Black Chalk (2 page)

So now that the glasses have jolted my memory, I pick one up and head to the kitchen. Upon my arrival I see three plates lined up on the chequered linoleum floor. Which means I haven’t yet eaten any breakfast. (Nor lunch nor dinner of course.)

Next I find that in the kitchen sink and hindering access to the faucet there sits an inverted salad bowl. With a Pavlovian twitch I glance down, whereupon I spy my genitals. Yes, I would appear to be entirely unclothed.

What ludicrous notion first caused me to make the mnemonic link between salad and genitals? Every morning I find the connection vaguely disturbing. I would like very much to change this memory prompt, I should replace the salad bowl with a heavy rolling pin or magnum of champagne. But alas, meddling with routines is a dangerous game.

I stand in the kitchen drinking my water, considering my limp lettuce nakedness for a short time, and then head to my bedroom. I leave the salad bowl and empty water glass on the bed. I find shorts and a T-shirt beneath my pillow.

Now clothed, I return to the kitchen. In the sink, and previously hidden by the inverted salad bowl, sits an old marmalade pot. So now I know what comes next. I go to the refrigerator for bread to make toast for my breakfast. But in the refrigerator there hangs a single red Christmas-tree bauble. Which means I haven’t yet taken my morning pills. So I swallow my pills, put the bauble in the marmalade pot and slide the bread into the toaster. I open the cutlery drawer for a knife so I can spread peanut butter on my toast … And staring up at me is a Halloween mask of the Wookiee Chewbacca from the
Star Wars
movies.

So I put on the Halloween mask with the elastic under my chin but the Wookiee’s face atop my head, eye-holes pointing to the ceiling. (It might prove somewhat tricky for me to breakfast through Chewbacca’s mouth-hole, so I wear him thusly.)

Hungrily I eat my toast and peanut butter. And then, when I finish, I turn on the shower. Which means I can now take off the Halloween mask, its purpose having been to remain uncomfortably on my head until I remember to turn on the shower. (Although what a hairy Wookiee has to do with cleanliness, I could not possibly say. Sometimes my mnemonics make sense, sometimes they do not. Often this is the result of what lay at hand when the need to place another element in my routine arose.)

So I shower, stumble across more mnemonics, drink another glass of water and read the newspaper (whose presence, outside my door, a pair of sunglasses dangling in the shower closet alerted me to). This all takes about two hours of my time. And then upon the completion of morning tasks, I sit down at my dining table on whose uncluttered surface there rest only three objects. My diary, whose last entry was written some fourteen years ago, my laptop and an old yellow tooth. The diary has been patiently awaiting this moment for some time, the moment at which I would begin telling my story, and I will open it soon. But first the tooth, an old molar that rests on top of my laptop. The tooth has become my lucky charm, a reminder that I cannot be beaten. So I pick up the tooth, hold it clenched in my fist and close my eyes. And feeling warmed by this mnemonic of strength, I open the computer to record the morning’s events. But then I can’t remember the order in which I just performed my morning tasks. (You might at this point be forgiven for making the following observation – it may require more than one gentle stroll to propel me back into the world of normality.)

I sigh an enormous sigh, leave my computer again and head to the bedroom once more where I stand, hands on hips, staring at my bed. Every night when I try to climb into bed, I find I cannot get under the covers because an assortment of glasses, plates, bowls and various other gimcracks and gewgaws block my way. And so every day ends with the same laborious task. Each night before sleep I move around the apartment carefully replacing all of my physical mnemonics in their correct positions to establish the next day’s successful routine.

Today I rearrange my mnemonics early, taking notes as I go, so that I can type out for you the details of my morning routine. A morning routine that, today, failed to attain completion until gone three in the afternoon. Which means I now have to shift my afternoon routine to the evening and my evening routine close to bedtime. But never mind, I refuse to allow minor setbacks to hinder my recovery. And were it not for my ingenious system of physical mnemonics, nothing whatsoever would have been accomplished today.

All of this thinking about mnemonic ingenuity puts me in a delightful mood. Yes, my thoughts will be sharp once more. I will spend every day in training. Slowly I will regain my strength, the very best of my mind.

Suddenly my mood becomes so fresh, so clear, that something wonderful jumps right into my head, something I have been unable to recall for the last three years – the mnemonic significance of the salad bowl. Ha, no, not any sort of unkind reflection on the size or health of my genitals. Yes, something so obvious.

Dressing. Salad: dressing!

I have five weeks.

*   *   *

IV(i)
   Jolyon rubbed his bag-strangled hands. Yes, he was feeling crabby. But he was feeling crabby because several second-year students had been posted at Pitt’s front lodge precisely for the purpose of helping freshers carry bags and find rooms. And two of them were currently assisting a boy whose entire bearing suggested he came from a life of perpetual privilege. The boy’s father – Admiral? Lord? Sir? – had commandeered a luggage cart which was now piled high with enough bags for a maharaja. So in fact the second years were lolling behind carrying nothing at all. Instead they were listening politely to the boy’s mother who was telling them about little Toby’s recent summer, half of which had been spent gaining impossibly valuable work experience in the offices of the Foreign Secretary, a personal friend, and the other half in Argentina participating in a polo tournament.

Jolyon meanwhile had been carrying his heavy bags alone all day. A twenty-minute walk to the station, a train journey, a Tube journey, a second train journey, another twenty-minute walk to Pitt. For months his separated parents had argued over which of them would drive him to college. As their shots ricocheted around him, Jolyon detected in the smell of the gunpowder the true nub of the problem, the unspoken question – which one of us deserves more credit for the cleverness of our son? Neither of his parents would submit and no fraction of the credit seemed attributable to Jolyon himself. And then the date for his parents’ divorce hearing had come through. That date was today. Problem solved.

So now, while his parents were no doubt being physically restrained by their lawyers, Jolyon found himself carrying a large and heavy suitcase and, over his shoulder, a sports bag full of as many books and cassettes as he could cram inside. His shoulders ached and his hands and arms now hung at his sides utterly devoid of blood and strength. And the sight of little Toby had confirmed for Jolyon everything he feared this place would be. So yes, he was feeling crabby. More than a little maybe.

But despite his ill mood Jolyon had warmed to the American as soon as he had spoken. Jolyon had taken a year off travelling before college, finding odd jobs as he made his way around the world, always worried the money would run out and he would have to return home to his feuding parents – parents who couldn’t send him any money because they worked as schoolteachers and were both using what little money they had to pay their divorce lawyers. During his travels, Jolyon had liked all the young Americans he’d come across. In Vietnam he had taken up with a group of friends from New Mexico, including the smartest, most beautiful girl he’d ever met. He had planned on sticking with the pack as they headed west to Cambodia, even though he had just come from Cambodia himself. And that’s when the smartest, most beautiful girl had told him about her boyfriend back home. No, more than a boyfriend – she took a deep breath and revealed a ring that she kept in her pocket. Her fiancé.

So Jolyon scuttled away to Thailand instead. He found a job in a beach bar and barely thought about his feuding parents at all, only about the girl, the feel of the sand between their dovetailing fingers when they would walk ankle-deep through the surf.

Months after Asia, while travelling around Europe, Jolyon had once again made sure to stay close to backpacking Americans. They had such an easy manner and he felt comfortable and safe around them, especially whenever a situation felt hazardous. Americans believed in their rights and standing up for them vociferously. Jolyon always felt secure in their constitutionalist company.

One night in Venice he had been crossing the Piazza San Marco, the whole experience like wandering through the jewellery box of a wealthy duchess, and next to him a Montanan named Todd had gasped at the view and said, ‘Man, that’s it. I’m seriously moving to Europe when I’m done with the whole college shitstorm. All the best Americans end up in Europe anyway.’

The notion that all the best Americans ended up in Europe appealed to Jolyon and Jolyon liked to cherish and cultivate the notions that appealed to him best.

And this Chad looked like one of the good guys. Jolyon had teased him about his name only to indicate that potentially he liked him. But then Jolyon remembered that, unlike the British, Americans tended not to initiate their friendships this way. In his head he now ran over the words he had spoken aloud. ‘Who on earth names their son after a Third World fucking country?’

Yes, perhaps his crabbiness had made the words, intended as a welcoming joke, sound a little severe.

*   *   *

IV(ii)
   ‘I wasn’t baptised Chad,’ said Chad. ‘It’s from my middle name – Chadwick.’

But Jolyon couldn’t abandon the joke, he had to follow through to show it had been only a joke in the first place. He tried to sound playful. ‘So you actually
choose
to be named after a Third World country?’

The English had such a sarcastic way with their vowels. To Chad’s ears everything for those first few months had sounded biting or wry. I’m going to the
sooh
-permarket for some
booh
-ze and
cheeh
-se. It was like living submerged in an ocean of Oscar Wildes.

He couldn’t think of an immediate response to the Third World quip. Everything had gone wrong in the span of mere seconds. To have approached this foreign stranger in Pitt’s front quad was the número dos bravest thing he had ever done. But now courage felt like foolishness. He felt the blood climbing toward his cheeks, the patter of its hot little feet.

‘I’m sorry, I’m a little tired and I didn’t mean to … I’m Jolyon,’ said Jolyon, offering his hand. ‘Like Julian but pronounced jolly, which might seem ironic right now.’

Chad initiated part two of the plan. ‘Jolyon,’ he said, pronouncing the name carefully,
Jolly-un
, so that he would not forget it. And then Chad abandoned the plan completely, still smarting despite the apology. ‘Sounds like a country and western singer,’ he said, ‘You know, with suede tassels and big hooters.’

Jolyon considered the foreign final word, its alien vowels and consonants.
Hooh-durrs
. What did it mean? But then the universal gesture of men the world over, hands cupped above the midriff, gave the game away.

‘Jesus, you’re right, Chad,’ said Jolyon, taking absolutely no offence. And then, laughing and leaning in, Jolyon pointed over Chad’s shoulder. ‘You see that guy over there?’ he said.

Rounding the other side of Pitt’s front quad and being helped by his parents and two more second years was yet another freshman. He was wearing a businessman’s blue pinstripe shirt tucked stiffly into black jeans.

Jolyon leaned in further. It made Chad feel like his most trusted confidant and together they were about to embark upon an act of heroic subversion.

‘That guy’s name is Prost,’ Jolyon whispered. ‘I met him in the bar when I came up for interview. You know how most people, when they take a year off before starting university, visit Asia and come back as Buddhists? Or try and sleep with as many Scandinavians as they can while backpacking round Europe?’

Chad nodded for want of a better or more truthful response.

‘Well, Prost over there took a year off and you know what he did? He worked for a bank. I swear to God, a major bank for an entire year. Commercial loans division. I bought him a pint and he told me all about it like he’s so much better than everyone else who, you know, maybe just wanted one last scrap of fun before entering the big, bad scary world of adults.’ Jolyon leaned back and raised an eyebrow. ‘The guy’s a one hundred per cent, grade A, total fucking cock.’

Chad laughed, his splutter too loud so great was his sense of relief.

Jolyon clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You know, now I come to think of it, Chad’s a cool name. The incorruptible cop, the sheriff who stands alone against the band of outlaws.’ Jolyon smiled. It was the sort of smile you longed to earn. And then he said, ‘If you help me with my bags, I promise I’ll buy you a pint.’

‘Sure,’ said Chad. ‘You know, I kinda planned to offer anyway.’

‘Excellent,’ said Jolyon.

So they were going to be friends. It was agreed.

Jolyon had decided.

*   *   *

V(i)
   Something someone once said all those years ago has stuck in my mind. Although I can’t actually remember who said it.

Someone else had come out with that old line about winning not being everything. Probably Emilia, that’s exactly the sort of thing she liked to believe. And then one of us replied … perhaps even me, I’m not sure … one of us said, Of course winning is everything. Why else do you think we call ourselves the human race?

*   *   *

V(ii)
   But tell me, what did we do that was so wrong?

We played a game. That’s all.
A game
. Isn’t this how we teach children the ways of the world? Are we not all supposed to learn early in life how to cope with defeat?

But then there were the consequences, the price paid for losing.