The Colour of Memory

by Geoff Dyer

  ‘Hey, listen, I’m sorry I’ve got to rush you both but I’ve really got to get a move on,’ he said. Belinda handed him a bag of grass.

  ‘Thanks a lot. How much do I owe you Lin?’ he said.

  ‘Twenty-five. Plus ten for being so rude about my trousers.’

  ‘Can I owe you?’

  ‘What a cheek.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Carlton pulled some notes out from behind a book and eyed them like a disappointing hand of cards before shoving them in his pocket.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Belinda said.

  ‘My brother’s for lunch. I’m supposed to be there already. Right: keys, money, bike-lock . . .’

  ‘And you’re coming to Foomie’s on Saturday?’

  ‘Yeah. Right, let’s go,’ Carlton said, wheeling his bike backwards out of the door. We followed him out and waited while he went through the lengthy procedure of locking up his flat.

  ‘I don’t know why you bother. You’ve got nothing worth nicking.’

  It was a warm, clear day; litter caught the sun and shone. Belinda and I walked along the pavement while Carlton skooted along beside us.

  ‘Where you going Lin?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m meeting Foomie, Carmel and Manda for a rehearsal.’

  ‘A rehearsal for what?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re starting a rap group.’

  ‘They’re always starting something. First they were going to make a film then it was something else. Now it’s this,’ Carlton said. Belinda had put on a pair of sunglasses. I was still squinting at the glare.

  ‘It’s a good idea isn’t it,’ she said.

  ‘Old hat,’ Carlton said, laughing.

  ‘I wasn’t speaking to you.’

  ‘I think it’s a great idea.’

  ‘He’s only saying that. He hates all that kind of music.’

  ‘You don’t do you?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Well, you’re square . . .’

  ‘I’m going to have to get on. I’ll catch you later.’ Carlton said, leaning over to kiss Belinda on the cheek. He waved to me and cycled off.

  Belinda said I should come along and meet the other people in her group if I wasn’t doing anything. We made our way down Brixton Hill and past the town hall. Ahead of us a tall guy in a check sports jacket and baseball cap sprang along, trousers flapping round his ankles, walking as though each step had been astonished by the previous one. Outside Red Records we bumped into Luther and his coffee jar.

  ‘What’s it for?’ Belinda asked. Luther looked up, saw a white man and a black woman, and said, ‘Mandela.’

  Inside the cafe a woman was trying to serve food and hold on to a baby at the same time. It seemed certain that either the baby or the contents of its stomach were going to end up in the stew before the day was out. Service was understandably slow. Belinda tapped her feet. The sun blared through the large plate glass roasting bag of the window. Belinda’s friends hadn’t showed up yet. We ordered a pot of tea and went outside and shared a table with a white rasta. He had a wispy beard and sunken, kidney-problem eyes. There was only one person in the world who didn’t think he looked like a jerk and we were sitting next to him. After a couple of minutes he unlocked his bike and left. A damp waitress brought out tea and we drank it, sweating, in hot gulps.

  ‘Nice shirt,’ Belinda shouted to a young punk who slouched past with ‘Sceptic Death’ printed on the back of his black shirt. He took it as a compliment. Carmel and Manda showed up together and Belinda introduced me. They were both wearing sunglasses.

  ‘No sign of Foomie?’ Manda said, taking her glasses off.

  ‘You know what she’s like.’

  They ordered some cold drinks and sucked at them through straws.

  ‘Here she is,’ Belinda said, laughing and waving. Foomie walked slowly towards us, smiling. She had on a T-shirt, large black shorts, red ankle-socks.

  ‘Where’ve you been Foomie?’ Carmel called out.

  ‘An hour late,’ said Belinda, smiling.

  Foomie came over and kissed all three of them. Her arms were thin and muscular. Her hair was pulled tight to one side of her head and tumbled down like black weeping willow over the side of her face. She looked sleepy but her eyes were unhurried and calm as water in a glass.

  ‘I’m never drinking again,’ she said, holding Belinda’s hand. ‘My head. It feels like it’s made of tupperware.’ Carmel shifted over so that Foomie could share her seat. She ordered mineral water and siphoned off an inch of Carmel’s orange.

  Belinda introduced Foomie and me and we shook hands for a moment. She smiled but there was something instantly different in her manner. She was friendly but formal, not at all like she was with her three friends and not at all like Belinda who was abrasive and funny from the moment you met her. I’d heard of Foomie but this was the first time I’d actually met her. Previously, she’d either just left before I arrived somewhere or she was meant to have turned up at a party but had got side-tracked and ended up somewhere completely different.

  Foomie’s water arrived. She drank it in one gulp, gasped and ordered another. The four of them talked about what they’d been doing, laughing loudly and sipping drinks. I laughed and smiled but didn’t say anything. I was sitting there but I was like a guy at another table hidden by his newspaper. I looked at Foomie, at her arms and hair, and had a sense of gravity rippling around her limbs.

  ‘Steranko!’ I shouted suddenly, seeing him cycling home from Brixton Recreation Centre in training shoes and an old tracksuit. He came over and leant against the crossbar of his bike. We joked for a few moments until Belinda introduced him to everybody. He noticed Foomie and she noticed him, his gestures, the way he moved. I watched how they shook hands and smiled at each other. His sleeves were pushed up above the elbows; the veins stood out on his forearms. He was unshaven, his body had that easy assurance that comes after intense physical exertion. There was a clarity about his movements. He ran a paint-splashed hand through his hair, dripping with sweat or water from a shower.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ Belinda asked.

  ‘Squash,’ he said.

  ‘You’re so fucking sporty Steranko.’ At this point I wanted, quite badly, to point out that I’d absolutely hammered him the last time we’d played squash. And tennis.

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ Carmel said. ‘It’s practice time.’

  ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘Let’s go to my house.’

  ‘Why don’t we go to my house. It’s nearer.’

  ‘My place is near too.’

  ‘We never go to my house.’

  ‘It’s too far away.’

  ‘No it’s not and I’ve got a double-tape cassette player.’

  ‘I’ve got a double cassette player too and it’s much better than yours. I only bought it six weeks ago. Yours hardly works.’

  ‘It works perfectly.’

  ‘I don’t care where we go.’

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘Let’s just go.’

  Steranko and I listened and grinned at each other. There was an elaborate chorus of goodbyes and then we watched them walk away. When they had gone it was as if their ghosts were still there in the chairs, as if the air was still used to shaping itself around them. I could hear their voices all over again like a perfect echo.

  ‘Well . . .’ said Steranko a few minutes later, holding the handlebars of his bike with one hand as we walked up the road together.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said.

  ‘God, you take one look at her and all you want to do is cry.’

  ‘She’s got those kind of looks that make you feel really sorry for yourself,’ I said as we manoeuvred our way through tired women clinging to their prams. ‘Still, you seem to be taking it pretty well.’

  ‘Taking what well?’

  ‘Foomie. It’s obvious it’s me she fancies but you don’t seem to be sulking about it or anything.’

  ‘You took the words out of my mouth,’ sai
d Steranko and we both laughed like college boys.

  055

  Steranko was leant up against the bar, studying the original gravity information on the beer pumps. He was wearing his working clothes – paint-splattered jeans, an old sweatshirt – and his fingers and nails were black with paint and grease. He bought me a drink and we sat next to two women who were quite often in the pub.

  ‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news for you,’ I said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The good news is that Foomie – remember her, that gorgeous woman at the Jacaranda?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She’s having a party this Saturday. In the afternoon.’

  ‘In the afternoon?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s the bad news?’

  ‘You’re not invited.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  I shook my head: ‘Fraid not.’

  ‘Are you invited?’

  ‘Very definitely.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘It’s alright, I’ll tell you what it was like, what she was wearing, what she said to me – all that kind of thing.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it. I bet you’re really pissed off. I know I would be.’

  We drank beer.

  ‘And I’m really not invited?’

  ‘Course you are. Carlton just phoned. She asked him very specifically to invite both of us.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Steranko said, smiling.

  ‘We can ask Freddie to come too,’ I said.

  Steranko nodded: ‘She’s so beautiful.’

  ‘Yeah, isn’t she.’

  ‘What about Carmel? D’you fancy her?’

  ‘No. Do you?’ One of the women opposite us glanced across disapprovingly but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Not really. What about Manda?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘No, me neither.’

  This was one of the irritating aspects of my friendship with Steranko. We both tended to fancy the same women – and they tended to fancy him. We looked similar but it was always Steranko they went for.

  ‘I’ve got some good news for you too,’ Steranko said after a while.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’ve got that money I owe you.’

  ‘Great.’

  I swallowed the rest of my beer in a big gulp just as time was called. The two women next to us started putting on extra layers of clothing and then picked up two crash-helmets. We left soon after them, just in time to see them roaring off down the road, hunched over a powerful motorbike.

  On the way home I stopped off at Steranko’s to pick up the money he owed me. I put two ten-pound notes in my shoe and a fiver in the cheap wallet that I always carried. Apart from that fiver the only things in it were cancelled bank cards and library tickets. There was nothing paranoid about doing this – like taking a quick look down a dark street before turning into it or walking on the outside of the pavement, I did it as automatically as a driver putting on a seatbelt. It was always a good idea to have some money you could get at quickly if you got jumped. Unlike Carlton, Freddie and Steranko I’d never actually been mugged but I knew that nine times out of ten you handed over the money and nothing much happened. It was when you didn’t have any money that things got nasty.

  Pursued by the tolling of the town-hall clock I left Steranko’s at midnight and walked home through drizzle so fine it was hardly more than a damp breeze. Behind me I heard the sound of running. I turned round, feeling the first warning shock of adrenalin, my arm half raised to protect myself, as someone charged past. A few seconds later he disappeared round a corner, still running, feet slapping hard on the wet pavement. My heart was beating fast. People tended not to run like that after dark round here. It was like a false alarm that set others on edge and made them nervous – it looked too much like you were running away from something.

  054

  That was on Wednesday. On Saturday morning Carlton and Freddie called for me and the three of us called for Steranko.

  We trooped up the stairs to his room, opened the door and found that everything in it had been moved round. Steranko did this from time to time, turning his room from a place of relaxation into an obstacle course for living in. There were coloured scaffolding poles everywhere, the bed was perched up on a platform of planks about six feet in the air and most of the other things he used regularly – record-player, books – were stored well above eye-level. If you went to bed drunk and got up for a piss in the night it seemed unlikely that you’d be able to find your way back to the bed. Steranko was nowhere to be seen. Freddie called his name and Steranko’s head appeared over the side of the bed.

  ‘What time is it?’ he said, still half-asleep.

  ‘Twelve thirty.’

  Carlton dumped a pile of clothes on the floor and sat on the seat they’d been occupying. I looked out of the window which was thick with grime that the sun arranged in patterns. To the left of the window there was an easel with the beginnings of a painting. Propped up against one wall was a battered-looking cello. Steranko had lain back on the bed and disappeared from view. He reappeared a few moments later, yawning and rubbing his head.

  ‘How come you’re here so early?’

  ‘You said come round for breakfast before Foomie’s party.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘No but we came anyway,’ said Freddie. There was some rustling up on the bed. Steranko pulled on a dressing-gown and swung himself down to ground level.

  ‘So what’s this supposed to be?’ Carlton asked, gesturing towards the bed. ‘Urban Tarzan or what?’

  ‘It’s my experiment in negative ergonomics. An attempt to turn the fabric of the everyday inside out. It’s pretty exhausting.’

  ‘I bet. So that’s why the bed’s up there . . .’

  ‘A man’s bed should be like an eagle’s nest – Nietzsche said that,’ explained Steranko.

  ‘Did he fuck,’ said Carlton.

  ‘What he really said was only a fool goes to bed while he could still be working,’ said Freddie. ‘He used to sleep about half an hour a day in his bed and spend the rest of the time nodding off at his desk because he couldn’t bear the idea of being proved stupid by his own logic. That’s what I call will power.’

  Steranko grunted and headed towards the bathroom.

  ‘Have you still got that trumpet Steranko?’ Carlton asked.

  ‘It’s over there in that case. You want to buy it?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I thought I was buying that,’ I said. Hearing Carlton say he was interested in the trumpet made me suddenly certain that I wanted to buy it. Up until then I hadn’t been bothered one way or the other.

  ‘First come first served. Maybe you’d be better off with the cello,’ he said, glancing towards it and then going out the door. A great variety of musical instruments passed through Steranko’s hands. He picked them up cheaply, learned to play them a little, and then sold them.

  Carlton took the trumpet from its case, inserted the mouthpiece and made a few screeching blasts. There was no hint of a note let alone a tune but he was wearing a suit and looked good (‘a little like the young Miles Davis even,’ said Freddie).

  When he had finished I picked up the trumpet and blew loud and tunelessly. Freddie meanwhile was sawing away at the cello and by the time Steranko got back from the bathroom Carlton was banging out random notes on the out-of-tune piano in the corner.

  ‘What a racket,’ Steranko said, rubbing his face with a towel.

  ‘It’s free-form, man,’ Carlton said. ‘Collective improvisation.’ Freddie and I sniggered; Steranko looked pissed off.

  ‘I’ve only been awake five minutes,’ he said.

  ‘How much do you want for the trumpet then,’ Carlton asked.

  ‘Twenty-five quid.’

  ‘Thirty,’ I said, gazumping Carlton.

  ‘Do I hear thirty-five?’ Steranko said, b
uttoning up his trousers.

  ‘You’ll never learn to play it,’ Carlton said.

  ‘Probably not but at least I’ll stop you getting it,’ I said.

  ‘You can have it,’ said Carlton, ‘and I bet in six months you still can’t play anything remotely resembling “My Funny Valentine”.’

  ‘I only want to play “The Last Post” anyway,’ I said. ‘Something to bring tears to my eyes.’

  ‘I bet a fiver you’ve given it up completely in a month,’ Carlton said.

  ‘You’re on,’ I said, extending my hand. ‘Shake.’

  ‘Two months,’ said Carlton extending his.

  ‘Actually now that you don’t want it I’m not sure I’ll even buy it,’ I said, withdrawing mine.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Steranko, putting a record on the turntable. ‘What a kid.’ A few moments later the clean, intelligent emotion of Jan Garbarek’s tenor filled the room. Audible landscapes formed and re-formed themselves around us. Morning music, mist melting in the sun.

  ‘It’s going to be a nice day,’ Carlton said.

  We went down into the kitchen where Steranko stirred a saucepan of porridge. He made porridge perfectly and patiently and ate it every day regardless of the weather.

  When it was ready he filled four bowls. Carlton dumped in a lot of brown sugar and then some more after he’d taken one mouthful. It was still too hot to eat. We blew on it. Carlton poured more sugar in.

  We were all blowing on our porridge and taking gasped spoonfuls from round the edge. It felt like it was burning my stomach.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Carlton when it had cooled down enough to eat.

  ‘You sure it’s sweet enough?’

  When we’d finished Steranko chucked the bowls in the sink and we went back up to his room. While Steranko finished getting ready Carlton fiddled around with the cello.

  ‘Can you play this?’ he asked, leaning it back against the chair.

  ‘Not really,’ Steranko said. He reached for the cello, settled himself behind it, ran the bow across the strings a couple of times and then played what was recognisably the beginning of Bach’s first cello suite. Freddie, Carlton and I clapped.

  ‘That’s all I know,’ Steranko said, smiling.