Ezra wanted to do typically tourist things while he was in Oxford, so we spent days punting on the Isis, or visiting the arts cinema in Jericho where Ezra refused to read the subtitles and spent hours throwing popcorn at the prettiest girls. As much as I liked the joviality of Ez, I was getting tired of him fast. In my college room, HP and I shared my single bed, but with my arm outstretched I could literally touch Ezra’s knee as he lay on the floor. Every time we tried to whisper in the darkness, Ezra either shushed us or joined the whispering. Finally HP and I carved out some time for just us, and I took him to my favorite haunt.
HP slowed as we reached the courtyard of the Radcliffe Camera, where the sky was cloudless behind the dome. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring up at the glass and masonry as I sat down on the broad step of the Bodleian Library, my back against the door.
“Amazing, hey?”
HP turned. “It looks different every time I see it. Maybe it’s the color of the sky.” He sat down next to me.
“Are you having fun?”
“I am.” He nodded slowly. “You?”
“Good. I’m great. Listen, I wanted to thank you for coming over. I haven’t had a chance to say that yet.”
“You’re welcome.”
Our words felt formal, like we were interviewing each other for a corporate job. In the three days that had gone by, we’d rarely spoken of home.
“So how’s Cove? Anything to report?”
“Coaching’s good. Carpentry’s good. But you know Cove. Nothing ever happens.” He kicked the heel of one shoe against the step. “Especially compared with here.”
“What do you mean by that, exactly?”
“I don’t know—I just feel like you’re . . .” He took a breath. “Do I need to worry about this Freddy guy?”
“Oh, God, no,” I said. “There’s nothing going on with me and Freddy. Seriously, the guy irons his jeans so there’s a pleat down the front.” I pulled HP’s arm so he rocked closer. “I didn’t tell you about him because I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Look, it’s all good and I believe you and everything. Just . . . don’t lie to me, LJ. I can’t stand liars.”
“Freddy’s just a friend. I swear to God.”
“Okay,” he said, kissing me quickly. “Enough about Freddy. Enough.” He looked out over the courtyard, where the tourists were making peace signs for photos. “So are we together still? Or are we ‘seeing what happens’?”
“Don’t ask me! You were the one who wanted to make it vague in the first place.” It came out sharper than I’d intended, and I saw his eyebrows knit again. I slipped my arm through his. “I think we should stop worrying and just relax back into each other.”
“Yeah.” He stretched and ruffled his hair. “Yeah, let’s just have some fun. Good call. Enough of all this heavy shit.” He pulled me towards him by the neck of my T-shirt.
We kissed as we stood, surrounded by tourists and pigeons and the singsong bells of bicycles. We couldn’t get to my college room fast enough.
That night we drank in the bars on Cowley Road and partied in the O2 nightclub. It was full of synthetic smoke and weird lighting that gave all the clubbers blue teeth and dandruff. We hadn’t checked ahead so it was some kind of jungle DJ who played music so manic, it made me feel like I was about to have a panic attack. I retreated to the back bar where the beat was reduced to a dull thump and let the boys get on with it.
At around 2 a.m. we wandered back up Cowley Road, stopping at Kebab Kid for the boys. The puddles shone psychedelic with grease. I waited outside, sitting on a nearby bus shelter bench, and stared at an old man in the doorway of a betting shop. He’d vomited on the front stoop and couldn’t get up from it—every few minutes he’d skid his toe forwards looking for a foothold before slumping back against the door.
A guy with a foot-high Afro loped along the sidewalk asking everyone he passed for money. His hips led his stride, his gait spongy. If denied money, he’d point in the person’s face and say, “Fuck you.” He moved through the whole late-night crowd that way, repeating his script until, by the fifth attempt, he simply said, “Can you spare some change fuck you,” all in a single breath. Wherever you looked on Cowley Road there was humanity, the true slimy viscera of it.
And yet there was HP through the smeary kebab shop window. There he was, pointing at sauces, jostling and joking, befriending everyone standing around him. I watched him from ten feet away, loving him for his knack of happiness. He was a rarity, a resilient light, and with a world full of choices surrounding him, he continued to choose me.
chapter
* * *
9
“I’m curious, why did HP bring his friend to England with him?” Novak interrupts my daydream. “I mean, here’s a guy who’s crazy about a girl, saves up all his money to come see her after a prolonged absence . . . and brings his buddy along. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
I keep my face still. “HP and Ezra were a double act back then. They did a lot together.”
“Perhaps he wanted a buffer.” Novak sits forward, his eyes sharp. “Did you ever think about that?”
If he’s trying to get a rise out of me, he’ll have to do better.
“No? Okay. Just asking.” He stands suddenly and pushes back his chair along the squeaking linoleum, then drifts around the table with his hands in his pockets and stares out the thin horizontal window that flanks the right side of the room. He seems to be whistling through his teeth.
“I’m sorry, am I boring you?” I ask.
He doesn’t turn. “You have a rather pessimistic view of the world.” On the way back around the table he hesitates, and instead pulls out the chair next to mine and stands in the gap.
I feel like a Catholic at a confessional, the priest joining me in the booth.
Novak sits down in the chair, facing me. “Do you think it’s normal that Saskia’s missing? Is it all just part of life’s inescapable loss?”
I ignore his question. “Do you watch safari shows, Novak? I watched this show on Discovery once where a mom hippo and her baby were trying to cross a river, and this other grown male hippo comes in and starts stomping the riverbed so that the mom and baby get separated.”
Novak breathes heavily.
“They were crying for each other, the mother and the baby. It is the rawest noise I’ve ever heard. The adult hippo stamped the baby to death while the mom was forced to stand and watch.” I let that sink in. “That’s nature at work; that’s natural. Animals understand the imminence of danger, and yet they still bond. I find that interesting.”
Novak scratches his cheek. “It seems you’d like to educate people on how to behave.”
He’s starting to invade my space. I fight the urge to push my chair away from him. “I’m just saying we should all admit it: there’s always sorrow. It’s why we’re here right now, Novak.”
He shakes his head. “So, which hippo are you in that story?”
“Which hippo? That’s your question?”
“The male one?”
“Please. I’m talking about my worldview, not playing pretend.”
He pauses, meters his words like a metronome. “Did you hurt Saskia to prove a point?”
“No.”
He scribbles a few more words, underlining something, pressing hard. When he speaks again his voice is too breezy. “Well, I’m sorry I cut into your story. I hope you haven’t lost your thread. So . . . HP and Ezra joined you at Oxford. Didn’t you all attend some kind of ball?”
He’s been talking to HP. I nod imperceptibly.
“What did you wear to the ball, Angela?”
I let out one bark of a laugh. “How’s that relevant?”