Black Chalk (7 page)

Mark spoke breathlessly about time being born in the instant of the Big Bang, other universes beyond the tails of black holes and how space was in fact composed of ten dimensions. To Chad it all felt like a high-speed thrill ride and you didn’t have to understand the mechanics of the vehicle, you just sat back and enjoyed the view, the new worlds blurring by beyond the windows.

And that’s when Chad realised Jolyon was right. Mark spent his life thinking on an entirely different plane to the rest of them and it was the immense weight of his thoughts that tired him out so quickly. Now the latest whirl of worlds was taking its toll. The creator of many universes was rubbing his eyes, apologising for yawning and stating that the time had come for his afternoon nap. ‘Thanks again for the cocktail, Jolyon,’ said Mark, raising himself wearily from the armchair.

‘I’m coming to get you again tonight,’ said Jolyon. ‘You’re not missing dinner again, not on my watch.’

‘Thanks, Jolyon,’ said Mark. ‘Forgive me if I put up a fight again,’ he said. ‘I’m a terrible riser.’ Mark left the room, stretching his limbs and scratching his head as everyone said their goodbyes.

Chad wondered if, when he left and headed home, he might find Mark curled in a quiet corner somewhere like the dormouse from
Alice in Wonderland
. Or like Alice herself, dreaming of extraordinary worlds beyond the ends of rabbit holes.

*   *   *

XII(iv)
   The three of them remained to discuss Game Soc.

They agreed they would sleep on the question of who the other players should be. But Mark would definitely be invited to fill one of the six spots. And Jolyon had no doubt Mark would accept. ‘You heard him. He’s desperate for something interesting to do.’

‘And how about Emilia?’ said Jack.

‘Oh, she’s great,’ said Chad.

‘She is, isn’t she?’ said Jolyon.

‘That’s five then,’ said Jack. ‘Why did we tell them six players?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Chad. ‘Six just felt right. Something to do with dice?’

‘We need one more then,’ said Jack and they all stopped to think.

But instead of thinking about a sixth player, Chad began thinking of Emilia, allowing longed-for scenes to loop and spool slowly through his favourite daydream.

*   *   *

XII(v)
   They had met Emilia while waiting in line for the cursory medical exam they all underwent before term started.

Jolyon and Chad and Jack stood together in the line. Mark came from the nurse’s room and as he passed by they asked him what the procedure entailed.

‘It’s pretty basic,’ said Mark. ‘An eye test, a stethoscope, one of those cuffs for measuring blood pressure.’

‘You mean a sphygmomanometer,’ said Jack.

Emilia turned slowly from her spot ahead of them in the line. Her look fell piteously on Jack.

‘What?’ Jack complained. ‘That’s just what you call it.’

‘And just what do you call someone like you?’ said Emilia.

‘Oh, so now I’m the arsehole for having access to a vocabulary, am I?’

Emilia responded with a single blink of her big green eyes.

Jolyon laughed. ‘I’m Jolyon,’ he said, ‘and this is Chad. And that one’s called Jack and I absolutely promise you he’s way better company than first impressions suggest. And you are?’

‘Emilia,’ said Emilia.

‘And what are you studying?’

‘Psychology,’ she said.

‘Psychology’s an amazing subject,’ said Jolyon. ‘I just finished reading some Fromm. I couldn’t believe how political he is. The guy’s a genius.’

‘So you’re studying psychology? I thought I’d met all the first-year psychology students.’

‘No, I’m studying law,’ said Jolyon. ‘I was just interested in Fromm.’

Emilia’s eyes narrowed and she cocked her head. And then she said, ‘You know, you’re one of the few people who, when I mentioned studying psychology, didn’t say,
oh, so tell me what I’m thinking right now
.’ Jolyon peered hard at Emilia. ‘Is something up?’ she said.

‘Oh, nothing. No, it’s just … you remind me of someone I knew for a short while.’

‘Someone good, I hope,’ said Emilia.

Jolyon seemed to slip away for a moment and an awkward silence fell over them.

Chad jumped in. ‘What made you choose psychology, Emilia?’ he said.

‘That’s a very good question, Chad.’ Chad felt the familiar heat washing over his cheeks. ‘I don’t know,’ said Emilia. ‘Perhaps that’s one of the things I’m hoping to find out before leaving here.’

*   *   *

XII(vi)
   While Jack drummed his fingers against his cheek, thinking through possible candidates for the sixth spot, and while Chad thought about Emilia and lingered in his daydreams, Jolyon was thinking of little else but Emilia as well. Or at least his thoughts began with Emilia. Because soon he began to think about his month in Vietnam, the American girl with the same white-sand hair, the same sea-green eyes. The similarity was striking. They could have been sisters. The same coral lips.

*   *   *

XIII
   Games have awoken in me unpleasant memories of my divorce. Those boxes represent the only shared belongings I held on to when I left Blair four years ago. I even took the childish games we bought for the visits of her nieces and nephews. My ex-wife chose not to contest the ownership of Chutes & Ladders. Games had always been one of the sore points in our relationship, I couldn’t bear to lose even the friendliest of contests. And Blair deserved better, she only ever wanted to fix me. Poor Blair.

But never mind yesterday, yesterday was merely a blip. I have bagged up the games with the garbage, there will be no more frivolous pursuits. And today has felt better. My resolve remains undiminished and my story progresses. My evening routine is complete. The evening is a season unto itself, Keats’s autumn, all mists and mellow fruitfulness.

Chilli and rice. Check. Small nip of whisky. Check. Glass of water. Check.

Disrobe, brush teeth, take meds. One pink pill, one yellow, one blue.

And a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.

Life is a game of balances. Work, play. Wake, sleep. Stimulant, narcotic.

My snug skin, my cosy mind, the gentle hum of me. Check.

*   *   *

XIV
   Chad knocked on the door. He could hear the faint sound of creaks from within, the groaning of floorboards as Jolyon moved closer. Chad sense a tightness in his chest. Was he nervous? That would be foolish, he wasn’t here for any particular reason, only to hang out with Jolyon. At lunchtime perhaps they would go to the Churchill Arms. Maybe they would buy second-hand books beforehand or just sit and drink coffee and talk about the Game. So perhaps the feeling in Chad’s chest wasn’t nerves but a thrill.

When Jolyon opened his door, he smiled. He didn’t say anything, he only turned around and moved toward his bed where a newspaper was spread out, every inch of the blanket covered but for a small spot to which Jolyon returned.

‘I bumped into Prost at the bottom of the stairs,’ said Chad, ‘and he asked me to give this back to you.’ He waved several sheets of paper covered in handwriting.

‘Thanks,’ said Jolyon, ‘just leave it on the desk.’

‘What’s Prost doing with an essay on Roman law written by you?’

Jolyon looked confused for a moment. He picked up a page of newspaper and prodded it. ‘There’s a great story in here,’ he said. ‘Mikhail Gorbachev is being hotly tipped to win the Nobel Peace Prize next week.’

‘Jolyon, I thought you said – and let me get the words just right – that Prost is a one hundred per cent, grade A, total
frickin
cock.’

Jolyon sighed. ‘Look, when I finished my essay yesterday, I found him slumped over his desk in the library. It was midnight, he had nothing but a few torn-up attempts. His tutorial’s today, the guy was panicking. So I lent him mine.’

‘Even though he’s a total
frickin
cock?’

‘It seemed like the right thing to do,’ said Jolyon.

‘You mean you felt bad for him?’ said Chad.

Jolyon looked even more confused than before. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ he said.

Chad snorted. ‘Never mind,’ he said. He dropped the essay on Jolyon’s desk and took the chair next to the coffee table.

Jolyon tore the Gorbachev article from the newspaper, placed it to one side and then turned his attention to Chad. ‘Now then, would you like me to make you some breakfast?’ he said.

Chad looked around the room. There was a toaster and an electric kettle. ‘You mean a piece of toast?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Jolyon, ‘a real breakfast.’

Chad was doubtful. ‘Sure then,’ he said, ‘go for it.’

Jolyon grinned and turned on the kettle. He went to his desk, opened a drawer and removed two eggs and a tablecloth. Chad watched in silence as Jolyon smoothed the tablecloth over the coffee table. Round and white, made of delicate lace.

‘How do you take your tea?’ said Jolyon.

‘How do I what?’ said Chad. ‘Take? In a cup? What does that mean?’

‘Milk? Sugar? Please don’t say lemon.’

‘I’ve never had tea in my life,’ said Chad.

‘Good,’ said Jolyon. ‘Then you take it the same way as me. Strong, no sugar, just a thimbleful of milk. Excellent.’

When the kettle boiled, Jolyon poured two-thirds of its water into a glazed brown teapot that he took from beneath the coffee table. He then removed the lid of the kettle and lowered the eggs inside with a soup ladle. Returning the lid to the kettle, he looked at his watch. Then Jolyon went back to his desk and from the same drawer as the eggs, found two thick slices of white bread and lowered them into the toaster.

He started to describe something he had recently finished reading. Jolyon made everything that interested him sound so wonderful. Chad said he’d love to read the book as well, so Jolyon went to his shelves, took out the book and handed it to Chad. And then he said, ‘Please keep it if you like it.’ Jolyon looked at his watch. ‘Five minutes exactly,’ he said. With a pair of tongs he fished two tea bags from the pot then covered it with a padded tea cosy embroidered with bright bluebells and leaves. Then he started the toast. ‘He was an alcoholic,’ said Jolyon. ‘All of the best American writers were.’

Chad looked at the book and felt ashamed that he had not heard of Raymond Carver. He read the back cover. It described Carver as one of the greats of American literature and here was an Englishman lending the book to him. Chad flicked through the pages, reading the names of the stories at the top of the pages, titles that were simple yet rich.

Jolyon was sitting by the kettle, staring at his watch. ‘Nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds,’ he announced, and then working fast he removed the eggs from the kettle with the soup ladle. He put the eggs in a cereal bowl and took them over to a cupboard door while he started to call out names. ‘Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck.’ He opened the door, behind it was a mirror over a small washbowl. ‘Hemingway, obviously. Hemingway was king of the writer drunks.’ He put the eggs beneath the cold faucet and let the water run over them. ‘Cheever and Carver. Truman Capote.’

Jolyon lifted the eggs from the water. He rolled them in the washbowl to loosen the shells and peeled each one quickly and skilfully, first removing a strip of shell from the middle of each egg as if whipping a belt from a pair of pants, then easing off their fragile hemispheres of shell. ‘You go back a bit further and you’ve got Poe and Melville.’

As Jolyon finished the peeling, the toaster went
chunk
. He took two small plates from beside the washbowl. The plates were old and the glaze was cracked in places, he held them up for Chad to see as if displaying a brace of pheasants. ‘From my grandmother’s tea set,’ he said. ‘She died just a year ago. I called her Grandma Fred until the day she died because that was the name of her dog when I was younger.’ The plates were patterned with autumn leaves. Jolyon placed one slice of toast on each then crowned the toast with the eggs.

‘You know the best thing about eggs?’ said Jolyon. ‘And it’s not the fertility thing,’ he added. ‘An eggshell is like a chrysalis. But what’s inside could be anything when it comes out, there’s so much potential.’ He held one of the plates at the level of his nose and stared lovingly. ‘Think of everything an egg can do,’ he said, ‘the countless possibilities.’ He turned the plate around and around on his fingertips.

‘And you forgot to mention, they taste good,’ said Chad, but Jolyon seemed not to hear and Chad felt embarrassed.

Also beneath the coffee table were stored a number of teacups and saucers. Jolyon took two of each and placed them on the lace-draped table. The cups had pink rims, the saucers pink borders, and both were patterned with roses and cornflowers. The cups rattled faintly on their saucers as Jolyon lowered them slowly to the table.

‘OK, so perhaps with eggs it’s the fertility thing just a little as well,’ said Jolyon. ‘You know, I always want to eat eggs the morning after sex. I really crave them. Do you think there’s something deeply disturbing about that?’

‘You mean Freudian disturbing?’ said Chad.

‘Maybe,’ said Jolyon.

‘Probably,’ said Chad. They both laughed the same laugh, a small puff of air from the nose.

Jolyon climbed onto his bed to reach his window. On the ledge outside was a jug that matched the teacups. He brought the jug to the coffee table, removed a piece of foil from the top and poured milk into the teacups. Then he poured tea. The spout of the pot extended from a hole in the tea cosy.

‘If I were a condemned man,’ said Jolyon, ‘I’d definitely choose eggs for my last supper.’

Jolyon put the breakfast in front of Chad. The egg was white and pure on the perfect golden toast. He handed Chad a fork and put a small wooden dish of pyramid-shaped salt crystals on the coffee table between them. Then Jolyon went at his own egg with a fork, mashing it and spreading it over the slice of toast. The yolk was a bright orange, halfway between liquid and set. ‘Now this is important,’ said Jolyon. ‘And I’m never going to tell this to anyone but you.’ Jolyon gave Chad his conspiratorial look. And then he said, ‘It’s the twenty-seven seconds that’s the secret.’ He finished by crumbling salt across the smeared egg and raised the prize up. ‘English bruschetta,’ he announced, and took a large bite.