Black Chalk

by Yates, Christopher J.

  Jack’s room was above the library, a long climb up several staircases. There was a small courtyard and a skylight for the library, raised like a wishing well. David tripped on a loose flagstone and the bottle of cava he was carrying smashed in the bag when he fell. He apologised anxiously, he said that he thought he might be a little drunk and suggested that if they were quick they could filter the drink from the bag into some sort of container. He was on his knees using his hands awkwardly to cover the holes that the broken glass had torn in the bag. The drink was draining away as if being tipped from a watering can.

  Jolyon motioned to Jack and Jack helped David to his feet. ‘Don’t worry about it, David,’ said Jack. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘My jeans are soaked through,’ said David. ‘I should go back to my room and change.’

  ‘No, I’ll lend you a pair of trousers,’ said Jack. ‘The others will wait outside. We’ll go into my room and you can change there.’

  ‘Only if you’re sure I’ll be quite safe alone with you and my trousers down, Jack,’ said David.

  Jack clenched his teeth. ‘You’re incorrigible, David,’ he said.

  David winked. ‘Oh, but you have no idea, Jack,’ he said.

  L(iv) David was in a fresh pair of jeans and had been offered the room’s only armchair. Jolyon mixed drinks in the plastic cups they had bought and apologised to David for Jack’s disgraceful lack of glassware.

  Tallest refused the offer of a drink and took the chair next to Jack’s desk. He sat there in silence for almost three hours. The rest of them settled on the floor with their drinks, or on top of Jack’s bed, and the night chatter started. They spoke about bullies they had known at school, Noam Chomsky’s opposition to the Gulf War, The Female Eunuch, anorexia versus bulimia, football, The Selfish Gene, British seaside holidays, Orwell, early twentieth-century imperialism . . . And then at two in the morning, Kirs finished and several joints having circled the room, Jolyon initiated the final stage.

  The armchair in which David was sitting was next to Jack’s bookcase. Jolyon and Dee acted out a short debate over the meaning of the word metonymyand then Jolyon pointed to the bookcase. A thick red copy of The Chambers Dictionarywas on the top shelf, at the bottom of a pile of history textbooks.

  ‘David, pass me the dictionary so I can prove the supposed English Literature student utterly wrong.’

  David tried to pull out the dictionary from the base of the pile but the pile threatened to topple. He groaned and stood up and removed the stack of history texts. Something behind the books caught his eye. ‘My goodness,’ said David. ‘What’s this I see here, Mr Jack Thomson?’

  Jack pretended not to hear and stared at Chad. But Chad only smiled.

  David picked something up. ‘My oh my oh my,’ he said. He held the thing close to his glasses and then grinned excitedly before revealing his discovery to the room.

  It was a picture frame, an expensive frame, thick wood stained with a black lacquer. They had all seen the picture before, of course, but pretended now to see it as if for the first time. The photo had been taken in Jolyon’s room one night, early on in their first term, several months earlier. Jack was in the photo, a cigarette slanting from the corner of his mouth. Red drunken eyes. In his right hand he was holding up and displaying for the camera his half-finished drink. His left arm meanwhile was around someone’s shoulder, a fellow reveller. David’s shoulder. David too was waving his drink for the camera.

  ‘Well, I barely even remember this being taken,’ said David. ‘But then I suppose we do both look a little, shall we say, ebriose.’ David moved his nose closer to the picture, screwed up his eyes as his spectacles almost bumped with the glass in the frame. ‘Oh, now it’s coming back to me, my sole invite to one of your parties,’ he said. ‘But the way I remember it, wasn’t it Dee with the camera? And also I was under the impression that it was Dee’s camera, not your camera, Jack.’

  ‘You’re quite right, David,’ said Dee, ‘it was my camera. But Jack asked me for a copy of that photo when I showed him the pictures.’

  David turned gently pink. ‘How very, very funny,’ he said. ‘And there was I thinking Jack not-so-secretly despised me.’

  ‘What other photos does he have hidden up there?’ said Chad.

  David put the picture frame down on the seat of his armchair and shifted piles of books to peer behind them. ‘There don’t seem to be any more photos up here,’ he announced. ‘Jack, where are your other photos?’ he asked.

  Jack gulped. ‘I don’t have any other photos,’ he said. He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I look terrible in every photo I’ve ever seen. That’s the only picture of me in which I look even half good.’

  David picked up the frame again, held it at arm’s length, and stared hard at the photo then Jack. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this, Jack, but you don’t look so terribly good in this photo. And neither do I. We are both undoubtedly the worse for several Hemingways.’

  ‘Then let’s take another one,’ said Dee. ‘A better one this time. Properly composed.’

  ‘You have your camera?’ said David.

  ‘Of course,’ said Dee, with enormous glee. ‘I take it everywhere, don’t I, Chad?’

  ‘She never leaves home without it,’ said Chad.

  ‘And you’ll make a copy for me as well this time,’ said David.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Dee. ‘As many as you want.’ She turned to Jack. ‘Come on then, Jack, assume the position,’ she said.

  Jack moved slowly. David detected nothing but everyone else in the room could see it. The struggle for dignity, the urge to flee. Behind David’s shoulder, Jack glared until Dee was ready to take the picture and Jolyon challenged him with a look.

  ‘After three say cheese,’ said Dee. ‘One, two, three.’

  ‘Cheese,’ said David.

  ‘Cheese,’ said Jack.

  L(v) When Jolyon returned to his room he found his door unlocked. At first this seemed no cause for concern. And then, as he turned to sit on his bed and take off his shoes, he saw an old white sock pinned to his door. On the sock the number four was written in green marker pen.

  Sock four: lock door. Yes, he had placed it there to remember to start locking his door every time he left the room. It sometimes took a while for his mnemonics to bed in.

  He went to his desk to find his evening routine and noticed the red folder in a curious position. It was sitting apart from everything else on his desk, which was where he left it if he had work to do. But he had done the work, there were three overdue essays for Professor Jacks in there, Jacks had demanded them by tomorrow. Jolyon opened the folder. Nothing inside, nothing. A panic surged through him. Three essays, three whole days’ work. And he knew they had been there, he hadn’t imagined working for three solid days.

  He looked at the clock above his desk, nearly three in the morning. He remembered locking his door, didn’t he? He had seen the sock as he left and had locked his door. Or was he constructing this memory? Did he only really remember going over and over the pilled surface of the sock with the pen to make the four stand out?

  He sat at his desk feeling sick, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  Mark Mark Mark.

  There were tears in Jolyon’s eyes. He pulled them down his cheeks and then wiped his fingers over the desk. He opened the top drawer and took out some paper and a pen. He wondered how much of what he had written he could remember. His mind had not been so good of late. Not so very good.

  He looked again at the clock. Nine hours to noon, three hours per essay.

  And then he would kill Mark. Tomorrow he would find him and kill him. He should put something memorable somewhere to remind him to kill Mark.

  LI I am full of my evening routine when I feel the same light kiss on my forehead as yesterday. Dee sits down on the blanket and crosses her legs, her shorts sliding gently over her thighs. How was your day, Jolyon? she asks. Tell me everything.

  The park lounges all around as I g
lance here and there for reminders.

  What is it? Dee asks.

  But my head feels like a beehive deadened with smoke. I don’t know, I say. Working, I suppose. There’s so much to write about, I don’t remember exactly.

  Then tell me about your lunchtime walk, Dee says. Where did you go?

  I pause to think. Left or right? I don’t even remember. All of my walks have blurred into one. Just the usual, I say, tearing up handfuls of grass in frustration.

  Dee sighs, leaning forward and gripping my wrist. Her hand is as cool as a stone and the grass slips away through my fingers. Oh, Jolyon, Dee says, you really do have a mind like a colander. She pats my wrist tenderly as she lets me go. But don’t worry, she says, let’s just chat about something else. Do you want to talk about your story?

  OK, I nod. I would like to lay my head in Dee’s lap.Yes, I nod again.

  Dee does most of the talking, she seems to remember my words so much better than me. But I do at least contribute to the chatter, these are the early stages of my conversational training. As the discussion nears an end, Dee says to me, You know, Jolyon, your story makes me think of something D. H. Lawrence once said. Never trust the writer. Trust the tale.

  And you trust my tale? I say.

  There is not a single untrue fact, Dee says.

  Then you like it?

  How can I like it? It was the worst year of my life. Dee looks at me as if I have taken an absurdly wrong turn. No, that’s oversimplifying everything, she shrugs. Maybe it was more like Dickens. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

  Dee falls silent. And then I see her glance toward her book of poems beside me on the picnic blanket. Yes, let’s talk about your work now, I say to Dee.

  She hides a blush with her hands.

  I love the poem you wrote for me, I say to her. Will you let me read it to you?

  Of course, Dee says, that would be wonderful, Jolyon.

  I marked two more as well, Can I read all three?

  Dee looks embarrassed. Oh, Jolyon, really, you don’t have to . . .

  I silence her with a raised hand. We’re here to save each other, Dee. I love your poems and I’d like to read them for you.

  Thank you, Jolyon. Dee says, her eyes glinting with moisture.

  I open the book and begin to read. First Dee’s poem for me, then a poem about Nabokov’s novel Pale Fire, and third a wonderful poem called ‘Clean Slate’. It seems appropriate to end on this one, its closing lines –

  And when we clean the slate, her smooth dark face

  Is powdered white, our words are but a trace.

  I close the book gently and say, I think your poems are beautiful, Dee.

  Dee holds her hand to her heart and smiles gratefully. Yes, cynical reader, this is indeed my chosen method of seduction. But I didn’t lie to Dee. I love her poems, they remind me of puzzle boxes, as if you could slide around their pieces and discover something beautiful inside.And they’re much less dark than I’d have expected, I say.

  Dee looks surprised. How much did you read?

  I worked my way back, maybe the last fifty or so.

  Ah, my later work, Dee laughs. If it’s dark you’re looking for, just wait until you make it all the way back to my teenage years.

  We laugh together in the gathering dusk.

  The fireflies will soon be out, I say.

  Dee lies back on the picnic blanket. Let’s watch them together every night, she says.

  I lie back on the blanket as well and the city holds us snug in its sleepy hollow. Soon the evening show begins. Blink flash blink flash. We breathe in deeply, our chests rising and falling in unison. Bright strings, orange threads.

  And with Dee by my side, nothing bad can befall me.

  LII(i)‘What?’ said Mark. ‘Come on, Jolyon, you’re a liberal socialist pacifist, you’re not going to punch me,’ he said. ‘What’s up anyway?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’

  ‘Your eyes are all red, Jolyon. Have you been crying or just not getting enough shut-eye? And you’re late, by the way. We’ve already missed the nine o’clock on M’Naghten Rules. And you could do with a lecture on insanity.’

  ‘What did you do with my essays?’

  ‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’ said Mark, shrugging.

  ‘There were three essays in a red folder on my desk and I know I put them there and . . .’ Jolyon halted, resenting himself for explaining.

  ‘Oh, now I see,’ said Mark. ‘You lost something and you think I’m to blame.’ His fingers began to drum at his chin. ‘And you say you know where you put them.’ Mark looked fresh, showered and rested. ‘Isn’t this like the time we had to delay the game because you couldn’t find the cards in your room? Hours later Emilia went to the fridge and hey presto, there they were, next to your milk.’

  Jolyon glanced away and sucked his lips. And then he ran back to the top of staircase six.

  LII(ii) The fridge, shared between eight rooms, was in the corridor. And there they were, underneath his butter.

  At first it seemed obvious to him that Mark had moved the essays. But then another alternative jumped into his mind. He remembered finishing the third essay and becoming hungry. He went to the fridge . . . Did he have the essays in his hand? He could picture them in his hand but imagination wasn’t the same as memory. And it had been so hard to concentrate on the last essay because his mind had been running over and over the break-up with Emilia, her coldness, the cast on her leg covered in messages and drawings. He had asked her if he should write something, a get well, and she had said no. No, Jolyon, just go. And he felt so guilty. And maybe the essays had been in his hand when he went to the fridge. And maybe . . .

  No, it was Mark, of course it was Mark.

  Emilia had been in tears at the end. But he should have been the one in tears, he was in the wrong, he was losing her for what he had done. He loved her, he should never have gone along with the miners’ strike speech idea, he should have stood up for what was right. And he could imagine the feel of the essays in one hand, reaching for bread and butter, needing two hands.

  No no no.

  Jolyon was so tired. He had been awake all night long, had already rewritten two of the essays. But at least now he did not need to rewrite the third. And the way Emilia had looked at him when he left the room, Jolyon had seen in her eyes all the happiness that could have been his. And now that he had lost that happiness, he was slipping down beneath the light. And he wasn’t sure he would ever find it again.

  Jolyon dropped the essays on his desk. Of course it had been Mark, of course it had, hadn’t it? He set the alarm to wake him for his tutorial at twelve. But he didn’t get any sleep.

  LII(iii) Chad crossed the drawbridge to Pitt. In fact it was a flagstone path across a thin lawn but Chad liked to imagine it as a drawbridge. Pitt was a castle, his place of strength. He wondered if he should try someone’s room. Jolyon would be at his lectures. Should he go and see Emilia?

  He decided to walk around the college and gather his strength. Yes, he would go to see Emilia and apologise. Perhaps he would even tell her it was all his fault.

  And then he saw Dee, reading, sitting on her favourite patch of grass by the ancient tree in the gardens. Her legs were crossed and she was wearing cut-offs and a cardigan. A man’s cardigan, large and grey. The cuffs were frayed and there were holes just above them through which she had hooked her hands.

  Chad said ‘boo’ because Dee didn’t look up when he arrived. She didn’t jump. She paused and placed a feather in her book. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Dee looked up at Chad and smiled. There was so much joy in her smile it caused Chad to blush. ‘How many books do you get through a week?’ he asked, hoping to distract Dee from the heat in his cheeks.

  ‘Six,’ said Dee. ‘One per day. I’m like the Lord. On the seventh day, I rest.’ Dee patted the grass beside her. ‘How’s everything with Mitzy these days?’ she said, when Chad was beside her.
/>   ‘She’s enjoying torturing me,’ said Chad. ‘Although no one in the house is speaking to me, it is permissible to speak aboutme. Especially when I’m in earshot. She told everyone that I’m a virgin and whenever there’s a bunch of us crossing paths in the kitchen, she’ll say something like, “So, did anyone hear Chad say he was from one of the Virginias? Or, does anyone know Chad’s star sign? I bet he’s a Virgo.” Oh, and her latest, “I’m going home for spring break, who do you think it would be better to fly with, American or Virgin?”’

  ‘Oh dear, sounds like Mitzy’s a minx,’ said Dee, pulling her hands inside her cardigan. ‘But never mind, Chad, you’re too good for her anyway.’

  ‘You never really met her,’ said Chad.

  ‘Didn’t I?’ said Dee. ‘Well, I still think you’re too good for her. And I’m hugely confident you’re going to find the right girl very soon, Chadwick Mason,’ she said.

  ‘TheodoreChadwick Mason,’ said Chad.

  ‘Really?’ said Dee. ‘You’ve kept that quite a secret.’

  ‘Jolyon knows,’ said Chad.

  ‘Of course Jolyon knows,’ said Dee. ‘It wouldn’t be a secret if Jolyon didn’t know.’

  ‘I hate it,’ said Chad, his fingers ripping up grass, tossing it aside.

  ‘No, it’s elegant,’ said Dee. She shook her hair in front of her face, tossed it behind her and tied it with a red band. And then she said to Chad, ‘Oh, here’s something funny. Apparently David keeps bumping into Jackie-oh. Every time he turns a corner. And Jolyon’s warned him that he can’t be rude to him or he’s breaking the rules.’

  Chad looked admiringly at Dee. ‘What made you think of it?’ he said.

  ‘Female intuition,’ said Dee. ‘You boys have such blind spots. Or should I say spined blots,’ she added with a wink. ‘But enough games and our ridiculous friends. I have an idea, Chad. It’s such a nice day, how about we go punting together?’

  ‘Punting?’ said Chad. ‘I thought you hated punting. That was the one expedition of Emilia’s you all refused. You said it was outrageously pretentious.’