The Last Summer of the Water Strider (14 page)

‘What would you hope to be paid?’

‘I would hope that whoever came into my little marquee came out feeling they had enjoyed a different kind of wealth.’

‘What are we here for? If not to make money?’

‘Ah. The Troy Palamino Paradox. We’re here to try and help people to look at their lives in a different way. We’re providing a service. I only ever ask for voluntary
contributions.’

‘Doesn’t that strike you as unrealistic?’

‘Oh, let’s all be realistic. Have a look around the world and see how that’s working out. This is the way it’s all going, Adam. The way people were thinking a few years
ago – they were reimagining the world. Now it’s reverting. The old patterns are reasserting themselves. Perhaps it is human nature after all. I expect this will be my last time here.
Troy’s right: I’m a relic.’

He stood stock still, as if trying to incorporate this perception of himself into some internal map. Then he sighed, appeared to relax, and started helping me arrange books on the table.

There were poster reproductions of work by artists, most of whom I had never heard of – Georgia O’Keeffe, Willem de Kooning, Frank Stella, Jackson Pollock. There were books of
photographs – Robert Frank, Garry Winogrand, Diane Arbus. These were all expensive, although Henry claimed they sold at the same price he bought them for. Some of the cheaper books were
offered on free loan.

Customers were now making their way down the aisles, mainly in clumps of two or three. After a few minutes a lone woman approached us. She had a daffy look about her – slightly too-wide
eyes, slightly too-parted lips – and hair that curled into infantile ringlets at the ends. She examined our stock silently, with a smile glued on her face.

‘Have you got any books about angels?’

Henry looked puzzled. ‘You mean like the ones on top of the Christmas tree?’

‘Guardian angels,’ said the woman. ‘I want to know how I can get in touch with mine.’

‘That’s quite a conundrum,’ said Henry.

‘I’ve heard there are ways.’

‘You might want to try this.’

He held up a book on anthropology and mythology –
The Hero With A Thousand Faces
by Joseph Campbell.

The woman took it and flicked through a few pages.

‘It’s actually excellent, and written with admirable clarity. You can have it for free. Just send it back to me when you’ve finished with it.’

She shook her head and returned the book to the pile.

‘Have you read a book called
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
?’

‘I’m afraid I have.’

‘Do you have a copy?’

‘I think you might be better off at an ornithologist’s.’

Her smile, for the first time, disappeared. ‘You’re not going to do much business with that kind of attitude.’ She began to move away. ‘You’re a freak.’

‘Thank you,’ said Henry genially.

A few moments later, a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties occupied the space where the woman had been. He wore a combat jacket, army trousers, Doc Marten boots and a khaki T-shirt. From
one of his belt loops hung a Swiss Army knife and a hefty set of keys. His hair was cut very short, which, along with the duds, gave him a martial air, as if he was preparing to engineer a coup
there and then and sequester Henry’s books for the greater good. He had a full Zapata moustache that stretched to the line of his jaw.

Henry nodded towards him.

‘Hello, Pattern.’

‘Who’s the kid?’ said the man, gesturing in my direction.

‘Adam, this is Pattern.’

‘I’ve heard about you,’ I said.

‘Really?’ said Pattern, looking edgy. ‘Who from?’

‘Strawberry.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Pattern. ‘Sweet kid. Nut job.’

He looked down at the stall.

‘Why do you keep coming, Henry? Your shit is so out there. Have you ever come across something called the real world?’

‘Why do
you
keep coming, Pattern?’

‘Because there’s work to be done.’

‘I’m sure that’s true. A portion of pious outrage is no doubt our birthright. If only it weren’t for all that tiresome false consciousness keeping the man on the Clapham
omnibus in chains. But what is one to do?’

Pattern seemed oblivious to Henry’s flagrant sarcasm.

‘Read this, Henry.’

He handed Henry a leaflet, then gave one to me.

It showed a pig decorated with stars and stripes. Four guns were pointed at the pig by unknown assailants. Along the barrel of each gun was a motto:
GET OUT OF THE
GHETTO
,
GET OUT OF LATIN AMERICA
,
GET OUT OF ASIA
,
GET OUT OF AFRICA
. The pig was cowering. Underneath was the legend
March Against America: Bristol Town Hall, Saturday 27 July, 11 p.m. Free food. Pink Fairies. Free music
.

‘I thought you might want to get down from your ivory tower and get involved in something that actually might make a difference, for once in your privileged, complacent and largely useless
life.’

‘It’s not really my territory.’

‘What
is
your territory, Henry? What use are you?’

He was smiling and Henry was smiling back. It seemed they had a well-practised routine.

‘Let’s just say I have a different approach to these things.’

‘You need to get angry.’

‘According to you, everyone needs to get angry. Your manifesto seems to be for an angrier world.’

‘There’s plenty to get angry about.’

‘I’m not really sure that helps anyone. How’s Moo?’

‘Why do you want to know about Moo?’

‘I’m asking out of politeness. You don’t have to answer.’

Pattern paused, as if weighing the consequences of giving out sensitive information. He nodded towards the stage at the far end of the hall.

‘She’s over there.’

I followed Pattern’s glance. A rather overweight young woman with greasy brown hair and wearing a long floral frock was arguing with a middle-aged man while trying to give him a
pamphlet.

‘How long has she got to go?’

‘Oh, that. Yeah. That’s not going to happen.’

‘Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened? Was there some sort of mishap?’

‘Not really. We made a choice.’

‘You did what?’

‘Wouldn’t want to bring a child into a world like this.’

Moo looked up from her discussion with the middle-aged man and noticed Henry staring at her. She smiled and waved, then returned to her customer, who was examining a book with a fist and a gun
depicted on the cover.

‘Moo agreed?’

‘Moo sees my point of view.’

‘Did you bully her into it? Poor woman. She should try someone with a little more paternal instinct.’

‘What would you know about that?’

‘More than you might think.’ There was now a note of irritation in Henry’s voice.

Pattern smiled.

‘You see what I mean about getting angry, Henry? It’s good energy.’

P
attern turned his back and walked towards his stall. Moo made another faint wave. Although Pattern was dressed for the army, his walk was anything
but military, with a long, loping stride that gave a slight rubbery bounce to his walk.

‘Why is he called Pattern?’

‘Because he believes everything has a pattern. Usually controlled by malign forces.’

‘It doesn’t sound all that implausible.’

‘Life isn’t like that, Adam. Life doesn’t have a pattern. Not one we can map, anyway.’

I was sitting next to Henry behind the table. There was now a steady flow of people entering the hall.

‘It’s going to be a busy day,’ he said.

He was wrong. Most of the other stalls, even the Aetherius Society, got medium-to-heavy footfall as the morning rolled by. We, on the other hand, received few visitors. People wandered into the
orbit of the stall and wandered off again, looking thoughtful, or amiable, but finally unengaged. They seemed confused by what it was that Henry was offering. Five or six books were borrowed. Henry
took no money, simply pointed out that donations were welcome. A few entered his philosophy tent, mainly with a larky attitude, but none of them left anything but small change for the
privilege.

A fat man with a large red beard and rectangular wire spectacles had arrived at the stall and was picking indifferently through the books.

‘Can I interest you in a session in my philosophy tent?’

‘Sounds a laugh. ’Ow much is it?’

‘It’s absolutely free. Unless you want to make a contribution.’

‘I don’t know. What sort of contribution?’

‘Whatever you like. Or nothing at all.’

The man looked suspicious.

‘I don’t get it.’

‘You pay what you want.’

‘Oh, right then. No, I don’t reckon so.’

‘Aren’t you curious about life?’

‘It all comes out in the wash, doesn’t it?’

Without waiting for a reply, he put down the book he had been inspecting. I noticed that he had jam on his fingers – I recalled seeing him at the Women’s Institute stall, helping
himself to Victoria sponge. He left smears all over the expensive copy of Elliott Erwitt photographs.

‘Not much happening,’ said Henry. ‘It’s odd. The fact I’m not charging anything for my books or my services seems to convince people that they can’t possibly
be worth having. Human nature is highly perverse, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe it’s you that’s perverse.’

‘It has been said before, I must confess.’

A few more minutes passed, silently. Henry nodded towards the tent.

‘Do you want a go?’

‘In the tent? Why? I can ask you what I want when I’m at the boat.’

‘It’s different. The nature of the space transforms the relationship.’

‘Hello, Henry.’

I turned and recognized Moo, Pattern’s wife or girlfriend, I wasn’t sure which. Although she was solidly built, with a strong face and a commanding presence, she gave off a faint
aura of anxiety. She nodded towards the tent.

‘Henry, could you spare a few minutes with me?’

‘Certainly.’

Relieved, I stayed in my place behind the stall. I had no desire to spill my guts to Henry. After a few minutes, I could hear sobbing coming from the tent. It got more plaintive, until it broke
down into almost uncontrollable wailing. People began to stare.

Embarrassed, I left the stall and went to pretend to use the lavatories. When I returned Moo had gone.

‘What was wrong with her?’ I asked.

‘The same as what’s wrong with most people,’ said Henry. ‘She doesn’t believe she’s worth anything.’

At around 2 p.m., while the rest of the market was still booming, Henry, clearly discouraged, began to pack up.

‘Can’t we at least wait until the music starts?’ I said.

There was some movement by the stage – sound checks, a man shifting speakers and tapping microphones. To my surprise, I saw Strawberry walk up on to the stage, cradling a scratched and
beaten acoustic guitar like a sickly baby. There was a flutter of applause. She acknowledged her audience, then tried to say a few words into the microphone, but was immediately sabotaged by brutal
feedback. An engineer dabbled with some cables, and she tried again. This time the PA rang clear.

She did not speak again, simply went straight into the song. Her voice was shadowy, not much more than a sketch at the lower registers, but gutsy, violent, broken and sharp like a dropped
crystal glass on the bigger notes. I didn’t recognize the song – Henry informed me that it was by Jacques Brel, ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas’. Like many
chansons
it did a lot
of grandstanding, shading into melodrama at the crescendos, aching with loss in the troughs. As the song reached its conclusion I thought I saw a minuscule tear work slowly down Strawberry’s
cheek. There was a moment’s silence before applause began to roll across the room.

Strawberry didn’t smile. In fact, she seemed distressed. She just nodded and left the stage. Henry made his way in her direction, and after a while brought her back with him. She seemed to
have regained her composure.

‘Oh! Adam!’ She reached across and kissed me on the cheek. Her lips felt waxy and warm. There was still a track on her face, where the left eye had been weeping. ‘I’m so
flattered that you came to see me.’

Before I had a chance to blurt that I hadn’t come to see her, Henry interrupted. ‘I think everyone here would have happily made the trip just to see that performance.’

‘It’s a hobby. Something anyone could do, given a bit of practice.’

‘You’re wrong,’ objected Henry.

‘Am I?’

She looked almost pathetically hopeful, as if what I first took to be false modesty was in fact genuine, and acute, self-doubt.

‘Self-effacement is a nice quality, Strawberry. But you shouldn’t deny your gift.’

‘Ahh, you’re biased.’ But she was clearly pleased.

‘Adam and I are just leaving. I find this place depressing. It’s like the remnants of a past time – or the hideous vernix of one that is newly born.’

‘Why does it always sound like you’re spouting shit from a book?’

She looked around her at the hall. It was bustling.

‘Are you coming with us?’ said Henry.

‘I promised Troy I’d hang out with some friends this evening. I’ll be back at the shack after that for a while, probably tomorrow.’

‘Are things OK there? Is he behaving himself?’

Strawberry strummed a few melodramatic chords on the guitar –
de, de, DAH.

‘Don’t be silly, Henry.’

She was so thin I imagined her to be translucent under her cotton shift. Her words were punctuated, as when I had met her on the boat, by small, skipping coughs.

‘Perhaps you would agree to see a doctor for that cough?’ said Henry.

Strawberry ignored him and turned to me.

‘Why don’t you drop in and see me tomorrow? I’ll show you my cabin. I have some little Greek pastries someone gave me that I can’t eat because of the sugar, and they are
apparently quite fucking yum for those in the grip of that particular addiction.’

‘As long as I don’t have to drink any green tea.’

‘I’ve got some of the ordinary stuff for those who like to hit the tannin mainline. So that’s a date?’