Starter for Ten

  I arrive at Sport! shortly after it opens, sweating pretty heavily. This is perhaps the second time in my life that I've entered a sports shop, because up until now Mum's bought all my sports kit for me. I'm pretty nervous about going in, as if I'm about to enter a pornographer's or something. Once inside, there's definitely a whiff of the boys' changing room about the place, emphasized by the shop's manager, who's about my age, stocky and bullish, and who approaches as if he's about to flick me with a wet towel.

  “Need help, mate?”

  “Just looking, thanks!” I say, in an ever-so-slightly deeper-than-usual voice, and I browse around the shop, appraising badminton rackets with an expert eye, before casually heading over to the dumbbells. There they are, two of them, made of heavy-duty iron, with adjustable weights, allowing me to gradually increase the load so that I am Adonis-like, but no more. There's something pretty self-explanatory about dumbbells, so once I've established that, yes, they are very heavy and made of iron as opposed to gray-painted polystyrene and, yes, I can afford them, just about, at £12.99, then I heft them over to the shop assistant. It's only when I've handed over the cash, and he's put them in a heavy-duty plastic bag and I've left the shop, that I realize that I've made an extremely basic logistical error, and it's this: I can't carry them home.

  For the first twenty-five yards I convince myself that it's possible, if I walk quickly enough, and change hands when the pain of the plastic bag cutting into flesh proves too much. But outside Woolworth's the inevitable happens, the bottom falls out of the bag and the weights hit the pavement with a heavy-industrial crunch that causes shoppers, young mums with their kids in pushchairs mainly, to look at me, and at the dumbbells, and in return I give them a “who snuck dumbbells in my bag!” kind of look. The paving slab seems undamaged, but one of the dumbbells is trundling heavily off toward Boots the Chemist like a tiny tank, and I have to lunge and stop it with my foot, which causes a certain amount of mirth amongst the young mums, who are pointing me out to their kids—“Look at the funny underdeveloped man!” I pick up a dumbbell in each hand and walk briskly away.

  I make it to Burger King, twenty yards away, before I have to stop again for breath. Teenage girls see the dumbbells and grin at me as I lean against the shop window. I decide that forward momentum is the key; the trick is to keep moving. I'll be fine if I keep moving. After all, there's only maybe a mile and a quarter still to go.

  Once I'm out of the shopping center, past the ring road and into the residential streets, it becomes a little easier to take regular rests without being stared at. I wait for my breathing to stabilize, then pick the weights up, arms hanging baboonlike, and make little stooped runs along the street as if under machine-gun fire, for as long as my heart can take it. I feel like I've just been resuscitated. I'm sweaty and red-faced, my shoulders feel bruised, wrenched and sore, my arms feel cartoonishly stretched, and the metallic diamond pattern on the bar of the dumbbells has transferred itself indelibly to the palms of my hands, making them look reptilian and raw. I have a personal tutorial this afternoon, and I'm still nowhere near home, so I pick up the dumbbells again, and stoop and run.

  Eventually, I reach the south face of Richmond Hill, stretching vertically up before me, its summit lost in low-level cloud. I manage to yomp about twenty-five yards before I slump, doubled over, against a wall. It feels as if someone's stamped on my lungs, popped them like blown-up crisp packets. I'm coughing uncontrollably, the breath rasping over the back of my throat, which is parched, causing me to retch dryly. There's a sweetly bilious taste in my mouth where I've coughed up some pineapple Just Juice, and the sweat is pouring off my face and dripping off my nose onto the pavement, and then suddenly there's a hand on my back and a voice saying, “Are you all right, are you okay,” and I open my eyes and look up and it's Alice …

  “D'you want me to call you a— Brian?”

  “Alice!” breathe, pant, “Oh … hi … Alice,” straighten up, breathe, pant. “How are you?” I gasp, aloofly.

  “I'm fine, it's you I'm worried about. I thought you were some old man having a heart attack or something.…”

  “No, no, it's me. I'm fine, really.…”

  She sees the dumbbells, wedged under my foot to stop them bouncing off down the hill and killing a child. “What are those?”

  “They're dumbbells …”

  “I know what they are, but what are you doing with them?”

  “It's a long story.”

  “Need a hand?”

  “If you could …”

  She scoops up a dumbbell, like she's scooping up a small dog, and strides on up the hill.

  24

  QUESTION: What was identified by Hegel as the tendency of a concept to pass over into its own negation as the result of conflict between its inherent contradictory aspects?

  ANSWER: Dialectics.

  I leave Alice in my bedroom, listening to my Brandenburg Concerto LP and giving my bookshelves marks out of ten while I go and make coffee. The bedroom is not in an ideal state, to be honest. I've made sure that I've not left my poetry notebook or underpants lying around, but I still don't like leaving her alone in there. The kettle is taking forever to boil, so I distract myself by rushing to the bathroom, splashing my face, and brushing my teeth very quickly to get rid of some of the biliousness. When I get back to the kitchen, Josh is there, helping himself to my newly boiled water.

  “Of course you do know there's a fox loose in your bedroom?”

  “My friend Alice.”

  “Well, hellooooo, Alice. Mind if I join you?”

  “Actually, we're sort of talking about work, actually …”

  “All right, Bri, I get the message. Just send her in to see me on the way out, will you? And you might want to do something about that?” and he gestures to the corner of my mouth, where there are two little crescents of toothpaste. “Bonne chance, mon ami …” he says, and heads for the door— “Oh, and someone called for you—Spencer, is it?—says to give him a call.” I make the coffee, pick up the mugs, steal two of Marcus's biscuits, and head back into the bedroom.

  Alice is reclined on the futon, flicking idly through my copy of The Communist Manifesto, so I hand her the coffee, and remove the cloudy glass of water and the encrusted old mugs from the side of the bed, and take a mental photograph of her head on my pillow.

  “Why's your bed frame behind your wardrobe, Brian?”

  “I thought I'd try the futon thing.”

  “Right. Futon. Nice.” And she looks at the postcards and photos Blu-Tacked by the bed. “Is this your dad?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She peels the photo off the wall, looks at it. “He's very handsome.”

  I take my donkey jacket off, hang it on the wardrobe door. “Yes, he was.”

  She inspects my face, trying to work out why it should have skipped a generation, then gives me one of her frowning smiles. “Don't you want to get changed?”

  I look down at my sweater, which is living up to its name and has dark, oily damp patches under the arms, and smells of wet dog. I hesitate, though, bashfully: “No, I'm fine, really.”

  “Go on, get changed. I promise I won't touch myself while you're doing it.”

  And, in the racy, erotically charged atmosphere that this last remark creates, I turn my back on her and take my top off.

  “So what are the weights for, big guy?”

  “Oh, I just thought I'd try and get a little healthier.…”

  “Having muscles isn't the same as being healthy—my last boyfriend had the most amazing body, but could barely walk two hundred yards.”

  “Was he the one with the massive penis?”

  “Brian!! Who told you that?”

  “You did?”

  “Did I? Well, yes, that was him. Anyway, your body's fine.”

  “You think?” I ask, holding the sweater in front of me, like a bashful bride.

  “Sort of lean and angular—it's the Egon Schiele look.…”

 
I turn my back and pull the new sweater over my head, and decide it's time to change the subject.

  “How was the rest of your Christmas break?”

  “Oh, you know. Fine. Hey, thanks for coming to stay.”

  “Thank you for having me. Did you get rid of the cold meat okay?”

  “Absolutely. Mingus and Coltrane say thank you very much.”

  “And is your nan okay?”

  “What? Oh, yes. Yes, she's fine.”

  She presses Dad's photo back onto the wall and, taking care not to look at me, says, “It got a little bit … weird, didn't it?”

  “I got a bit weird, you mean. It was losing my drugs-virginity, I think.”

  “It wasn't just that, though, was it? You were … strange, like you thought you had something to prove.”

  “Sorry. I get a bit nervous. Especially around posh peop—”

  “Oh, please …” she snaps.

  “What?”

  “Please, don't start with that crap, Brian. ‘Posh’—what a ridiculous word. What is ‘posh’ anyway? That stuff 's all in your head, it's completely meaningless. Christ, I hate this complete obsession with class, especially at this place, you can hardly say hello to anyone before they're getting all prolier-than-thou, and telling you about how their dad's a one-eyed chimney sweep with rickets, and how they've still got an outside loo, and have never been on a plane or whatever, all that dubious crap, most of which is usually lies anyway, and I'm thinking why are you telling me all this? Am I meant to feel guilty? D'you think it's my fault or something, or are you just feeling pleased with yourself for escaping your predetermined social role or some such self-congratulatory bullshit? I mean, what does it matter anyway? People are people, if you ask me, and they rise or fall by their own talents and merits, and their own labors, and blaming the fact that they've got a settee rather than a sofa, or eat tea rather than dinner, that's just an excuse, it's just whining self-pity and shoddy thinking …”

  The Bach concerto's rising to a crescendo behind her as she speaks, so I say, “And you join us live from this year's Tory Party Conference!”

  “Piss off, Brian! That's not fair, that's not fair at all. I don't make judgments about other people because of their background, and I expect people to treat me with the same courtesy.” She's sat up on the futon now, stabbing the air with her finger. “And, anyway, it's not even my money, it's my parents' money, and it's not as if they got it from nicking people's dole, or running sweatshops in Johannesburg or something, they worked fucking hard for what they've got, fucking hard.…”

  “They didn't work for it all, though, did they?”

  “What d'you mean?” she snaps.

  “I just mean they inherited a lot, from their parents.”

  “And … ?”

  “Well, it's … privilege, isn't it?”

  “So, what, you think people should have their money buried with them when they die, like in ancient Egypt? Because I would have thought passing money on, using it to help your family, to buy them security and freedom, was just about the only truly worthwhile thing you can do with it.…”

  “Of course it is, but I'm just saying, it's a privilege.”

  “Absolutely it's a privilege, and they treat it as such, and they pay a fuck of a lot of tax, and they do their best to give something back. But if you ask me, there's no snob like an inverted snob, and if that doesn't conform to some conventional, student-approved system of socialist thought, then I'm sorry, that's how I feel. Because I'm just so fucking bored of people trying to pass plain old envy off as some sort of virtue!” And she judders to a stop, red-faced, and picks up her mug of coffee. “I'm not talking about you necessarily, of course.”

  “Of course not,” and I sip my coffee too, which tastes bitterly of tooth paste, and there's a pause as we listen to the Brandenburg Concertos. “Isn't this the theme from Antiques Roadshow?”

  “It is. Though that's not what it says on the album cover.” She smiles, and flops back down onto the futon. “Sorry, just letting off steam.”

  “No, that's fine. I sort of agree with you. In places,” I say, but all I can think of is Mingus and Coltrane eating bowls of pasta. “I mean, we're friends, aren't we? Brian—look at me. We're friends, yes?”

  “Yes, of course we're friends.”

  “Even though I'm obviously the queen of Sheba and you're a snotty- nosed chimney sweep?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So shall we just forget the whole thing? Just forget it and move on?”

  “Forget what?”

  “The thing we've just been … oh, I see. So it is forgotten?”

  “It's forgotten.”

  “Good,” she says. “Good.”

  “So—d'you want to come to the pictures later this afternoon or some- thing?”

  “I can't—I've got this audition later …”

  “Right—what for?”

  “Henrik Ibsen's Hedda Gabler.”

  “Which part?”

  “The eponymous Hedda.”

  “You'd be a great Hedda.”

  “Thank you. I hope so. Still I doubt if I'll get it. The third years have got it all stitched up. I'll be lucky if I get cast as”—cock-er-ney accent—

  “Berte the bleedin' maid.…”

  “But you're coming to the team meeting tonight?”

  “Is it tonight?”

  “First of the new term!”

  “Oh, God, do I have to?”

  “Patrick's being very strict. He specifically asked me to make sure you came tonight, or you're off the team, he says.” He didn't say any of that of course, but still.

  “Okay, I'll see you there, and we'll have a drink afterward.” She crosses the room, puts her arms around me so that I can smell the perfume on her neck, and whispers in my ear. “And friends again, yes?”

  “Absolutely. Friends again.”

  But I'm still brooding over the conversation with Alice when Professor Morrison says:

  “Tell me, Brian, why are you here exactly?”

  The question takes me by surprise. I stop looking out of the window, and turn to Professor Morrison, who's lying back in his chair, fingers laced across his little potbelly.

  “Um, personal tutorial? Two o'clock?”

  “No, I mean here at university, reading English? Why are you here?”

  “To … learn?”

  “Because?”

  “It's … valuable?”

  “Financially?”

  “No, you know …”

  “Improving?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Improving. And I enjoy it, of course. I like education, learning, knowledge.…”

  “‘Like it’?”

  “Love it. I love books.”

  “The contents of books, or just owning a whole load of books?”

  “The contents, obviously …”

  “So you're serious about your studies?”

  “I like to think so.” He doesn't say anything, just leans right back in his chair, his arms stretched behind him with his fingers laced, and yawns. “You don't think I am?”

  “Not sure, Bri. I hope you are. But the reason I ask is because this last essay, ‘Notions of “Pride” and “Prejudice” in Othello,’ is, well, it's really just awful. Everything about it, from the title onwards, is just awful, awful, awful.…”

  “Yes, well I wrote it in a bit of a hurry actually.”

  “Oh, I know that, I can tell that. But it's such an awful, vapid, fatuous thing, that I wondered if you'd written it at all?”

  “Right, so, what didn't you like?”

  He sighs, slumps forward and runs his fingers through his hair, as if he's about to tell me that he wants a divorce.

  “Okay, well, for a start, you talk about Othello as if he's this guy you know who you're a bit worried about.”

  “Well, that's good, isn't it? Treating him like a real individual. Isn't that a testament to Shakespeare's vivid imagination?”

  “Or your lack of insight? Ot
hello's a fictional character, Brian, he's a construct, a creation. He's a particularly rich and complex creation in a remarkable work of art, but all you can say about him is it's a shame he has a hard time just because he's black. All I learned from this is that you think bigotry is ‘a bad thing.’ Why are you telling me this? Did you think that maybe I thought bigotry was a good thing? What's your next essay, Brian? ‘Hamlet—Why the Long Face?’ or perhaps, ‘Why Can't You Montagues and Capulets Just Get Along?’ …”

  “Well, no, because racism is an issue that I feel passionately about.”

  “I'm sure it is, but what am I supposed to do about it? Phone Iago's mum, tell her to get him to back off ? In fact, ironically, as a discourse on race, your portrayal of Othello as a blameless, suggestible Noble Savage might almost be viewed as racist in itself.…”

  “You think the essay's racist?”

  “No, but I do think it's ignorant, and the two aren't unconnected.”

  I start to say something, but can't work out what, so just sit there. I feel hot and red and embarrassed, as if I'm six years old, and have just wet myself. I want it to be over as soon as possible, so I half-stand, reach over to the table to pick up the essay: “Okay, well, maybe I should give it another go …” but he's not finished yet, and he pulls the pages back toward him.

  “This to me isn't the work of someone who ‘loves knowledge,’ it's the work of someone who quite likes the idea of appearing as if he loves knowledge. There isn't a shred of insight or original thought or mental effort here, it's shallow, pious, ill-informed, it's intellectually immature, it's stuffed full of received ideas and gossip and clichés.” He leans forward, picks up my essay with his fingertips, like a dead seagull. “Worst of all, it's disappointing. I'm disappointed that you wrote it, and even more disappointed that you thought it worth my time and energy to read the thing.”