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The diagrams in biology textbooks were no substitute for being, in a very real sense, young adults. Vic and I weren't young adults, and I was beginning to suspect that even when I started needing to shave every day, instead of once every couple of weeks, I would still be way behind. " Vic said, "We're friends of Alison's." We had met Alison, all freckles and orange hair and a wicked smile, in Hamburg, on a German exchange. He wandered over to Stella and he began to talk to her. She shook her head, and then followed it up with a shrug, to indicate that it was all the same to her. From the kitchen back to the hall, and from there into the conservatory, but now it was quite empty. There were more girls dancing, and several lads I didn't know, who looked a few years older than me and Vic. I want to do that.' "But there was no reasoning with it, and I came to world. "You're just happy to have me here, aren't you darlin'? He looked from her back to me, and he smiled his white smile: roguish, lovable, a little bit Artful Dodger, a little bit wide- boy Prince Charming.
The exchange organizers had sent some girls with us, from a local girls' school, to balance the sexes. "Put it on the table there, with the other bottles." She had golden, wavy hair, and she was very beautiful. She told him it was Stella, and he grinned his crooked white grin and told her that that had to be the prettiest name he had ever heard. And what was worse was that he said it like he meant it. The music playing in that front room wasn't anything I recognized. I couldn't hear what they were saying over the music, but I knew that there was no room for me in that conversation. I went off to see if there was something I wanted to drink. I wondered if the girl had gone to the toilet, and if she might change her mind about dancing later. The lads and the girls all kept their distance, but Vic was holding Stella's hand as they danced, and when the song ended he put an arm around her, casually, almost proprietorially, to make sure that nobody else cut in. Parent-teacher engulfed me, and I was here, embodied in a decaying lump of meat hanging on a frame of calcium.
"It'll be brilliant," said Vic, for the hundredth time. We were walking the backstreets that used to twine in a grimy maze behind East Croydon station -- a friend had told Vic about a party, and Vic was determined to go whether I liked it or not, and I didn't. "We walk down the road," he said, as if speaking to an idiot child. Easy." I looked, but saw no party: just narrow houses with rusting cars or bikes in their concreted front gardens; and the dusty glass fronts of newsagents, which smelled of alien spices and sold everything from birthday cards and secondhand comics to the kind of magazines that were so pornographic that they were sold already sealed in plastic bags. Soon I must return to Wain, and tell her all I have seen. By now, I was sure that they were in one of the bedrooms, and I envied Vic so much it almost hurt. He wouldn't do it unless he was upset or angry, but he was angry now. As Vic pulled open the door, I looked back one last time, over my shoulder, hoping to see Triolet in the doorway to the kitchen, but she was not there. We ran then, me and Vic, away from the party and the tourists and the twilight, ran as if a lightning storm was on our heels, a mad helter-skelter dash down the confusion of streets, threading through the maze, and we did not look back, and we did not stop until we could not breathe; and then we stopped and panted, unable to run any longer. I held on to a wall, and Vic threw up, hard and long, into the gutter.
While it would be a lie to say that we had no experience with girls -- Vic seemed to have had many girlfriends, while I had kissed three of my sister's friends -- it would, I think, be perfectly true to say that we both chiefly spoke to, interacted with, and only truly understood, other boys. It's hard to speak for someone else, and I've not seen Vic for thirty years. Her eyes were a pale green, a color that would now make me think of tinted contact lenses; but this was thirty years ago; things were different then. For the first time that evening I recognized one of the songs being played in the front room. There is yet more of me." "Sorry love," said Vic, but he wasn't smiling any longer. I have forgotten much, and I will forget more, and in the end I will forget everything; yet, if I have any certainty of life beyond death, it is all wrapped up not in psalms or hymns, but in this one thing alone: I cannot believe that I will ever forget that moment, or forget the expression on Stella's face as she watched Vic hurrying away from her. Her clothes were in disarray, and there was makeup smudged across her face, and her eyes -- You wouldn't want to make a universe angry.
The streetlights came on, one by one; Vic stumbled on ahead, while I trudged down the street behind him in the dusk, my feet treading out the measure of a poem that, try as I might, I could not properly remember and would never be able to repeat.
And if you go any further, you wouldn't be you anymore? I wondered what had occurred in that upstairs room to make him behave like that, to scare him so, and I could not even begin to guess.
We went up the garden path, crazy paving leading us past a hedge and a solitary rosebush to a pebble- dashed facade. "It indicates that my progenitor was also Wain, and that I am obliged to report back to her. On a street in Rio at Carnival, I saw them on a bridge, golden and tall and insect-eyed and winged, and elated I almost ran to greet them, before I saw that they were only people in costumes. There were several people now sitting on the sofa, talking to the gap- toothed girl. I would have had to push my way in there to sit next to her again, and it didn't look like she was expecting me back, or cared that I had gone, so I wandered out into the hall. I inspected the various bottles and cans on the kitchen table, then I poured a half an inch of Pernod into the bottom of my plastic cup, which I filled to the top with Coke. Her hair was a coppery auburn, and it tumbled around her head in ringlets. I was the messenger who brings Creon the news of Antigone's death. I thought of that play, looking at her face, in the kitchen, and I thought of Barry Smith's drawings of women in the Conan comics: five years later I would have thought of the Pre-Raphaelites, of Jane Morris and Lizzie Siddall. "You cannot hear a poem without it changing you," she told me. It inherited them and it inhabited them, its rhythms becoming part of the way that they thought; its images permanently transmuting their metaphors; its verses, its outlook, its aspirations becoming their lives. She pressed her lips to my lips, anyway, and then, satisfied, she pulled back, as if she had now marked me as her own. " she asked, and I nodded, unsure what she was offering me, but certain that I needed anything she was willing to give me. It's the strangest thing about poetry -- you can tell it's poetry, even if you don't speak the language.
We rang the doorbell, and the door was opened by a girl. I said to Hola Colt, 'Why do they try so hard to look like us? I glanced in at the dancers, and found myself wondering where the music was coming from. I dropped in a couple of ice cubes and took a sip, relishing the sweet-shop tang of the drink. It's not a hair style you see much now, but you saw it a lot back then. Within a generation their children would be born already knowing the poem, and, sooner rather than later, as these things go, there were no more children born. There was only a poem, which took flesh and walked and spread itself across the vastness of the known." I edged closer to her, so I could feel my leg pressing against hers. You can hear Homer's Greek without understanding a word, and you still know it's poetry.
The girls, our age, more or less, were raucous and funny, and had more or less adult boyfriends with cars and jobs and motorbikes and -- in the case of one girl with crooked teeth and a raccoon coat, who spoke to me about it sadly at the end of a party in Hamburg, in, of course, the kitchen -- a wife and kids. "No Alison." "Not to worry," said Vic, with an easy grin. This is Enn." A beat, and then the girl smiled back at him. The hall was dim in the twilight, but I could see that she was beautiful. Vic headed back to drop off the wine in the kitchen, and I looked into the front room, where the music was coming from. Stella walked in, and she started to dance, swaying to the music all alone, and I watched her. On our own record players we would play the Adverts and the Jam, the Stranglers and the Clash and the Sex Pistols. It sounded a bit like a German electronic pop group called Kraftwerk, and a bit like an LP I'd been given for my last birthday, of strange sounds made by the BBC Radiophonic Workshop. On the kitchen table stood a large bottle of Coca-Cola, and I poured myself a plastic tumblerful, and I didn't dare say anything to the pair of girls who were talking in the underlit kitchen. Each of them had very black skin and glossy hair and movie star clothes, and their accents were foreign, and each of them was out of my league. The house was deeper than it looked, larger and more complex than the two- up two- down model I had imagined. Her hair was so fair it was white, and long, and straight, and she sat at the glass-topped table, her hands clasped together, staring at the garden outside, and the gathering dusk. I wondered if the girl I had been talking to in the conservatory was now upstairs, as she did not appear to be on the ground floor. As I incarnated I felt things deep inside me, fluttering and pumping and squishing.