I repeat. She points to the sign once more. This branch isn’t open until 5 AM.
‘I will pay you,’ I open my wallet and take out the first note, squinting at the coloured face of Queen Elizabeth in the darkness, ’20 pounds for 20 McNuggets. You can keep the change.’
The woman doesn’t say anything, so I slip the note under the door, wobbling a little as I rise. She bends at the hip, her hand against the small of her back, and sweeping back strands of blonde hair which have strayed from the safety of her hairnet, picks up the money, holds it to the light and pockets it. She turns around, and waddles away.
I check my wrist. It’s naked. I took my watch off earlier, before falling asleep cuddling a stranger in the spare bedroom. She was not the woman I had been following around all evening, who, at midnight, made her excuses – something about work in the morning – and left the party. The glass door unlocks automatically. I walk in.
A child, barely out of the perils of his teenager years, is behind the desk, his hands drumming the counter arrhythmically, the fear he might have to interact with me manifesting.
‘Excuse me, could you get the short blonde lady who works here for me? Like yay high?’ I ask, illustrating with a flat palm to my breastbone.
‘Oh, Sandra? She’s on cleaning duty. I’ll go get her.’
Behind the counter, the fat fryer sputters and spits, as staff prepare the rations for the drunk, the wanderers, the early birds, the habituals. The young man returns, more fidgety than before.
‘Erm, she’s not here.’ A pregnant, dishonest pause. ‘She’s gone home.’
‘Right.’
A disembodied hand slides hash browns and McMuffins onto the relevant shelves, ready to serve. Near the bottom of the set of shelves lies a greasy box of nuggets, the last box.
‘Do you have a no chase policy?’
‘Er…we don’t have security here.’
‘Oh, ok. Cool.
I consider leveraging myself over the desk, which, would make for a better story and more entertaining CCTV footage, but I’ve been drinking. That would be dangerous. I wander around the side gate, pluck the Nuggets from their resting place, consider a box of fries, leave the box of fries because I’m not greedy, just trying to stave off the surety of a hangover, and, high-fiving the nonplussed young man, I walk out.
Outside, the sun is ignoring its alarm, blues and pinks and purples but the orange corona nowhere to be seen. A fox scampers along near me, not unlike a dog at feeding time. I chuck him – or her – a nugget, which they chomp on.
‘Listen,’ I say, between mouthfuls, ‘I’ve always believed in the fundamental goodness of humans, but everyone does things for a reason, you know? One which is justified to them. Whatever, you probably don’t care anyway.’
‘So why’d you give me the nugget?’ The fox asks silently.
‘You looked hungry.’
‘Altruism feeding your static ego.’ He bobs his head in a nod, and darts away in the darkness.
In the morning, I try to massage the hangover from my body with codeine and a skin-wrinkling shower. It’s Friday, and still too early to order a takeaway. I type a message to my best friend, in capitals, saying, ‘I WANT TO DIE.’ His response is equally melodramatic: ‘I’M WAITING FOR THE REAPER TO COLLECT ME.’ I email work, citing stress induced flu-like symptoms as my reason for not coming in on time, or at all. My flatmate isn’t home, so I dance around the house naked, to ‘a-ha’s’ Take on Me, until even this liberation, combined with the nausea, is overwhelming, retiring to bed.
I toss about in the duvet, unable to find any position in which my body isn’t pulsating, my heart working overtime to pump out every toxin I’ve dashed through my mouth. I make the executive decision to masturbate. Queuing up visual memories, I am a child once more, approaching the desk at Blockbuster with an armful of videos, intent on a marathon. Like then, I’m told I can only have one, and reward whichever cruel adult has delivered this sentence with hot, fresh salty tears. After I finish, I wipe my eyes and fall asleep. Five minutes later, I’m woken by a hypnic jerk, a swooping around my navel, my heart thudding harder. I check my wrist. It’s still naked. The time on my phone tells me I could pre-order from the Indian around the corner. Loading up some unpolitically correct sitcom from the 90s, I spend far too long deliberating over my few choices, when I know what I want.
When it arrives, I call immediately and explain my food is colder than the chest freezer from which the produce was taken from. They extend their sincerest apologies and promise to refund me. Instead, they email a colourful, badly designed coupon for the equivalent of my next meal. We all know the deal here, this isn’t our first rodeo. The coupon will do.
Whilst eating, I scroll through my contacts at random. Spilling a daal off the edge of my naan bread onto my pillow, I type a message to a friend I haven’t spoken to for a few months, asking if he wants to get a drink tonight to catch up. My phone pings as soon as I put it down. It is the girl from last night, the stranger I shared a bed with, saying, ‘I’ve got your watch. Let’s get a drink, I can give it back to you?’ I ignore her. I wonder if she is still a stranger if I shared a bed with her. Probably. When I’ve finished my meal, I upload an image to Instagram, describing the semi-urgent nature of my impending doom, both for the sake of my employers, who I know keep tabs, and to let the world know what I’m doing. This is the best, or one of the best times to upload, catching the ennui of lunchtime, maximising interaction. Most of my life revolves around filling time, until the next ‘certainty’ arrives. In this way, I’m sure when death does arrive, I’ll be ok, I think.
Monday, I call in sick again. I’ve run out of paid sick days, so my manager suggests I take a few days off as holiday, which I do. I decide to feed my body, mind and soul, and head to an art gallery.
It’s a muggy, nasty sort of day, sweat pooling in pits and orifices of all kinds. The sun is still hiding. I walk past the Tate Modern several times – the last time I visited, my best friend and I were chased out by security, after failing to control a bout of the giggles at the number of blank canvas’ the gallery was exhibiting. Still, the potent cocktail of laziness and convenience entices me towards the entrance.
The guy welcoming people, despite my best efforts, catches my eye, holding my gaze with a fierce, determined glare.
‘What would be lovely, is if you could donate £5 to the Tate Galleries. We are a charity so rely solely on donations to ensure the smooth running of the organisation.’ He gestures towards a short black pillar sprouting from the ground, and as he does so, a screen lights up on it, with a payment due for £5. ‘All you have to do is tap.’ I reach into my pocket and tap my bank card against the screen, before I can even question him, or myself.
‘Thank you, your contribution will keep the Tate open.’ As I walk away, I hear him feeding the same lines to someone else.
Avoiding the gallery spaces, I make for the enormous foyer, divided in two from where a deceptive carpeted ramp starts. On one side, on flat ground, a range of oversized swing sets; here, adults pretend they are only playing children in this sole moment. Above the ramp, the main attraction: a huge silver ball, swinging back and forth on an adjustable axis. Cut into the ceiling, a tiny square of blue in the sky, somehow only visible from indoors. From the ground it’s like being a cat trapped in a well, a rope swinging teasingly just out of reach, this made all the worse by the fact a cat couldn’t grip a rope.
A few steps away, a girl holds a pair of black balloons. She’s trying to take a selfie; the dexterity of her wrists letting her down, she drops her phone; in the futile attempt she makes to catch the device with her foot, her grip loosens on the trailing ribbons, and the balloons drift silently towards the high ceiling. She watches me watching her for a moment, then we both gaze upwards towards the floating objects. No one else appears to notice. She puts her fingers to her lips. I shrug and lie on the carpet. Knowing my best friend works close by, one of those flexible jobs which he would be hard pushed to describe what he actually does, I message him about the ball before its hypnotic nature lulls me away.
When he arrives, he says, lying next to me, ‘You weren’t lying. Do you want a cookie? White chocolate and macadamia nut. They went down a treat in the office.’
‘Nice.’ I take one from the Tupperware he’s holding out. ‘How’s work?’
‘Oh, you know. It’s… you know.’
We watch the ball creak across our vision, back and forth, back and forth.
‘Do you remember that video we saw here last time? The guy pouring oil on sugar cubes.’
‘That was hilarious.’
‘Yeah, so funny. But it wasn’t.’
‘I get what you mean.’
‘What did it mean? Wasn’t it something about the beginning and ending and order and chaos losing their meanings?’
‘Something like that.’
He sits up and takes out another cookie.
‘You’ve got new socks on.’
‘They make me feel good.’
‘You still feeling bad?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Hmm. You been dating anyone recently?’
‘No. But that’s not going to solve the problem. I’ve still got to be a person, even with another person.’
‘Fair.’
‘I need the toilet.’
‘Cool.’
In the cubicle, I cry some and listen to Take on Me to cheer me up. I call my mother as I walk back to my best friend, still sniffling and a little tender.
‘I’ve got this weird feeling of homelessness,’ I tell her. ‘I feel alone a lot of the time.’
‘It must be the devil.’
‘Are you quoting that poet?’
‘What poet?’
‘Never mind.’
‘You should come to church on Sunday.’
‘We’ve had this discussion, Mum. I’m not coming to Church anymore.’
‘So you say you’re lonely, there’s plenty of people to speak to at Church and you don’t want to come? Ah! What’s your problem?’
‘I’m not lonely, I feel alone. I don’t think that’s going to solve my problems.’
‘What do you want me to say to you? You’re a twenty-eight year old man. Get on with your life.’
I request some more holiday from work, citing the special circumstances of emotional burnout and a potential oncoming breakdown. It is approved immediately, in what I believe is an active effort to reduce a PR disaster.
Today, I order too much food from KFC – I was unaware they delivered, and excitement gets the better of me. The bill comes to £89. When the food arrives, I punch a message into the delivery service website, saying the chicken was pink in the middle. A robot sends a joyful message back, explaining that I won’t be charged if the food is unfit for consumption.
I take a photo of the pile of food, and post it to Instagram. It’s a little late to catch the flurry of lunchtime activity, but I still get a little bit of action. I click on the list of people who have liked the post. A person I don’t know in real life, or follow on Instagram, has pushed the little red heart. I click on her profile. Similar age. We have some mutual friends. Not my type, but the more I think about it, I don’t really have a type. I accidentally double tap on one of her photos, the red heart appearing to alert me to what I have done. Fuck it, I think, liking four other photos. My phone pings shortly. She’s done the same on my profile. Just incase, I like one more, from several months ago, a black and white portrait, half her face in profile, illuminated by a stray block of sunlight.
She reciprocates.
Hmmm. I pace the room, wondering what my next move is. I scroll through her virtual life for clues. A few scraps of poetry litter her captions, so I post a quote from Audre Lorde.
She replies in my private messages with a large red heart. I dance about the room.
Over the following week, we send each other funny memes and videos at all hours. My heart gyrates for the next faintly amusing photo joke every time I am away from my device.
On the weekend, I find myself at my best friend’s son’s third birthday party. I pick him up, lift him towards the ceiling, making abstract sounds the child grew out of a year ago, spin him round, then settle in the sofa closest to the wi-fi router. I pause briefly, when steaming hot plates of rice and chicken are delivered to the partygoers, before realising my thigh is thick enough to balance the plate on, digging with a fork with one hand, continuing to tap at my phone’s glass screen with the other.
‘Who are you talking to?’ My best friend’s wife asks.
‘His new lady friend,’ my best friend smirks.
‘Oooh, when can we meet her?’
‘Soon.’ On impulse, I say, in our long running message thread, ‘Marry me.’
‘Why do you want to marry me?’
‘You make me less lonely.’
‘I’m not a cure for your loneliness.’
‘Do I make you feel the same way tho?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We should meet.’
‘Ok.’
‘That’s my Grandmother in that urn.’
‘Fuck,’ I say, almost dropping the brass trophy.
My Instagram belle doubles over in laughter, clutching at her sides.
‘I’m joking.’
‘Ha. Good one,’ I say, placing the urn back on the shelf.
‘I wasn’t joking. I just didn’t want you to feel bad, at first.’
‘Right. I need the toilet.’
When I return, she’s whipping a leopard print dressing gown over her nude figure. I catch a tiny glimpse of a stray nipple, pink and pointy, and freeze.
‘Hey,’ she says, patting the bed. I sit beside her, and she wraps her leg around my own, leaning into my lap, kissing me.
‘You’re still wearing your clothes.’
I untangle myself and begin to undress.
‘What do you wanna do?’
She smiles faintly, like no one has ever asked her that question.
‘I would like to cuddle.’
‘Cool.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah. Cuddling is cool.’
She lies down, turning her back to me and I traipse my arm around her body, tucking up to her. Her breathing deepens, body slack, and soon she is asleep. I glance around her room, properly. She has laid a patterned scarf atop her dull lamp, giving the illusion there is a forest on the ceiling. Her hair smells like my childhood, like coconut oil and warmth. Succulents and creepers line the shelves and furniture. Outside, a street light buzzes but it’s so high pitched and infrequent, it could be a cricket. This is cozy, comfortable. Cuddling is cool.
Two days later, it is Valentine’s day. I message my new – well, I don’t know what she is to me, but I message her anyhow, saying, ‘Let’s hang out tonight.’ Before she can reply, I pay too much for a dozen red roses from a leering man wearing a tartan flat cap. He is in the process of trying to sell me a small, dying olive tree, the branches gnarled and dehydrated, when she calls.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey. What do you want to do tonight?’
‘Erm. I’ve got a date.’
‘Right. Ok.’
The silence hangs in my ears like an echoing tinnitus. I’m unsure of what to say, what the protocol is here, so I hang up and call my mother, asking to borrow her car.
‘What do you need it for?’
‘I’ve got a date.’
‘Ah fantastic! I hope you won’t be drinking if you’re driving.’
‘I don’t drink, Mum,’ I lie. ‘Gave up. For my health.’
Getting into the car, the first whispers of rain graze my cheek. By the time I am bombing down a country lane, listening to the acoustic version of Take on Me, which is infinitely more heartbreaking, at the loudest volume my tiny ears will take, fat globules of water are punching my windscreen. I speed past a strange, tall object. In my rearview, I see the object shirk and shriek at the waterfall my tyres just splashed on it. I do a U-turn and open the passenger door and the figure jumps in, slamming the door.
‘WHY ARE YOU IN THE RAIN?’
‘WHAT?’
‘WHY ARE YOU IN THE RAIN?’
‘OH. I NEED TO GET TO MY GIRLFRIENDS HOUSE.’
I turn down the music, and begin to drive.
‘Why are you in the rain?’
‘My car broke down.’
‘Bad timing.’
‘Bad timing, indeed.’
I’ve never picked up a hitchhiker, or helped anyone in this manner, nor would I think I would. My parents always said never to answer the door if not expecting anyone, or the phone if you I didn’t recognise the number.
‘Here,’ I say, reaching towards the back seat, thrusting the bouquet of love flowers in her direction. ‘For you.’
I expect a fuss, a squeal, maybe even tears from the sodden stranger I picked up from the side of a country lane; instead, a content smile, wistful, almost, and she says, ‘I wish all strangers were as nice as you.’
We haven’t gone the length of a single take of the song when she says, ‘if you could stop just here, that’d be grand.’
‘Wait – you don’t want to go any further?’
‘No, I just needed to get to my girlfriend’s house.’
‘Oh, ok. Well.’
‘You’re a lifesaver, thank you!’
I let the engine purr, body and vehicle static as my thoughts roam. I want to gun the throttle, spin the wheels, making a tsunami-like wave, pulling away from this obscure country road, which, with the apocalyptic rain and engulfing darkness, resembles a scene from a horror film where my naivety leads to me perishing. But for now, I’m content with my thoughts and an eerie radio silence.
Then I do something I haven’t done in a while: I begin to pray. Strange incantations, asking for deliverance.
The radio turns on. A blur of static, then the traffic report, delivered in dramatic fashion. Apparently, it’s raining. They will be back with an update in 15 minutes, every 15 minutes.
Rather than switch back to the nothingness, the radio remains on, promising the greatest hits from the 80s. And of course, the most absurd impossibility: That electronic drum break. A baseline played with such delicate beauty, like a plucking a feather from the wing of an angel. Those synths, those glorious synths! Music is a gut language and joy shoves aside whatever is swimming in my stomach. The vocals from Take on Me (radio edit) usher into my ears. Another burst of static. As the joy came, it leaves. A growl, like the monstrous feeling within me has just been given a voice. Perhaps my mother is right. It must be the Devil.
On the train to New Orleans an Amish couple, Esther and Ray from Ohio, say they are going on west to El Paso and a shuttle bus to a Mexican clinic. Low-cost cancer cure for Esther using cyanide from apricot pits.
Train horn signals (= indicates long horn, O short horn)
= Train stopped.
Esther and Ray tell a story: they were in a friend’s car and he hit a deer. The airbag hit Ray’s face. The patrolman took them to a motel. It was called The Dead Deer Lodge. Their guests all came from deer collisions. They had a tea and aroma therapy lounge for PTSD. The sign had a deer in a casket.
= = Train releasing brakes and proceeding.
In the observation car a slender young woman with glasses who looks like a middle-class college student tells the stranger next to her that she knows he isn’t a criminal, because all her brothers have been in prison or killed someone or run drugs. That’s what she’s doing now, on the train, for her boyfriend. You could come in on it if you want. But I see you’ve got something going there, she says to the guy, looking down at his crotch. I’ve got a condom if you just want to go in the bathroom and do it.
OOOO Request signal, or give signal.
When they return one of the porters approaches them. I had my twenty dollars of tips on the table back there, he said. The money is gone. You’re the only people who have walked through there.
OOO Train stopped, is backing up.
She says, are you saying we took your money?
The porter says, yes.
= = O = Approaching a public crossing.
Later, when the train can’t continue due to flooding, the bus driver says her first husband killed himself drinking cyanide from a coke bottle. She says “SIGH-nied” and drives with two fingers while texting and drinking coke over the twenty-four-mile Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, longest continuous, she says, veering a little to point out a gator slumbering under a green mold trestle. She wears Elvis wraparound shades with rhinestone crosses on the sides and takes two unscheduled vape-breaks to selfie with passengers, feed the diabetics and “take a piddle.” The first stop is to Buck-Ees, which boasts “world-famous bathrooms” and caramel corn, knives, pepper-spray, jerky and energy drinks, and then the Tiger Stop, with a video sign that reads, LIVE CAMEL. They used to have a LIVE TIGER, she said, but the tiger died and they got the camel. The store also features knives, jerky, pepper spray and energy drinks, and the live camel, in a stinking pen outside.
Alma Twohig
Nobles Salvant
Ruck Bulloco, and the whole company of Jefferson Home Hook and Ladder No. 1.
The next bus has a more sober-seeming driver, but she turns on a heavy-metal radio station and plays it loud enough for the passengers to hear. At a stop for new passengers, someone leaves a purple bag with a keyboard case outside the luggage hold on the sidewalk. Is it coming, or going? Over the intercom the driver says, if you are a passenger on this bus with a purple bag and keyboard case, please come forward so I can load your luggage.
Will the owner of the purple bag and keyboard case please come to the front so we can load your luggage?
Who has a purple bag and keyboard case on the sidewalk?
There is a purple bag and keyboard case outside the bus.
I am going to leave a purple bag and keyboard case on the sidewalk.
A purple bag and keyboard case.
A purple bag and keyboard case.
A purple bag and a keyboard case
The door wheezes shut and the bus lurches away. A young man runs to the front and the bus stops. He seems affronted, shocked. Even amazed. He says, I didn’t understand it was my purple bag.
They load the baggage.
Ellen, consort of J.G. Rogers
Elise Blaise
Catherine Huth
Downtown is the Audubon Butterfly Garden and Insectarium, with a display called The Underground Gallery:
“Visitors to the Richard C. Colton Jr. Underground Gallery shrink to the size of an insect with gigantic animatronic bugs, oversized exhibitry and surprises around every turn. Feel what its like to be the size of an ant while learning about the huge impact bugs have on the environment we all share!”
It is dark, and cool. Giant mechanical bugs lurch out of holes. Human footsteps thud overhead. It does not convey an insect’s view as much as a child’s in a funhouse. Or a very particular adult experience, perhaps that of a serious actor acting a role on the set of a low-budget monster film from the 1950s (Them, or It Conquered the World, or Invasion of the Crab Monsters): a determination to be a professional, play it for real no matter how fake it seems. There was always the hope that on film, it would all come alive.
The house across the street is tilted like in a fairy tale. The landlord is working hard to paint the front porch bright white. He will rent it immediately for eleven hundred a month. The desire to stay in New Orleans, even as the next storm bears down, is strong. Not just visit, but live there, in that crooked house. Be that serious actor in a low-budget horror movie about the end of the world. Maybe it will all come alive on film, or as a story. Be remembered, like those movies, as a brave crazy thing, hopeless at the time.
Down the block, names on the tombstones in Lafayette Cemetery No. 1:
Coashtie Dark
Amelia Siren
Sande Shurnway
The air is thick, sweet and peppery. Everything has a touch of green mold. A green gecko or chameleon on pink brick. Mardi Gras beads on trees and powerlines. Grackles with vertical stabilizers like planes, that swoop and screech over several tarnished syllables.
Telesphore Bourque
Rene Clerc
Davis Herrod
Aurora Arceneaux
Elizabeth Wolfaith
Mantin Shutard
Annetta Bouintine
Regis Chandris
At the Voodoo Museum dollar bills are rolled into tubes and inserted into wooden spirit dolls to satisfy wishes. Weeks later that area will be flooded again. Everyone knows it will happen again, and again, but still are affronted, shocked and amazed when interviewed on TV. Oh my god, one man says at the rapidly-darkening sky. The olive-green street cars plow through waist-deep water. They run on electricity from overhead cables. The seats are wood. At the end of the line they flip over to face the other direction. The driver walks to the controls at the opposite end and goes back again. Is there one named Desire.
Edwin Given
Eule Prytania
Kendal Keyes
Marguerita Freudenstein
Praeger Fontaine
George Mekas Aaliyah
M. Koenig Regis Chandris
Nicholas Dominique
T.J. Earhardt
James Hederbon
J. Tarbato
M.K. Karschendiek
The New Orleans Home
for Incurables
A collective of Nigerian teens afrofuturist filmmakers have created The Critics Company a collective making incredible, science fiction movies with camerawork from old, damaged mobile phones and VFX generated in Blender.
The collective’s showpiece is Z: The Beginning, a ten-minute short film that took the collective 7 months to shoot and edit: “Z is a short film set in a post apocalyptic era in Nigeria around the 2050’s which reveals a developed Nigeria undergoing invasions. The word Z centers around a scientifical project (PROJECT Z) created by a Company called ‘The Triangle’.”
Their youtube channel also includes some behind the scenes mini-docs showing how they accomplish so much with very little.
It is four in the morning and I must prepare to recede. My weekdays begin with self-exorcism. Name, shame, secrete, wash, wipe clean, wring dry, sanitize. What I can’t expunge, I conceal. I blur and disguise.
My name is Adwoa Nyamekye Stella Darko. Adwoa, in Twi, means girl child born on Monday. Nyamekye means God’s gift. Stella was my half-white grandmother: my father’s mother. I remember her cold palms on my cheeks, her green eyes staring into mine, her London accent: “Well, you’re a naughty girl, aren’t you? Good. Better naughty than boring. But you mustn’t be naughty in public.” To her friends, she introduced me as her American granddaughter. My father, at eighteen, had moved to New York for university, had met my American mother, had me, became an American citizen. Americans, my grandmother said, are loud and obvious. She told me to always sit properly, like a lady, at school and at birthday parties, and to sit how I bloody well pleased at home with my family and closest girlfriends. She never left the house without a full face of makeup.
“We all need a good mask, we black women” my grandmother warned me. When I was a little girl and my father and I visited her in Kingsbury, in the council flat where my father grew up, she let me sip from her gin and tonics. The bitter cocktail, she said, was our reward for surviving another day in a white man’s world. She was a secretary in a law office. All the lawyers were white men. Once, she took me to work with her and I heard one lawyer call her pet and another call her poppet. It confused me that she made their tea, fetched their files, smiled at them sweetly. At home, she was boss. At home, her smile was cheeky and knowing. I was eleven when she died. She left me her wedding ring: a single pearl on a gold band. I wear it, always, on my index finger, never take it off. Her husband, my grandfather, died a year after my father was born. He was from Ghana, had moved to London for medical school.
“I was supposed to be a surgeon’s wife,” my grandmother often told me. “Wasn’t supposed to work another day in my life once my husband graduated. It just goes to show.” She never said what it went to show.
My grandmother gave me my crooked bottom teeth, the dent in my chin, her name. At work, I am just Stella. Stella is easy to pronounce, untroublesome.
The first thing I do in the morning is take two Advil for my hangover. My nightly reward of choice is red wine. Most nights, I drink half a bottle.
I drink in the tub and on the couch as I watch, first the white housewives, and then the black ones, tear each other apart. They behave horribly in public. They pull off each other’s wigs and flip tables in restaurants, their faces ugly with rage and jealousy. Their fame and wealth shields them, even the black ones. They shop at Louis Vuitton.
I drink in bed while reading Toni Morrison, Philip Roth, Flannery O’Connor, Octavia Butler, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Rachel Cusk. I drink until the words blur. Then, I brush my teeth, turn on the crickets or the tropical storm, and go to sleep.
The second thing I do in the morning is make coffee: just instant Bustello with a splash of almond milk. Today, I add a dollop of coconut oil. Outside, the streetlamps and the moon are still lit. The lights are on in the school across the street, but there are no students yet, no teachers, at least none that I can see in the windows. I aspire to that sort of fluorescent emptiness.
With my coffee, I return to my bed. Every morning, I allow myself an hour of thick, concentrated feeling. Sometimes I cry into my cup. Sometimes I gulp, let the coffee burn my tongue and throat. Sometimes I lie down, pinch and stroke my nipples until I get wet, slide my fingers into my cotton panties, into myself, shudder, shake. On those days, I drink my coffee cold. Sometimes I punch pillows, kick air until I lose my breath. If I rage, I must do so silently. The walls of my studio apartment in Brooklyn are thin and there is an elderly woman asleep next door. She usually wakes at six, as I am leaving. Most days, I hear her alarm go off, her toilet flush, her muttered prayers. At least I assume that she prays. I cannot make out the words but the rhythm is always the same. It sounds like hunger, like begging to be fed. I do not pray. Hunger is my desired state. Coffee is my only breakfast. At lunch, I have an arugula salad with sliced cherry tomatoes and olive oil. Dinner is grilled chicken and steamed vegetables.
This morning, I decide to confess my sins and mentally catalogue my regrets. From my cup, steam rises.
My original sin is also my origin story. I killed my mother. On my way out of her body and into the world, I ruptured her uterus, trespassed into her abdomen, caused a sanguine flood. From swallowing her blood, I almost drowned. The surgeons cut her open, pulled me out. My first breath required suction, resuscitation, my mother’s ruin. My father has told me, at least once a year, that I am not to blame. I was an infant, he insists, an innocent. That may well be, but it does not change that my mother died so I could live. My birth was a breach. Always, as an adult, as a precaution, I avoid intruding. In public, I wear my mask. I keep my body meager, my voice muted.
My father sued the New York hospital where I was born. His lawyer was an old friend of his: a classmate in undergrad at Yale. After college, they both got jobs at nonprofits serving black youth, but eventually they wanted to make a living. My father went back to school, got a PhD in economics at MIT. His friend went to Harvard Law. Had my mother been white, they argued in the lawsuit, the doctor would have believed her, would have saved her. Before my mother started pushing, she had insisted that something was wrong, had screamed for help. My father had squeezed her hand, had shouted at the doctor, at the nurses, that my mother was always right, that they had to listen to her. He had been ordered to calm down or leave. The doctor had wagged his finger in my father’s face. Even his nice suites and English accent, my father said, had not curtailed the doctor’s racism. I was born in 1982. Things are not better now. Still, black women die from childbirth. Still, black babies are born dead.
Black people’s pain, my father told me, is often disbelieved, dismissed, by white people. From her pain – from gritting her teeth to bear it – my mother broke an incisor. My father kept her tooth – put it in a little box in his sock drawer with my baby teeth. He lost the lawsuit against the hospital. My mother, the hospital’s lawyers successfully argued, was to blame for her own death. She had worked until her eighth month. She didn’t exercise enough, ate fried food, did nothing to manage her stress and anxiety, waited too long to have a child, had a child after having surgery to remove twenty uterine fibroid tumors. That surgery put her at risk of uterine rupture. Her job and her diet put her at risk of hypertension and diabetes. I was the risk realized. I killed her.
“The doctor knew about her fibroid surgery,” my father says. “They knew her age. They should have believed her. And, a Black woman can’t just quit her job, can’t avoid anxiety, can’t avoid stress, not in America. Your mother grew up poor. She financially supported half of her family. She always had to be excellent. America did that to her. Racism did that to her. But, they said she died because she like fried chicken.”
Half of my mother’s ashes, my father buried in a hole in the ground, under a tree on his uncle’s land in Ghana. The other half of my mother is in an urn in a columbarium in Queens, near where my mother was born and raised. Every year on her birthday, I go there and sit surrounded by the walls of remains. I never cry. I don’t know why I go, but I know I must go. Afterwards, I allow myself a milkshake. Then, at home, I stick my finger in my throat and retch myself vacant.
Another sin: I am my father’s refuge but I treat him like a burden. Being born, I killed his wife, the only woman he has ever loved. He cheated on both his second and third wives, but he claims that, to my mother, he was faithful. I choose to believe him. I am told that my mother’s love was boundless. She once gave her shoes and socks to a homeless woman and walked home barefoot in the rain. Her work was, officially, prison reform. In her journal that my father gave me when I turned eighteen, she wrote that it was not reform she was after. She wanted abolition. She believed in a world where no one was caged, where everyone was free.
When it comes to love, I am a miser. On my phone, from my father: six missed calls and three text messages, all unanswered. From his divorce from his third wife, from his drinking, from his unending grief, from his affairs with his students, I hide.
Sin: I resent my half-sister and half-brother. They are twelve and fourteen years old, respectively. I resent them their rich white mother who is alive. I resent them their beauty, their trust funds. A part of me is glad that my father cheated on their mother, that he moved out of her house in Brooklyn Heights. A part of me is glad that they too were denied the perfect family. Some weekends, I take them to the movies or to lunch. Mostly, they stare at their phones, but they tell me they love me when we say goodbye. I say it back but I’m not certain that I mean it.
Regret: When I was fourteen, a friend of my father’s stole my body from me. His tongue in my mouth, his tongue between my legs. His saliva tasted like stale cigarettes. The beat of his heart menaced my thigh. When he came up for air, unzipped his pants, slipped inside me, the look in his eye was a command: Don’t fight. Against me, his eyes said, you will not win. I did not fight to save my own body – my body that cost my mother her life. I let him take it. When my father’s friend pulled out and burst on my belly, I felt myself drained of who I was before and filled with something heavy and opaque. I carry, still, that heaviness. I carry it inside me with my fibroid tumors. Sometimes, I see my father’s friend at dinner parties. I call him uncle. He calls me sweetheart and I let him. I regret this cowardice, this complicity.
Sin: The man who stole my body has a granddaughter now. I have watched her climb into his lap. I have watched him stroke her hair. I have said nothing.
I am not finished with my confession and cataloguing when my second alarm goes off, signaling that it is time to stop feeling, time to go numb. I reach down, touch my toes, rise and inhale, flutter my lips. I shake my whole body, then I stand still until the energy settles. I survey my room to ensure that it is still spotless from last night’s cleaning. I keep my belongings to a minimum. I sweep and dust daily. It is just after five A.M.
From my head, I remove the silk scarf I sleep in and pull my hair up. I put on my shorts, sports bra, sneakers. I run four miles. The point of running is depletion and sweat. I want to lose my breath. I want to ache.
When I return, I shower in scalding water with scentless soap. After drying, I snatch my hair back into a very tight bun, gel my edges. My dark circles, my hyperpigmentation, I cover with concealer. I layer on full-coverage foundation and pressed powder. In the mirror, I make sure that I can still count my ribs through my skin. I clothe myself in all black: dress pants, button-down shirt, knee-high socks, Chelsea boots. I apply cherry Chapstick. My affirmation before I leave the apartment: I am calm and relaxed in every situation. I embrace quiet. I let go of emotions so I can see clearly. I wear my mask in public.
At work, my voice is soft and cheerful, my laughter easy. For my paycheck, and as penance for my original sin, I write reports about inequities in America’s healthcare system. I analyze data. I have the same title as my mother: Senior Policy Analyst. All day, I read about, talk about, write about black bodies: bullets in black bodies, tumors in black bodies, AIDS in black bodies, cardiac diseases in black bodies, black limbs severed from diabetic black bodies, sleepless black bodies, asthmatic black bodies, stillborn black bodies. Currently, I am writing a report about disproportionate maternal death rates among black women.
At a sixty-person organization that advocates for better health outcomes for black and brown people, I am one of only five black employees. I am one of only two black women. I am friendly with all of my colleagues; friends with none of them. We are PhDs, experts. This is a think tank. The walls are bare and the light is harsh. Here, emotions are destructive and irrational. Emotions must never affect our analysis or our decisions. This is good for me. Here, I am a mind, not a body. My role is to document and recommend. In my reports, the bodies are numbers. The bodies do not have names. When I see my mother in the data – black women dead from childbirth – I close my eyes and count to ten. When I see my body in the data – the fibroid tumors growing in my uterus, my panic attacks – I close my eyes and count to ten.
“What we need,” says one of my white male colleagues in the morning meeting, after I give an update on the report I am writing, “is more education in the black community about the dangers of obesity for pregnant women.”
“We must highlight,” says my white woman boss, “the importance, for black women, of postpartum care. So many black women don’t see their doctors for postpartum visits.”
Across the conference room table from me, the other black woman – Jennifer – is shaking. Sweat glistens on her forehead. Her cheeks are red. I look away from her imprudent body. Her mask is coming off. I look out the window where the sky is clear and blue, where the sun is bright.
“Especially for women with risk factors, postpartum visits are—” my boss continues. Before she can finish her sentence, Jennifer pounds her fist into the table.
“They don’t go because doctors are racist,” she hisses. “It isn’t the black women who need educating. It’s the doctors! I almost died having my daughter last year.” Now, Jennifer is crying. Snot dribbles onto her upper lip. “I told the nurse I didn’t feel right and she did nothing. My husband went to find a doctor when we saw blood in my catheter. We waited three hours for a fucking CT scan. I was freezing. I was in pain. I was hemorrhaging. I almost died. My PhD in public health didn’t help me. The only reason I’m alive is because my husband finally lost it, threatened to call the NAACP.”
Jennifer is gasping for air. The room is silent but for the white noise of the floor fan. Then, my boss clears her throat. Someone coughs. Jennifer walks out of the room, slams the door. My body wants to follow her. Tears threaten to rise in my eyes. I take a deep breath and start to count to ten.
“Stella,” my boss says, “can you go check on her?”
I nod, smile, and rise. I am the other black woman so I must go. In the office, in the hall, in the bathroom, there is no sign of Jennifer. I wonder if she will be back tomorrow. I could call her but I know that I will not. I go back to my desk and reapply powder to my face. I sit like a lady – legs crossed, hands in lap, mask on. I count to ten and open the report on my desktop. I breathe. I let go of emotions so I can see clearly.
I turned to my other half and continued with my loud criticism that no one asked for, “Why would you dress as someone who literally abuses women?”
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Introduction
I
Lining up for Nadia Bolz-Weber’s talk at Southwark Cathedral, I’m aware I don’t fit in. A young woman beside me is talking to her mother, describing the time she prayed in front of her friends. She wanted to illustrate how she speaks to Jesus in exactly the same way she does to them. She is so matter of fact about it I’m impressed; prayer seems part of her daily existence as a cup of coffee is to mine. Behind me a boisterous group are discussing the role distributions for their forthcoming Sunday service. One woman complains that being the wife means she gets roped into doing too much, she’s been put down for visuals and service management. Looking around the rest of the queue, I try to gauge if I’m the only heathen in their midst as if, for those of us without a dog collar, Christianity could be worn like a cloak.
Once inside I sit down on one of the pews towards the back. The atmosphere in the cathedral is charged, as if we’re waiting to see a sell-out gig at Brixton Academy. In some ways, Nadia Bolz-Weber is a rock star. Ex alcoholic. Covered in tattoos. Former stand-up who swears like a fishwife and wears crimson lipstick. She’s also a Lutheran pastor and orthodox theologian. It is this juxtaposition that makes her so compelling – her ability to inhabit two (seemingly) opposing realms. True to the name of the church she founded in Denver, Colorado, she is a sinner and a saint.
I first came across Bolz-Weber in a video that appeared in my Facebook feed entitled ‘Forgive Assholes: Have a Little Faith’, where she calls those with the capacity to forgive, ‘freedom fighters’. An advocate for social change, Bolz-Weber’s latest book ‘Shameless’ is a call for a sexual reformation within the church. The premise took shape right here in London, she tells us, when she was on tour with her previous book. Weeks into a new relationship, and somewhat overwhelmed by the impact it was having on her body and her spirit, she phoned her boyfriend, who was back in the U.S., waking him up at 6 a.m. with a question she couldn’t shake:
Why has the church always tried to control sexuality?
Eric, who Bolz-Weber casually describes as a heathen, replied instantly, saying he’d always assumed it was because the church viewed sex as its biggest competition. Bingo, she had the subject of her next book.
Perhaps the explosive nature of this subject is why Bolz-Weber admits to feeling nervous when she appears on stage. To allay her anxiety she reads out the order of service, a trademark Bolz-Weber blend of Christian tradition and rebellion against the rule book. Following an a cappella rendition of Amazing Grace, a Q and O session, some shameless confessions and a blessing, tonight will culminate with a dance-off under the cathedral dome. ‘Don’t leave me hanging like they did in Indianapolis,’ she says. ‘That was totally humiliating.’
It is this kind of impromptu remark that makes Bolz-Weber so easy to relate to, that brings her down from the pulpit and on a level with ordinary people. ‘Shameless’ is testament to this, inspired by the stories she heard first hand from members of her congregation. In her introduction this evening, she reads from the first pages, recounting a flight she took from Colorado to North Carolina. Not long after take-off, the crop circles outside of Denver caught her eye. She discovers later that these crops aren’t planted in circles but in square plots of land. They grow in circles because of the way they’re watered. This provides Bolz Weber with a potent metaphor for the church’s failure to reach people that don’t fit inside its circle, whether it’s because of body shape, sexual orientation, gender or faith: ‘God planted so many of us in the corners, yet the center pivot irrigation of the church’s teachings about sex and sexuality tends to exclude us.’
Bolz-Weber is a self-proclaimed planted-in-the-corner Christian. When she was ordained over a decade ago, she signed a contract which stipulated two options for her sex life:
- As a wife, stay faithful to your husband till death do you part.
- As a single woman, remain chaste.
Looking back on it now, post-divorce, and still in a steady relationship with Eric, she says, ‘In what way is it good for my congregation for me not to get laid?’ This has the Southwark crowd laughing out loud. The audacity of it, the honesty, the inherent logic behind the question: what has chastity got to do with one’s ability to pastor? I think of a George Saunders quote I read recently: ‘Humor is what happens when we’re told the truth quicker and more directly than we’re used to.’ One expects this kind of risk-taking from comedians but it’s refreshing to see it come from the clergy.
Amazing Grace
II
Luckily, we’ve been given the lyrics to Amazing Grace so I won’t resemble former tory MP John Redwood famously bumbling his way through the Welsh National anthem. As the first verse begins, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. If I did believe in God, this is where I would feel her the most, in the voices of 500 strangers floating up to the cathedral rafters. During the hymn, we’ve been asked to complete the following sentence on a small square of card: ‘I am ready to be shameless about…’ and if we wish to, place it in the basket usually reserved for donations. This, in itself, is heavily symbolic. Repairing the church, Bolz-Weber is suggesting, doesn’t require money, but doing away with the culture of shame around sexuality, shame the church has perpetuated throughout its history, particularly for women and members of the LGBTQ community. I slip my card in my bag for the time being, the sentence left unfinished.
Q and O’s
III
Bolz-Weber doesn’t do questions and answers because she openly admits she doesn’t have any of the latter. She does, however, have opinions. Lots of them. And for the half an hour that follows she walks the aisles, getting up close to those brave enough to raise their hands.
One woman asks Bolz-Weber’s view on being faithful to the vow ‘till death do us part,’ in light of her own divorce. Her reply is surprising and would undoubtedly have some Bible scholars shaking their heads. ‘I think there are a lot of forms of death,’ she says, alluding to the death of desire within her own marriage, death of respect for one another’s bodies via domestic or sexual abuse, or the protracted demise of incompatible couples. She argues these kind of marriages undermine the very institution they are trying so hard to uphold.
A woman in the pew behind me wonders how to remain authentic in the age of internet dating. Bolz-Weber segues into a section of ‘Shameless’ that broaches the subject of consent, citing the WHO ethical requirements for sexual health as consent and mutuality. For Bolz-Weber, this fails to include the Christian ethic of concern. Sexual health, she asserts, should not simply mean the absence of harm but the presence of benevolence towards both ourselves and others. She compares it to the fifth commandment – or the ‘freebie’ – and Martin Luther’s teachings that ‘thou shalt not kill’ is more than refraining from murder. It’s actively offering support and good will to others. It’s going above and beyond.
After several thwarted attempts, the young priest next to me raises his hand and his voice. If Bolz-Weber could go back in time, would she still sign the contract with the church, even though she knows it compromises her integrity, or would she refuse to do so and risk never entering the church on her own terms? It’s a bold question, especially as the young priest admits to signing an equivalent contract when he entered the Anglican Church, and it takes Bolz-Weber a few moments to answer. Ultimately, she says she would sign. Because in order to truly shake things up, it’s easier to do so from within the institution. Make no mistake, though, she doesn’t mean piecemeal improvements. As the title of her books clearly states, she wants reformation, or in her own words, ‘to burn it the fuck down and start over.’
What strikes me as I listen to Bolz-Weber is that the damaging messages and dogma she refers to around sex and gender are not unique to the church. The idea that a woman’s body belongs to her husband isn’t just found in sermons but is deeply ingrained in our culture and shows up in the most innocuous places: from a well-meaning midwife, for example, who enquires about my (non-existent) sex life six months after giving birth, ‘Doesn’t that bother your husband?’ she asks. It is the insidious nature of these remarks that shock me, the implication that a woman is a second class citizen of her own body, that her sexual desire is insignificant and not worth enquiring after, or that sex is a one-way exchange, with women (in heterosexual couples, at least) morally obliged to satisfy the sexual impulses of their partners or reap the repercussions – aggression, frustration, and potentially, abuse.
As a secondary school pupil, I am told, along with a group of girlfriends, that we shouldn’t wear short skirts because it’s too distracting for the male teachers as we walk up the stairs. This from one of the teachers. In this scenario, young women are not only sartorially censored, they are made responsible for the inappropriate and sexually predatory behaviour of the men into whose care they are entrusted. This is not a far cry from the teaching Bolz-Weber received in charm class as part of her fundamentalist Christian upbringing, an experience she described in a recent interview with Rich Roll: ‘you have to dress modestly because you don’t want to tempt the boys…don’t ever arouse them sexually because once they’re aroused to a certain point, then they can’t help themselves.’ However, the key difference, Bolz Weber writes in ‘Shameless’, is that ‘as harmful as the messages from society are, what society does not do is say that those messages are from God.’ Asked whether she sees a direct correlation between the gendered teachings of the church and domestic violence, Bolz-Weber is unequivocal: ‘Abso-fucking-lutely.’
Shameless Confessions
IV
The congregation at Southwark Cathedral have been given one straight-forward instruction. Once Bolz-Weber has finished reading out an anonymous confession, we must respond in unison: ‘Let that shit go!’ It’s an unorthodox call and response, which takes us a few rounds to get into it, to let go, perhaps, of the unwritten rule of no swearing in church. Bolz-Weber has been effing and blinding since she stepped onto the stage but it’s something else to hear your own voice say ‘shit’ in the house of God. The confessions vary from profound to inspiring, and slightly enigmatic.
‘I am ready to be shameless about my daughter’s sexuality,’
LET THAT SHIT GO!
‘I am ready to be shameless about having the best sex in my seventies.’
LET THAT SHIT GO!
‘I am ready to be shameless about underwear.’
LET THAT SHIT GO!
This last one has an elderly woman in the row in front of me in hysterics. She’s laughing so hard the whole pew is shaking. It’s a joyous, liberating moment to witness, to see the austere codes and taboos of the church broken and replaced with laughter. It demystifies the congregation. We are still a group of strangers but we are a group of strangers who share the same basic fears hopes, hang-ups and #lifegoals.
Blessing
V
Bolz-Weber’s book is not only for victims of shame but for those who have done the shaming and regretted it. Why? Because Bolz-Weber is a big believer in grey areas, in non-binary definitions of good and bad, and most significantly, in God’s grace. Tonight she ends with a benediction: ‘God saves us in our bodies, not from our bodies. And I want that knowledge to be a blessing.’
Dance-Off
VI
When Prince’s ‘Kiss’ blasts out of the cathedral speakers, it’s time for the dance-off. Suddenly I’m back in 1988 when shame is practically a prerequisite for the primary school disco. Please choose me I want to scream between gulps of flat cream soda and salt and vinegar crisps that get stuck in my throat. But only if there are enough people on the dance floor to hide behind, that is. Southwark Cathedral is bigger than the school hall and there is nowhere to hide. We are in full view of the congregation and theoretically, God. I bite the bullet, even plucking up the courage to ask my neighbour to join me. She declines politely, saying ‘I won’t, but enjoy.’ The female priest at the end of the pew has a look on her face that says, ‘don’t even bother’ so I go up alone. If this event is anything like Manchester, there’ll be a video posted within hours on Twitter. I feel embarrassed about being seen, a heathen dancing on the cold stone floor of the cathedral but then I see a young Lutheran priest dressed in blue launch himself into the crowd as if his life depended on it. Perhaps tonight is not about fitting in – to the church or society at large – but accepting and celebrating who you are, not dwelling on what you’re ‘lacking’ – the feeling of not being enough that is so prevalent in purity culture. As the music fades out Nadia Bolz-Weber slips away to sign copies of ‘Shameless’ in the Cathedral shop, leaving the last word to Prince.
Don’t have to be rich
To be my girl
You don’t have to be cool
To rule my world
Ain’t no particular sign
I’m more compatible with
I just want your extra time and your
Kiss
I once read an Ann Patchett quote where she compared the act of writing to taking a beautiful butterfly and killing it, rendering it flat on a page with a large pin until it’s a husk of the shimmering butterfly it was before. That image has stayed with me, and I think I understand what she means. The act of writing is a physical one. Writing is a type of alchemy, of taking an idea and translating it to words on a page.
Writing begins foremost with an idea, do you have a compelling story to tell? I think the most important aspect of a story is how compelling it is. As literary agents, we look for narrative, we look for stories that are powerful, that are memorable, that want to be read. There are of course, exceptions, but I think that even very literary work that focuses on language, has at its heart, a compelling idea.
The Idea and the narrative engine
For a writer, the idea stage must be the most exciting part. This planning stage can take months, some writers like to begin with a kernel of idea while others like to expand the story before they begin.
Here are some questions to consider with your story idea. What is your story about? What is the narrative heart? What are the emotional stakes? Does it have conflict? There are many books on storytelling, but my favourite is probably STORY by Robert McKee. It breaks down the elements of compelling storytelling. A mistake we often see from first time writers, is a lack of narrative momentum or a lack of stakes.
Some novels are voice driven, others are character driven, I would argue that a novel will always need multi-dimensional characters. Characters that live and breathe off the page, whose motivations and actions are logical and ring true. However, the common point of a voice-driven narrative or a character-driven narrative is that there is that drive. A narrative needs an engine.
Writing your narrative
Then there is the “killing of the butterfly” where you as a writer take your idea and write the story. It can be tempting to keep your novel idea to yourself, to keep dreaming it, thinking it, because if you don’t write your story, then you never have to see how imperfect it can be. But this transformation is a necessary one to writing a novel. An idea that gestates for years won’t necessarily become better, it needs to make that transition.
With the actual writing process, there are different schools of thought. There are some writers who believe in an outline, planning out the structure of their novel scene by scene, while others believe in an organic flow of ideas to see where the story takes them. Some writers write their first draft in a frenzy and then edit afterwards, while others edit as they go along.
I don’t think there’s a magical equation to this. The most important thing is just to write. Whether it’s longhand or on a computer, you just have to write. Write the words on the page. However, I think for beginners, it’s always best to write chronologically, because that ensures that the narrative builds naturally to momentous scenes.
Post the first draft, using the “scissors” of revision
After you’ve finished a first draft, it will be very tempting to want to send it off to an agent straight away. Resist this temptation. There are many reasons why, but the primary one is that your first draft is not strong enough. No one’s first draft is. A first draft is for a writer’s eyes only or for your trusted first readers. I would argue that the revision process is just as important, if not more important than writing the first draft.
I would always say to give your first draft some space to breathe. Put it away for awhile, maybe a week, maybe a month, put the book away and forget about it, and then return to it with a critical eye. With the benefit of time, you’ll be able to notice the things in your story that aren’t working. Perhaps it’s the language or the pacing of the opening chapters, or maybe you have an extra viewpoint that’s not necessary. View your first draft with a critical, unsparing eye, and don’t be afraid to make dramatic changes. Truman Capote said, “I believe in the scissors more than the pencil.”
This is the attitude to take with revision. Think of the manuscript as still in the sculpture phase, nothing has been set in stone, it’s still malleable.
There are many writers who talk about throwing out their first draft and beginning again, and others who talk about extensive surgery on their manuscript, from changing the perspective to cutting out the second half. Writing is a marathon, it’s a process, and it takes time.
After you’ve revised your manuscript a number of times, and have shared it with a trusted reader, it is time for the querying process. Querying requires you to think of your manuscript as a businessman would. What are its strengths? What is the pitch? You are going to be pitching your book to agents. Remember that agents don’t necessarily expect a perfect manuscript, so you don’t have to invest in an editor or editorial guidance.
Querying literary agents
Literary agents are the first professionals who take part in the writing process. It’s best to put as much space between the first draft and an agent as you can. As agents, we are inundated with manuscripts (it’s a privilege), but it means that we’re not able to give feedback. You shouldn’t look to an agent for feedback, most likely you’ll receive silence or a form rejection.
Rejection happens to everyone; every writer has a rejection story. The most important thing is to improve, to keep going, and to learn from rejection. Rejection is never personal and remember, it is an opportunity to learn.
But don’t let these thoughts enter your mind in the idea process. There’s no need to think about agents or the publishing industry or publishing trends when you’re creating your novel. When you still have that butterfly of an idea in your mind, there you are the creator, you are in control of the story.
Catherine Cho’s next article on Writer’s Block
Imagine this: The sky is a cylinder of blue. You are sure it goes on forever. You are sure this moment will go on forever, when you turn your gaze from the cleanest of skies to her prone, motionless body, although, on closer inspection, you see her chest rising and falling with every second of life that runs through her, and you stare in an admixture of awe and disbelief, unsure if this existence is truthful, wondering if this is but another possibility in the multiverse, and there, if you blink, you miss the edge of her lips’ pull towards her cheeks, the mouth opening, the teeth on show, contagious, and like the most pleasant of diseases, you do so too, unsure if she is looking back at you behind dark lenses, or if she feels the warmth of your stare.
Regardless, you are sure you hear her eyes crinkle and shimmer as they do when she is joyous. You look back to the sky. There’s not a cloud in sight.
*
A sobering glimpse: In the not so distant future, you will be driving a rental car, at speed, along a dirt track designed for pedestrians and bikes. Sophia Garcia is in the passenger seat. She is glamorous, and everything you want, but perhaps not everything you need. She is freedom, liberty, and hope, wrapped in a fierce, uncompromising package. She is also not the woman you think you love. At that moment, she will have been partying for two days straight, and will be at the height of an acid trip.
“Sophia, I’m driving,” you say, as she reaches for the inside of your thigh, your foot jolting, five extra miles per hour in the death mobile.
“And I am exploring another possibility in the multiverse,” she says, working her way up.
You will swallow. You will not stop her, but something in you, which has not yet been rendered ignoble, will delay.
“And which reality is that?”
“The one in which this ends very badly.”
*
A great sea mist rolls in and threatens to ruin everything.
“You’re being dramatic,” she says.
“Literally, everything.” You pause and gaze at the impenetrable wall of cloud. “This is the worst thing that could have happened.”
She bites her lip in an attempt to keep a giggle escaping her mouth. She fails, but does not fail to catch the flash of hurt on your face, before you retreat inside yourself, a mollusc in predatory danger.
She turns to look at you, but you don’t look back, no, straight ahead, because you want her to pry, want her to dig into the nature of your condition. Why are you being like this? How did you get here?
“What?” she asks. A shake of the head.
“Come on.” Creeping towards you, inch by inch. A wry smile on her face, like a child who knows they are getting their way. Her cheek next to yours. Hesitating, brief, before kissing the corner of your mouth and working her way round. You kiss her back because you know it will make her happy. You tend to do this a lot of late, things that will make her happy. You are sure, by consequence, you too, will experience some sort of pleasure.
“I wanted it to be perfect.”
She shakes her head and grins, raising her eyebrows. Saying so much with so little.
As she rolls away from you, she stands to stretch her short, graceful dancer’s body, a haunting she will never escape (nurture having fought with nature, and won). You follow her gaze to a group of small children performing cartwheels in the sand, again and again. They stop and giggle with the dizziness. Her mouth opens and her faces changes to something you have not seen before. It bypasses pleasure, grazing fear and excitement on the way. Joy. This must be joy.
*
An excellent writer, speaking on joy, said, “The thing no one ever tells you about joy is that it has very little real pleasure in it.” In the same piece, she quoted another esteemed figure: “It hurts as much as it is worth.” Take from this what you will.
*
There is no polite way to say this, and actually, the distinction must be made clear: you fuck her. Usually, you would make love, in a tender, safe way. Feeling your way around familiar turns and twists, not here, but there. Today is different. Today is two fumbling teenagers, unknowing that this is not the last time. Soft, silent gasps escape her mouth. She steadies herself against walls, hunched over the sink, as if this will make a difference. You push harder and harder, and then, as it comes, it goes; that brief moment where two are one, and, if one is lucky, are of longer of this world.
You think about this for a moment. Other worlds. Better places. Fleeting. And yet, would you want to have constant pleasure? Can one have too much? Would this thing we long for become sickly, addictive, dangerous?
“Coming?”
You exit the toilet of the barbecoa and return to lunch.
*
“Deep. I dunno.” She shrugs and smiles before pronging a cube of meat on her fork. She waves it like a conductor’s baton, before guiding it towards her mouth.
In the end, you didn’t mix your words.
“I mean, I’d be lying if I wasn’t broody. Often. It’s like…” She shrugs again, and looks into the distance. “When I was younger, a teenager, all the women in my family primed me for this life of marriage, followed by childrearing, which goes hand in hand with martyrdom, after all, that’s what motherhood is—”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, come on, we must have had this conversation.”
“Never. Not sober.”
“The way you go on about it, you make us out to be alcoholics.”
You eye the bottle of red wine, and make a show of checking your watch. “It’s two p.m., and we are one bottle down. We have a problem.”
She laughs and your stomach skips like sickness.
“Anyway, motherhood, is like, the ultimate sacrifice. Right from the beginning.” A sip of wine. “First we ruin our carefully sculpted bodies by trying to squeeze a bowling ball out of a gap which, frankly, does not accommodate a bowling ball. It’s never the same. Or so I hear. Then you spend nine months or so, having your nipples chewed off, taking involuntary night-time walks. And that is year one. Just think of the angst of releasing your child into the world, not knowing if they will return—”
You snort. “Where are you planning to live?”
“And then, you know, you have to think of the influence you have on this human being you’ve been entrusted with.”
“You make it sound like a job.”
“But it is a job, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and so on. You cannot tell your child that you need a break.”
“That’s what babysitters are for.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
You reach over to unfold her arms. “No. No, I’m not.”
“But seriously. Women kill themselves to raise a child.”
“But doesn’t that make you voluntary martyr of sorts?”
“Oh but you’re being literal again. I don’t believe St. Paul asked to be stoned to death.”
“So why do you do it?”
“On behalf of our gender, the you you refer to, I ask you this: What is love?”
You raise an eyebrow, and she raises both in challenge. You hesitate.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Don’t be boring, play along.” She pauses. You shrug. Unimpressed, she sighs.
“Look over there,” she says. You do so. You watch a husband and wife cooing over an infant, the child running in small circles in the excitement of being fed.
“A child is the only tangible manifestation of love.” She sits back, and nods at you, satisfied, as if she has sparred with Aristotle himself, and won. She pours the last of the wine into your two glasses and signals at the fresh-faced waiter for more.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“If you don’t know the answer by now, then, you’re not as smart as I thought.”
*
You haven’t slept since the day you arrived.
You borrowed Pepe’s convertible and drove down the coast, with Z in the seat next to you, her bare, delicate feet resting against the dashboard. On arrival, in this tiny town of Zahora de los Atunes, you curled up under the shade of an awning jutting out from the roof of your tiny apartment. The coolness of the tiles was a welcome reprieve from the dusty heat of Andalusia.
The dancer, the man you met on the dance floor with so much life in him, visits you again. This time he is still, yet fidgety. He has company. A young man wearing a black hoodie, holes in his chest. A larger man, a little weighty, perhaps once strong in himself but on this occasion, broken. Another, rough, bearded, older: disturbed. You count six holes dotting his shirt. They all look like you, like different versions of you, versions who no longer exist; under different circumstances, this would have been you, haunting others in their slumber.
You wake to Z shaking your shoulder with a nervous urgency. Your face is wet with tears and hers is flush with worry.
“Nightmare,” you explain dismissively. She smiles at your macho disregard, and does not push. In her smile you see what caused you to weep in your sleep, what it is that you are missing: hope.
*
The area you are staying used to be a fishing town – Atunes translating to tuna – and as a result, much is crumbling, falling. It only lends to the familial feeling that you are at home; the jolly Spanish, greeting as you pass, restaurants and groceries passed down from generation to generation.
The town is also littered with strays – cats and dogs, alike. You meet one dog on the walk back from the beach, who dances at your heels, circling you and Z, it’s playful tongue lolling from its mouth. You cannot help but laugh, as Z pets it and the rises on to its hind legs, imitating humans. You think, the stray is like a human, wandering, trying to find its place in this world, settling, briefly, in the hope one can stop off forever.
*
Z holds up a clear plastic bag, filled with a dried plant.
“Is that what I think it is?” you ask.
“Yes.”
“How did you get that into the country?”
“Made a friend.”
“What’s he like?”
“You sound jealous,” she says, biting her lip, turning away.
You have been smoking and drinking all evening, when she removes a still smouldering joint from your hands, balances it on an ashtray. She climbs atop you, so you are chest to chest, kissing down your neck, sending shocks down your spine.
“Where?” you say, already breathless.
“Anywhere.” This is methodical, a passionate autonomy, like old lovers from another life. As the climax comes and goes, you feel nothing. You roll off each other, and return to smoking, passing the joint back and forth, a pungent haze sitting in the room. And in a strange moment, you wonder if love is even worth it.
The thought quickly passes.
*
Morning, just. Z is still in bed. You sip at lukewarm coffee on your balcony, overlooking a small stretch of sand and sea. Down below, other holidaymakers move at a languorous pace. In an hour, Z will rise, her eyes like slits as she bangs about the kitchen, looking for caffeine. You will laugh at her frustration and do it for her. Down to the beach for a few hours, back up for lunch and a long siesta. In the evening, you will walk through the town with a camera in hand, discovering new corners, new places, new faces. Tapas, a bar, some drinks, a joint, homewards bound. When you flick off the light, inevitably, you curl up into each other, and will most likely end up in each other. You will watch Z as she sleeps, the delicate rising and falling of her chest. On a good night, you will drift off for a few hours, and start again. You love the slow rhythm your life has taken. Your favourite record plays. The rapper croons through the speakers, “This could be forever, baby, This could be forever, maybe.”
*
One night, at a rustic pizza place, you meet a beautiful man. He is rugged and unshaven, with ocean blue eyes peering out curiously from the bush of hair. He waits on your table and flirts endlessly with Z, but in a way that includes you too, as if emphasising how lucky you are. You like him immediately. Before you leave, you exchange numbers; he finishes work at midnight, and will probably head to the local club, he says.
You meet him a few roads away from the open air club, where he mills about with a bunch of friends, listening to Spanish hip-hop which booms from speakers in the back of an open car boot. This, described as a bottelón, is the Spanish version of a pre-drink. It is something you could get on board with, this causal nature as opposed to the drunken ritual of the English.
You dance, without worry, light, free, as long as Z is close. As the music plays, she is like a woman possessed; you wonder if she too, is gifted, possesses the rhythm of the dancer.
When you are leaving, and sobriety begins to poke out its horrid head, you become aware of the attention Z is receiving from the opposite gender. You want to multiply and cover her from every angle, blocking her from view.
A car pulls up as you wait for the next taxi. Two men inside roll their window down and gesture for her to get in the back. She ignores them; you make yourself as tall as possible and stand stony-faced; soon enough, they drive away, in search of another.
She rubs your arm in amusement, and says, jokingly, “My hero.”
*
By the time you reach home, the first signs of day appear in the sky, the air already warm. Z, still drunk, strips, and climbs into bed. You join her, not out of lethargy, but a need to be close to her.
Is this how one rids the ever-present tinge of loneliness? (Note: To be alone is fine, one should learn to enjoy being alone, but loneliness, no, loneliness can lead to isolation, which in turn fosters depression, which some would say is the absence of optimism, but this is another discussion, another day). This is one option, you guess. The comfort of knowing one has people or someone to go back to. An author once posited that this was the definition of “home”: “somewhere to return to. Now, you understand.
*
But then, your realisation that this could be the beginning of something, or perhaps this “something” has already begun, this fills you with worry rather than excitement. You think about the world you will go forward in. You ponder the future. Though nothing is promised, you think, in the unlikely event you survive the tumultuous day-to-day life, that you develop and grow and bond, come together, stay together; that your foundations are set strong, and you march forth, stumbling and helping each other up on the way; many years from now, you decide to act on her biological and your societal expectations, and bring children into the world. How on earth will you do this? How will you take a human from birth, and prepare it to live? Your own father, he was a decent man, and if he cannot do it, then what chance do you have?
A decent man, whatever that means.
*
“What’s up?”
“Hmm?”
“You have that look in your eyes.”
“What look?”
“The existential-crisis-is-impending look.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“Ok.”
“Ok.”
*
A crack in a glass floor should not go untreated.
*
The sea is calm once more, but you have learned your lesson, bobbing in the shallows. As you tread water, you watch a girl swim between two imaginary walls. Back and forth. She tires and swims towards you, gliding underwater and emerging next to you.
She gazes at you, unblinking.
“Hablas ingles?” you ask.
She slicks water out of her hair before answering.
“You see that guy over there? Sitting under the orange parasol. He’s my boyfriend. I’m about to break up with him though.”
In all your confusion, all you can ask is, “Why?”
“I found an engagement ring. That’s not really my thing. You married?”
“No.”
“You thinking about getting married?”
“No. Yes. Probably. I don’t know.”
She gazes out the water rippling in front of her, and for a moment, is shocked, as if this is the first time she is seeing nature move of its own accord.
“I’m Sophia. Sophia Garcia.”
“C.”
“C,” she says, turning your name over her tongue, her mind. “Don’t think about it too much.”
“What?”
“Life. It’ll be your undoing.” And then she swims away.
*
“I think he thinks that if he proposes, if I say that I am his and he is mine, if I agree to spend the rest of my life with him, then that’s it. Like there’s no taking it back. People take it back every day. I don’t know why we still ask each other. We should just kind of let it happen, you know? There’s that beginning part of a relationship, right, here, turn here. Right at the start, when you want to skip instead of walking home. Flowers, dinner, showing off to friends, the works. And then, after this period of grave intensity – because that’s what it is, life or death, I’ve always imagined I would perish in those days if I didn’t get my fix, and yes, it’s like an addiction, I don’t want to go down the neuroscience route but it’s dopamine, all dopamine, you know, the happy hormone. So after this period, well, I guess that’s it? What else is there to come? All that newness which is so exciting has been used up. So what are you meant to do? It comes for some quicker than others, I think, but I mean, he and I have been together for a year or so. Look, I don’t mind telling you this, I had some problems not so long ago, real problems. Like, why-am-I-here kind of problems. You get it, I see it in you sometimes. The point is, he is under the assumption that if he puts a ring on my finger, it’s like a cure, that everything will be ok. But he’s wrong. We’re all deluding ourselves, in a way. Nothing is ok. Nothing will be ok. Shall we go get ice cream?”
*
There is still newness to be found, you find. Deep in the recesses of the cave, one night, you discover some sort of intimacy, the type one feels when your faces are too close, whatever inhabits that tiny gap.
“I want to dance,” she says. You are on the balcony, a tiny candle set on a table you dragged outside flickering in the evening wind. You stand, and open your palms in answer to her request.
The two of you circle the balcony, moving slowly. At first, listening hard to music drifting up from lower levels, then, finding your own rhythm, embarking on a brief journey, together.
The warmth of her head against your body, chest to chest, heart to heart; in this moment closer in proximity and spirit than you have ever been. And then you crane your neck down to kiss her; the spell is broken. She shakes her head and draws away from you, retreating inside. A gust of wind blows out the flame.
*
“But don’t just think of yourself! Think of her, too. Why does anyone do anything? How did they get here, to this moment? No, no, I don’t mean put her in front of you, just think of her. Then you’ll understand. It’s good to know how people work. What they’ll do. Why they will do it. That way, you can make them do what you want. Whatever. You’re only saying that because you’re scared that’s how you feel too.”
*
“Who is she?”
“Are you jealous?”
Z smiles, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Should I be?”
“I don’t know,” you say, honestly.
*
Cracks spread like a spider web across the glass you are tiptoeing over.
*
Time has a way of not being relevant until completely necessary. The end has come as ends tend to, without warning. You must leave the dreamscape they are floating through. Back to your friends. Back to reality. Real. Strange. You don’t what that is anymore.
You have swept the floors, and packed your few belongings into bags.
“What will we do when we get back?”
Z shrugs. You push.
“I mean, about us. What will we do?”
She bites her lip. You prompt her with a raise of your eyebrows. Her eyes dance in the silence, trying to find a way out.
“This has been nice,” she starts, gazing at the ground. Up, straight at you.
“This has been nice, but this … has been this. Maybe that’s all it needs to stay as. This.”
You stare at her and she is equal to it.
“I think I love you,” you blurt. You don’t know if you meant it, but it came out first, like a drunk spilling secrets.
Z suddenly looks tired. Of him. Of this. She sighs.
“Are you in love with me, or are you scared of being lonely?”
“What—”
“Because those are not the same things.”
*
So this is what it is like when others say their world is falling apart. You can feel it. Part by part, falling away, like someone is taking a sledgehammer to your walls, breaking them down, leaving you raw and exposed.
“Maybe,” she says, trying to make it ok, “You love what we have, not me.”
Nothing is ok. Nothing will be ok.
*
First originated in DSM I, a dissociative reaction can be described as a psychic circuit breaker, where one experiences a power surge of extreme stress. As a result, one switches off, shuts down their conscious cognitive function, and blanks out. One acts but is unaware of their actions. Such reaction can be seen in the face of natural disasters, abuse (emotional, physical or sexual), spontaneous acts of violence/chaos or grief. It also explains why, when Sophia Garcia calls you in the middle of the night to pick her up from a party because she is on an acid trip and worried for her life, you do not hesitate.
You are falling through the glass.
You are driving recklessly down a country road you do not know, your headlights barely illuminating the darkness.
“Define badly,” you say.
A small, strange, content smile plays on her face.
“I imagine this detective pacing back and forth. In all his years, he won’t have seen anything worse. My body will be discarded around the crash site by the impact. For some reason, it was only my side of the car which was crumpled like a piece of waste paper. It was like someone gave you another chance. And with that chance, you return home, calmly, and murder the woman you think you love. I imagine it will work out well for all of us. You get to keep on running, and I get to rest, finally. I’m quite tired.”
“So you’re suicidal, is that it?”
“That’s such a strong word. I just don’t want to live. Is that such a crime?”
“Yes, yes, of course it is!”
“Says who?”
You have no answer.
Besides, the only reason this will end badly is because you’re driving so fast.
You burst out onto a tarmac road. The main road adjacent to the beach, running along its full length.
You peer at the speedometer. You drive fast and reckless when you are nervous, and it only makes you more nervous. Easing your foot off the pedal, the car begins to slow down. After a moment’s thought, you lower your sole onto the brake. The car comes to a bumpy halt.
‘What’s going on?’
“I think you should go.”
“Go where?”
“Anywhere. Just avoid the sea.” It’s easy to be swept away when sober, let alone high.
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re not the person I love.”
“Oh dear,” she says, undoing her seatbelt, and opening the door. “I don’t want you to love me. I don’t need anyone to love me.” She exits, stumbling back the way you came. You watch her in the rear-view mirror, then start up once more.
You drive on a short distance, but bring the car to a halt once more, parking. You do not trust yourself to drive. Maybe tomorrow.
You walk to the sound of waves crashing against the shore. The moon is high and bright in the night sky. A glob of water splashes on your shoulder, then on your head, your neck, your face. Before long you are soaked. Thunder grumbles in the distance, shaking your bones. You wait for the lightning, and sure enough, there it is, electricity raining from the sky in haphazard patterns, burning an imprint in your eyes even as you blink and blink. Is this safe? You consider taking shelter against remaining out in the open. What are you meant to do when lightning strikes? You can’t remember learning this. You keep moving. You would rather paddle than drift towards your demise.
When you reach the entrance to your block of apartments, lightning strikes once more, exploding through the sky. A tree full of birds – egrets, you think, squawk in protest. This is not what they signed up for in the summer. You imagine they are disappointed, a short parlay taking place: we won’t be returning next year with this sort of weather. Dangerous, flying through this. But then, what were our wings made for, if not for flying? No mind the weather; as Apollinaire said, it is often raining.
You watch as, one by one, they spread their large wings, flapping once, twice, climbing higher into the sky.
What freedom! What courage! Knowing that as they fly away from safety, off into the distance, the storm could kill them.
She wasn’t really my aunt. Maybe her name wasn’t really Doris, I don’t know. She was one of my mother’s friends, and my mother had lots of friends. They’d come over, drink, blab. Usually the party went on all night. Aunt Doris used to come into my room to make sure I was still alive. Sometimes she flopped on my cot and told me a story. She smelled of booze, perfume and something else, something I liked. Aunt Doris’ stories were on the short and dirty side, but they were the only ones I got.
[private]Since home life was the way it was, I stayed in school, hit the library when school let out. School plus library equals college scholarships. You better believe I went to college.
College was OK.
A week before graduation, I got a phone call from Aunt Doris. I hadn’t heard from her in a long time. She said she was coming up for a visit. Nobody else ever came to visit me at College. I braced for first-degree embarrassment.
Aunt Doris showed up at the wheel of a cherry-red custom convertible. She had a white scarf around her hairdo, big sunglasses. She looked like a movie star from Hollywood, which is exactly where she drove from. She parked liked she never really learned to drive. Maybe she’d been drinking. When she stepped out of the car, she went from Hollywood movie star to dorm room smoker babe. Aunt Doris was 50 pounds lighter than the last time I saw her, but none of the weight loss was from hips, keister or bosom. The pounds took 10 years with them. Suddenly I was extremely glad my Aunt Doris had come to see me.
She hugged me a lot closer, a lot longer, kissed me on the mouth a little deeper than a real aunt would have. That was OK too. Slight booze breath, but no cheap perfume when she raised her arms to wrap them around my neck. The smell I liked was still there.
“Wow,” she said slowly, moving her lips like this was her big glamorous close-up in a silent movie. “Look at you. My little boy’s a handsome man.”
College guys, football players and engineering nerds alike, popped from the library, classroom buildings, Student Union and dorms to get a look at the sexy lady with the flashy car. Bronwyn Evans, my college steady date, caught me kissing my Aunt Doris. She walked away as though she hadn’t seen. I was going to have plenty of explaining to do. Or maybe none at all.
Aunt Doris wanted to take me to lunch. At a real restaurant, she said, not a teenage hamburger grease-pit. After that, she wanted me to take her for a ride in the wooded hills around College Town.
The only real restaurant in town didn’t have a big champagne selection, but we drank up what they had.
Marriage, Aunt Doris told me over Baked Alaska, was a bum deal. To be avoided at all costs. Enjoy youth and freedom while you’ve still got them. Keep on enjoying them even when they’re gone, that’s the secret. Aunt Doris was briefly married to a Hollywood millionaire. She thought both things, Hollywood and millionaire, would make her happy. She said she thought her dreams had suddenly come true. Two years later, she got a Mexican divorce and half the rich man’s loot. Maybe happiness was only a dream.
Out in the parking lot, both of us woozy from low-grade champagne and pre-lunch martinis, Aunt Doris handed me the keys to her convertible. “You drive. Get used to driving dreamboats for a change.”
Last time I hit the hills was with Bronwyn Evans. First time for both of us, not terribly successful. But we kept trying, over and over again, in other locations, strictly indoors, with the windows shut tight, curtains drawn.
I thought Aunt Doris wanted fresh air and rustic scenery, after Los Angeles. Plenty of both, among the pines, but she had other plans. The trunk was full of brand new plaid blankets, a pack of rubbers, a bottle of good whiskey and a heavy navy blue cashmere sweater. She tossed me the sweater.
“Here, I thought this would go with your green eyes.”
Aunt Doris showed me a new view of the world, possible solutions to the mystery of man meets woman.
Bronwyn made me put on a rubber before I even kissed her, practically.
Aunt Doris wasn’t terrified by the nightmarish possibility of being impregnated. Male and female fluids didn’t disgust her. She was just being sensible, I thought, but the rubbers from Hollywood made me sad anyhow.
Night fell and I was glad she bought me the fancy sweater. Aunt Doris didn’t mind the cold. She kept her clothes off while we gathered wood. I started a fire with Wall Street Journals from the back seat of the car and her gold lighter from Paris. Her skin glowed yellow rose in the light and flicker.
She asked what I was thinking. I said I learned more from the last 3 hours than 4 years of college. Aunt Doris never finished high school. She never told me why she left home at 16, but I gathered it wasn’t a pleasant or pretty picture. Suddenly she wanted to talk about the past.
Aunt Doris and my mother hooked up in the Big City back East. They had the same job. I asked what the job was. She laughed. Eventually, she said, “Waitress.” I couldn’t picture my mom as a waitress, not in a hundred years. She would have poured hot soup all over the head of the first guy who got fresh. She’d have told bad tippers to fuck off. She’d have taught the manager how to run a restaurant and the cook how to cook, even though she didn’t know how to run a restaurant or cook. My mother didn’t teach me how to read. She knew how, but she only read movie magazines. She tried to teach me to dance, once.
While Aunt Doris was in the middle of telling me how she and my mother got their first apartment together with no deposit or key fee, I asked if she wanted to dance. Dancing without music works fine. Aunt Doris was a good dancer. She used to shake it like crazy at my mother’s parties. But that night we just held on. She stopped talking about old times with my mother and I was glad. There was plenty I didn’t want to know. Like who my father was. Long list of names to choose from. I had a feeling that’s where her story was headed.
The fire burned to embers. It was full-on spring but still seriously cold on Black Goat Hill. Aunt Doris and I got under her blankets, but first I made her put on the sweater she gave me.
“Don’t be silly. You’re so skinny. I can feel you freezing away. All I got to do is hug you tight and drink more whiskey. I’ll be fine.”
“Not for the cold,” I said. “I want the sweater to smell of you.”
“Stink of me, you mean. I’m a drunk old lady and there isn’t a shower for miles, I’ll bet.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She sat up and put my new sweater on. Navy blue, dark as the moonlit night. Her skin was pale, soft, warm and near, unlike the stars.
Aunt Doris looked slightly haggard in the morning. Not hung-over. I knew what hangovers look like. Aunt Doris asked me to drive her to the nearest airport, about two hours away from College Town. There was a 7:30 flight for Los Angeles. She said she had to be on it. She had appointments in Tinseltown. Important appointments she couldn’t afford to miss.
We stopped for lunch at a diner.
“Those rubbers,” Aunt Doris told me, in her normal voice, like she didn’t care if anyone heard an older woman talking to a college kid about rubbers and recent sex, “were for you, not me. I just wanted to protect you, baby, from what I got. Too silly, but I want to keep you safe. What I got’s not even catching, but I didn’t like the idea. Now, I’m sorry. I wanted us to feel each other. I’d love making babies with you, Joe. I’d love nothing better. Honest.”
“Aunt Doris, last night was really great, I mean it, but I don’t know if I’m ready to…”
She cut me off. Of course I wasn’t ready. Of course the idea of having children and being a man scared the living shit out of me.
“Just wanted you to know I wasn’t afraid,” she said, “of touching you. Of having you inside me. That’s what I wanted. I was thinking of you, that’s all. And it was so silly. Silly me, that is. Silly.”
The convertible was for me, she said. A graduation present.
People still flew around in silver Constellations in those days. Everything in America looked big, beautiful, full of hope and dreams. I parked my incredible new car as close to the runway as the law allowed, watched the gleaming airplane taxi, race its engines and take off towards the sunset. I waved at the porthole I thought might be filled by Aunt Doris’s face. I stayed on the runway till dark.
Stars shone from their usual places. Constellations don’t really exist. Constellation stars are millions of light-years apart and can’t see each other. My Aunt Doris is one of them.
She had cancer. Sickness grabbed her between the legs on the inside and spread with hellish speed. That’s what she told me the next time she called. I couldn’t figure out how she got my number. I was working in Alaska, a military airport construction project that was supposed to be top secret. She said no when I said I was going to get on the next plane, or drive down in the car she gave me, even if it took all day and all night and most of the next day. She said she didn’t want me to see her looking the way she did. She said she was down to 85 pounds. She just wanted to say goodbye, that’s all.
A week after the phone call, she died. There wouldn’t have been enough time for us to have a baby together. She probably knew that. She thought a thin stretch of rubber could come between a human being and death. She didn’t want what was killing her to touch me.
When it’s cold and clear and dark enough to see the stars really shine, I put on the sweater she gave me, sit on the ground and look up. I feel warm though it’s night all over.[private]
Matthew Licht is an underground filmmaker and the author of The Crazy House Gag and the detective trilogy World Without Cops. His book of short stories The Moose Show (Salt) was nominated for the Frank O’Connor Prize 2007. Justine, Joe and The Zen Garbageman is due to be published this year. He lives in Italy.
Here’s the revised text with UK spellings and grammar:
Jeff is on his computer, a man a tad bit older, judging by the grey that outlines his beard and the grey sprinkled in his hair, and is in his wheelchair by the window. Jeff looks over at the man. A pleasant-looking woman is looking concerned on the computer at Jeff. Claire asks in an alert way, “Are you paying attention? Jeff! We are going to do something about this?” Jeff is off somewhere, and it is far from the conversation, even the place where he is physically sitting.
“JEFF!”
Claire’s scream is so loud that Jeff’s roommate takes notice. Jeff checks back into the space he is not in, but his body is there,
“What can there be done?”
Claire takes a breath, unsure if she has a solution but gives an answer anyway and says, “Just wait; we will get more samples. Just have hope.” Jeff secures the weight of his mind from spending between reality and the realm of his aching insanity.
Jeff bellies out, “HOPE? I have been out for a week. I cannot keep thinking the stimulus cheque is coming. Unemployment barely covers the rent. “Jeff’s explanation explores what is known and cannot be solved as soon as he or Claire wants it.
“We have to start thinking about getting you on SSI, “Claire replies with support Jeff is still unable to find.
“Then that means I can only work but so much, or not at all. It is all a catch-22 with the government. I lose it all or not gain the little they are offering,” Jeff states this in a way that Claire finds it harder and harder to convince him or herself that everything will or will be all right.
Claire states a plea, “But you have your medications without a worry. You can focus on getting better.”
“I need my medications. Why are they doing this to me? Once I start taking them and feeling good, I go back to what is worse than I was when I was off them; I mean, I am there. I have nowhere to go without them.”
Jeff softly ends his announcement of his need. Jeff looks out the window which hides his outlook and his hope. Claire looks at not just a client but a friend she more than cares for.
“I have another meeting, but we will keep talking weekly. Keep your head up. You have support. We will work on filing the paperwork ASAP,” Claire explains.
“WAIT!! What am I supposed to do? “, Jeff shouts so loud that his roommate turns his wheelchair in his direction with a puzzled face.
Jeff closes the laptop. He stares out the window; he rushes to get his jacket. Claire withdraws from the same hope she had when she started working on behalf of Jeff’s situation, “There is not much we can do but have patience.”
Jack says, “Do you want anything? I am going out?”
“I am fine, be safe, Jeffrey,” the roommate says with a worried look, truly intense like he does not think he is going to see Jeff again. Jeff notices this. Wondering how can his roommate’s eyes say the words before they come out of his mouth?
“I will be; I will be right back,” Jeff says.
Jeff goes out with the last steps; he turns around and looks back at his roommate, who still has the same concern in his eyes so much his body is now speaking the same message of caution.
Jeff walks past a crowd of activists and supporters surrounding a statue; police are circling, waiting for the subsequent riot. Jeff sees a familiar face amid the political and cultural storm.
The man starts to smile with a wild grin.
Jeff, with excitement, says, “Ole Chris.” Chris gets up with a slow draw but is fast mentally.
” Youngblood and I’m not your grandpa, so I am not old,” Chris says.
Jeff comes closer to what is like a bomb shelter of things collected, things left behind, and things forever lost in Chris’s life. Chris was not just homeless. His mind had nowhere to go where there would be enough space to contain it, maybe his things, but not his brilliant burnt-out mind.
Jeff asks, “How are things, Chris?”
Ole Chris declares, “Fine, You’re going to walk by change and in the process of a transition of powers?”
Jeff loses his footing, he cannot find his moral compass, but he knows he is wrong but does not know how to be suitable to join the fight for change.
“No, I am going to.. the store,” Jeff proclaims
“To buy a new world order, it is right here. I was signed up and shipped off before I knew what Ali said was true; I knew it, but seeing the truth is another thing. I am fighting another man’s war, not ever and not after this, and you shouldn’t either. We are all still fighting even now.”
“What you are doing is truth, Chris,” says Jeff. Chris looks at his stuff like they represent each war he has fought, and each object is a medal of honour, stating he won the battle but was still at war.
“I was living and fought for your
truth; I just found out it could speak with all this, all around us,” Ole Chris says.
Ole Chris looks at Jeff and finds something in his eyes, a terror, a simple plan, and how he lost his peace long before Ole Chris ever met him.
Jeff turns and looks at the crowds getting bigger and cops not leaving but multiplying. “I have to go,” Jeff makes his exit and is brought back by the concern of Ole Chris.
“Are you ok?” Ole Chris asks with deep care, much more than of anyone who is just a friend.
“Trapped. I can’t get my ….,” Jeff says, words that are not enough to describe the pain he has gone through for so long.
Ole Chris urges his words to come up from through his throat and out his mouth. Ole Chris has a strong reply but holds it a little bit. Ole Chris looks around at the chaos with it on mute, focusing only on Jeff’s words of bondage.
Ole Chris says, “I served, but now I finally feel like I am serving, and my servings are coming up short. The government has us where they want us, Jeff.”
“What about change? You are always talking about change, change this, change that,” Jeff says with a scold but maybe not for Chris but the edge he is on for needing his medications.
“Has anything changed a young man like you walking by? Making that change. What would be an opportunity to make a difference? Look around you; this is CHANGE.”
Ole Chris has not lost his cool, but maybe any more ways to get through to Jeff.
Jeff looks around with fear and understanding, for it is what he is feeling.
“I have to get my medicine,” Jeff calmly tells Ole Chris.
“I am sorry, are you ok,? Ole Chris asks with empathy.
“I do not…. I am trying to get the pharmacy to get me some pills to get by,” Jeff states, something that alerts Ole Chris and triggers him into a reaction awkward to anyone in Jeff’s situation.
Ole Chris is laughing. “I do not mean to laugh; it is finally catching up to you and all of us. That is why you see this right here, all over the country,” Ole Chris says.
See what? Jeff asks.
“They do not even care about you guys or the future or that you are sick, I served, and they already had their back to me when I came home if I wanted any help,” Ole Chris replies.
Jeff states, like a jab from a seasoned boxer in the ring with his justification, “I am out of a job; I cannot pay my copay.”
“You are also out of place in their system. Come get a sign.” Ole Chris reaches for a sign that reads, “Stop medical tyranny.”
Jeff fumbles over his thoughts and says, “And that will change everything, even that I need medicine?”
Ole Chris says, “I never saw an instant solution, but this future seems bright. I feel a change.”
“I have to go.”
“What store are you going to?”
Before Jeff can answer, a protester whispers in Ole Chris’s ear, and they gather their stuff.
Ole Chris turns around to Jeff, “Be safe out there. It has not even begun.” Jeff watches as Ole Chris and the protest disappear into the crowd. Jeff absorbs the tension and the fight for various freedoms, with people expressing and protesting for their rights while realizing he should be fighting for his own. After a while, the crowd’s roar has fallen into the wind, and Jeff has found his destination. He looks up at the sign, worried but ready for maybe what he already knows what the outcome will be. Jeff’s unattended illnesses stalk the items on the shelves as he moves to the back to talk to the pharmacy.
A young woman, aged by the stress of her job and other factors, is busy at the computer. She notices Jeff but keeps at what she is doing. She then motions her hands like she is coming.
“Can I help you? The pharmacist tech asks.
“Yeah, I need to speak with the Pharmacist,” Jeff adds.
The pharmacist tech looks at the Pharmacist and looks back at Jeff, “They are busy at the moment. How can I help you?”
“I need to speak to the Pharmacist like right now,” Jeff explains with force in his voice now.
The Pharmacist looks at Jeff, but Jeff is focused on what he wants, what he needs, and what is in front of him, preventing him from getting just that.
“I can help you; just tell me what you need,” the pharmacist tech politely asks.
“Listen, it’s an emergency. I am not the first case where someone cannot get their medications due to money issues but have a prescription. I just need enough to get me through. You can even talk to my doctor. My information is on file,” Jeff has said such a plea that it takes the wind out of him to alert him his efforts are insufficient. The pharmacist tech looks at Jeff feeling very sorry; maybe more sorry she cannot help him and his situation, but not enough to lose her job.
I am sorry I cannot give them to you,” the Pharmacist tech explains with care. Jeff is now giving off heat from his disappointment that he may become uncontrollable, and he has no problem not hiding. He goes back into a space where he can calmly address his plea. He leans into the pharmacist Tech and says, “Please, I just need some until I get paid.”
The Pharmacist tech reveals that all he did was ask a question even though it was the same one, and she could not give the answer he wanted. The Pharmacist Tech gives Jeff a reply he will never become used to, “I cannot help you, sir.”
Jeff finds a footing in his stance that is off, but he is standing anyway, and he ROARS, “But I have the prescriptions!! Let me talk to the Pharmacist!!!?
“Do you have them with you?” the Pharmacist tech says meekly.
Jeff appears to cool off but not down and replies,” Yes, here.” Jeff pulls out crinkled pieces of paper and says, “I just need my medications.”
The Pharmacist looks at Jeff, and what appears like his life or mind is all over the counter or both, and goes to the counter. “Is there a problem,” the Pharmacist asks in a pleasant tone.
Jeff looks up in confused relief, “Are you the pharmacist?”
The Pharmacist declares, “I am.”
“Thank God, can you please let me have about two weeks of my medication? You can look at my last refill to see what I take, and I will be back to pay in two weeks. They match up with these prescriptions,” Jeff sounds off with another plea.
The Pharmacist draws back from the weight Jeff has given her in his plea, maybe more of a demand with no end. The pharmacist Tech is slightly behind the Pharmacist, taking both breaks and looking at the situation’s tension.
“That is not the problem. We simply can’t do that; we need a payment today if you are to get it today.”
The Pharmacist brings attention to an answer that Jeff does not need or want to hear, like the ones he has been hearing all day.
Jeff snaps back at the both of them but targets the Pharmacist, “You cannot help someone who is sick?”
“If you are that sick, go to a hospital, they can help you better than we can.”
Jeff
starts to charge the counter like a bull, and his words are his horns, “When I am right here right now, where you can help?!!!!” Jeff proclaims
The Pharmacist is now on edge, maybe the same one as Jeff. Everyone in the store has stopped and taken more than a glance at the scene that has developed.
“You need the copay. You know that if you have been here before.”
Jeff is still charging. All he can see is red, “What if something happens? This is what you do to people in need.”
“There is also a need for rules and how we tend to them.”
Jeff puts his hand over his mouth, then he puts his hands on top of his head, “A rule to deny care?” Jeff asks in a way he knows nothing else is working and nothing else will.
“Just calm down.”
Jeff blows off some steam, but the midst of this heated conversation is still seen from his head; it is almost like smoke.
“I am talking to you and have been at a level voice.”
The way Jeff’s voice has carried with such a heavyweight, it is hard to believe there are no hard feelings or paths to cross a bridge to where there can be an understanding. The Pharmacist is both afraid and looking for control of the situation. With a reserved tone, the Pharmacist says, “I am going to have to ask you to leave.”
Jeff looks down, then smiles, “Gone, me and my unattended illness are gone,” Jeff declares.
Jeff walks out with his tail high rather than show the defeat of the dog with a tail between its legs. He is walking past the park full of rioting and police officers. They have decided to take down a Southern leader’s statue in the park. Jeff sees a man struggling with the cops. It’s Ole Chris he saw earlier getting into with cops. One cop punches Ole Chris with a blow that almost knocks him down. Jeff runs over and jumps on the cop. They struggle. Ole Chris grabs the officer, who seizes him. The officer has his gun now out. The sound is loud; everyone gets down. Ole Chris looks down at his stomach; blood is gushing like water from a broken faucet. Another cop starts beating Jeff, each fist thrusting like a hammer to a nail. Ole Chris falls to the ground. A young woman is shooting everything with her phone when she notices the reality for both men and the end of one.
The Young woman yells,” They shot him!! They killed a veteran!!!”
The cops start guarding their own and their actions no matter how wrong they are. One cop ushers everyone with his baton, screaming, “Everyone back up!!” The young woman is showing the whole end through her camera on her phone. While Jeff is still fighting with the cop, the cop puts him to the ground. Jeff is at eye level with Ole Chris. They lock eyes until the Vet closes his eyes. Jeff’s eyes are wide awake to the fact he is witnessing death. The cop pulls Jeff up. Looks at the Veteran, then looks at Jeff. Jeff is now sitting in the back of the cop car, watching the mayhem. He locks eyes with the spot where he and Ole Chris were as more feet cover it.
Jeff walks to a table and sits down. He is wearing a jumpsuit with writing on the back stating who he is now and where he was. He is now an inmate. Claire tries to smile but cannot crack any emotion out of Jeff.
Claire asks, “How are you”?
Jeff cannot bring himself to say, but his soul aches out, “They killed him.”
“Jeff, the system failed him and you. You did not fail the system. Understand that,” Claire speaks a truth that does not resolve anything for Jeff.
Jeff starts to shake; his hands begin to curl in sudden disbelief at what he has seen about himself and society.
“I don’t get medicine in here or out there, but really, the truth is they killed him; what kind of medicine is there for that the things you cannot unsee,” Jeff lowers his voice and head. He gets up from the table and leaves.