Open Water

by Caleb Azumah Nelson

  You’ll sigh and gaze towards a sky which shows no signs of darkening, and say, I guess there was something in the room that night, which I didn’t feel until I met her. Something which, looking back, I couldn’t ignore.

  When you sow a seed, it will grow. Somehow, someway, it will grow.

  Mmm. I agree. I just . . . I met this woman and she wasn’t a stranger. I knew we had met before. I knew we would meet again.

  How did you know?

  I just knew.

  And in this place, a memory from a different time, you would like to believe your grandma will be satisfied with this. That she will give the same wry, contained smile and laugh to herself again.

  4

  You and the woman meet in a bar, two days before 2017 comes to a close. You suggested the location, but you are late. Only by a minute or two, but late. You apologize; she doesn’t seem to mind much. You embrace, and the conversation flows freely as you climb a set of stairs, travel up an escalator. You’re a little breathless, a little sweaty, but if she notices, she doesn’t say anything, not with her mouth nor roving eyes.

  When you settle down, it’s on a green felt sofa, made of two halves. You dance through topics like two old friends, finding comfort in a language which is instantly familiar. You create a small world for yourselves, and for you both only, sitting on this sofa, looking out at the world which has a tendency to engulf even the most alive.

  ‘Last time we met, you said you were a photographer,’ she says.

  ‘No, someone told you I was a photographer, and I squirmed at the idea,’ you say.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You did the same when your dancing was brought up?’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘I dunno,’ you say. ‘But yeah, I take photographs.’ On the other side of the window, Piccadilly bustles. A man swells his bagpipes, the sound drifting up towards you. Friday evening and the city is bordering on frenzy, unsure of what to do with itself.

  ‘I guess,’ you start up. ‘I guess, it’s like knowing that you are something and wanting to protect that? I know I’m a photographer, but if someone else says I’m that, it changes things because what they think about me isn’t what I think about me. Sorry, I’m rambling.’

  ‘I get what you’re saying. But why does what someone else thinks about you change what you think about you?’

  ‘It shouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re very good at not answering questions.’

  ‘Am I? I don’t mean to be.’

  ‘I’m playing with you,’ she says, and indeed the smile in your direction is light and teasing.

  ‘It’­s –’ You pause, frowning to yourself as you reach for the right expression. ‘You can’t live in a vacuum. And when you let people in and you make yourself vulnerable, they’re able to have an effect on you. If that makes sense.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘What about you? The dancing thing?’

  ‘Mmm. Maybe later. We keep digressing.’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘What do you think? About my idea? I want to document people, Black people. Archiving is important, I think. But as I said, I don’t know the first thing about photography, and it would be cool to have you involved. Could be cool to do together.’

  ‘Erm,’ you say, letting the silence stretch and hold. ‘I, yeah, no. No, I don’t think I want to do it.’

  ‘Huh?’ Less of a question, more an involuntary noise. She sinks into the sofa, covering her whole self with her coat, and you watch it rise and fall like a duvet over a sleeping body.

  ‘Hey,’ you say. A forehead appears, followed by a strong set of eyebrows and a pair of eyes, wary and watchful. You watch her struggle with her discomfort.

  ‘I’m joking. I’ll do it. I wanna do it.’

  The struggle continues and, when her face changes, it is because of reluctant appreciation. A jester meeting her match.

  ‘I hate you. So much. So so much.’ She checks the time. You’ve been sitting here for almost two hours.

  ‘Should we have a drink? To celebrate this new . . . partnership? I need a drink.’

  You’re glad she asked.

  You move from the mezzanine to the ground floor of the bar. The night is trailing after you, unable to keep up. A pair of ­low-­bowled glasses sits half full on the table in front of you. They aren’t your first, or second, or third drink. You are a little dizzy, trying to grasp what is happening. Much of your joy is lost in the need to hold it, intact, so you try to dull that voice which needs clarity, taking another sip. This is fine, you think, this feels right. She returns from the toilet, taking long strides towards you. The reflection of Leicester Square’s lights dances on the glass. She reaches up, fingertips grazing the window, as if light is something that can be held. As she does so, her balance shifts, and her head makes a slow descent into your lap, coming to rest for a tender moment. And as she comes, she goes, giggling as she rises up to reach for the elegant glow.

  This night is also the first you see the lazy sheer sheen which sits on her eyes when she’s been drinking. Sweet conversation from sour lips, the salt on the rim of the glass perched on the tongue.

  Later, you are in the Shake Shack next to Leicester Square. You stand in the queue, two sheets to the wind, swaying in a ­man-­made breeze. You pay for the ­food – she bought the last round of ­drinks – and huddle together on a pair of high chairs. She orders a burger with chopped chillis, cheesy fries which she can’t finish and insists you do (she hates wasting food). During the first few bites, she untangles a pair of white headphones and offers an ear, slender fingers dancing across her phone screen, searching for music. And now let’s ask the general public: Was anyone in Shake Shack that night? Did anyone else see or hear two strangers performing their truths for each other? Did they fill the pockets of the beat? Did they ride Kendrick’s ­jazz-­infused ­masterpiece with the same energy he intended?

  On the way back to ­south-­east London, a small joy, but a joy nonetheless. You ricochet through the dark underbelly of London. Noisy, black, hot and hellish. You peel back layers like a hand splitting the soft flesh of fruit. Beside you, she once more is working on a sailor’s knot in her earphones. The hitch comes undone with a silent twang, and she slides one bud in her ear, the other in yours. Two people closing a distance made shorter by the trailing wires holding them together.

  ‘What’s your favourite song?’ she asks, having to lean in to make herself heard over the Underground.

  Above ground, you are comfortable with the theatrics of playing yourselves. When she tells you she attended the concert in question, you walk away for a moment, returning to her, feigning playful anger, feeling real envy. You speak, quick and urgent, as you weave down the uneven cobbles towards Embankment.

  ‘My best friend had a pair of tickets, and agreed I could have the ­other –’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But the day before, he’d been like, there’s a girl . . .’

  ‘Ah. If it makes it any better, he is such a good performer.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘You seem upset,’ she says, unable to control the smile from tugging on her lips.

  ‘I am.’ And she listens, carefully, as you describe the significance of Isaiah Rashad’s debut album, listing his influences and dissecting his musical style with breathless excitement.

  ‘He’s like an OutKast by way of J Dilla, with a sprinkle of Gil, the soul of an Isley Brother, so much soul in his music, you can really feel it, no? What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She’s grinning as you follow her through the ticket barrier.

  You don’t tell her that the album had soundtracked your previous summer. You don’t tell her that you had repeated the song ‘Brenda’, an ode to the artist’s grandma, so much so that you knew when the bassline would begin to slide und
er the strum of guitar chords, when the trumpet would riff and reverb, when there was a break, a slight pause where the music fell loose from its tightly wound rhythm. You don’t tell her that it was there, in the slight pauses, that you were able to breathe, not even realizing you were holding air in, but you were. There would be a moment where you exhaled and a small, sad smile spread on your face as you struggled to contain your own loss.

  Below ground, you scroll through the tracklist, and point instead towards ‘Rope/Rosegold’. She nods appreciatively.

  ‘Mine’s “Park”. Such a big song.’ She wheels up your favourite first, and locks her phone screen, turning up the volume as loud as it will go. You both know all the words. So much soul. A Black couple watch on, amused, as the pair of you play rapper for the short journey. Embankment to Victoria. A song’s worth. You make it worth it, swaying with the twists and turns of the carriage, catching the swing of the rhythm, sitting in the pocket of the beat. A small joy, but a joy nonetheless.

  You feel you have never been strangers. You do not want to leave each other, because to leave is to have the thing die in its current form and there is something, something in this that neither is willing to relinquish.

  The view from her balcony: London’s glittering skyline. You feel comfortable here. You feel at home.

  ‘Tea?’ she asks from the kitchen.

  You nod, walking across the living room, to touch the glass. As if light is something you can hold, as if this is a painting you could touch. She appears noiselessly beside you.

  ‘How long have you lived here? I’m jealous.’

  ‘Couple years. It’s all right, isn’t it?’ She hands you a mug and signals to her sofa. You both sit on opposite ends, knees pushed towards your chests, careful not to breach the border of the bisecting cushion; except you both know something has opened, like pressing at a teabag and gazing into the cup to find the leaves swarming through boiling water.

  ‘Your mum is hilarious,’ you say.

  ‘She’s not usually that friendly with strangers,’ she says, sliding her legs out to sit in the space beside you. She closes her eyes and lets an almighty yawn stretch through the silence. It’s contagious and she laughs as the baton is passed in a race only sleep will win. Her phone buzzes. A sound slips from her that you cannot quite work out.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I think Samuel is coming over.’

  ‘Ah, right. Right.’ Reality. ‘I should go.’

  ‘No, it’s cool, you should finish your tea at ­least –’

  ‘I don’t want to ­impose –’

  The doorbell rings.

  After the door opens and shuts, after the fumbling of shoes being taken off, Samuel enters the living room. The night you all met in the basement of that ­south-­east London pub returns to you: that need to know that woman, the way you insisted towards her. It was Samuel who engineered this meeting tonight; his girlfriend asked if he knew any photographers and you were who he thought of first. But you’re gazing at Samuel now and the shame is intense. Feigned surprise on his face. ‘Oh, hey.’

  ‘Hey,’ you say.

  ‘I’ve heard you had quite a night.’

  ‘We did, we did. It was real nice.’

  ‘I’m sure it was,’ Samuel says. He walks over to his girlfriend, giving her a quick peck. ‘I’m gonna make some tea.’

  You turn to her. ‘I’m gonna head.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ she says. From the kitchen, Samuel watches you watching her. You were careful not to breach a border, except you all know something has opened; the seed you pushed deep into the ground has blossomed in the wrong season. You think of how you will tell this story to those who ask, because there will be questions. You wonder if it felt right will be sufficient. You wonder if the defence of nothing happened will be sufficient.

  It is the early hours of the morning. She dons an enormous green coat and walks you down the stairs. The night is as warm as her embrace and, as you pull away, she asks:

  ‘Will you text me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  5

  You say:

  The sky has erupted and there’s white ash on the ground. The dog has never seen snow before. It alternates between bounding across the icy planes and staying ­stock-­still, aside from the tiny shake in its hind legs. Your grandma had never seen snow until the year you were born, while she awaited your arrival, and those tender flakes fell in a furious storm, clumping on the ground. She got on her knees and began to pray, for herself, her daughter and unborn grandchild. On the same day, your mother was on the top deck of a bus, cowering as a man waved a gun, and she emerged unscathed. You’re not religious, but when you hear stories like that, it makes a man want to believe. You imagine your grandma in fervour, praying for your body barely formed, your spirit in gestation. Now her body is falling apart, or rather, has already fallen. Her spirit is everywhere. You don’t know if you’ll ever return and see where she has been laid to rest, but on this occasion, you do not have the strength. You’re not religious but you’re praying for your own mother and father as they make the journey back to Ghana, back home. Your knees are on hard wooden floor, prostrating at the foot of your own desires, when the dog nudges you in the back. The dog has never seen snow before. The sheet above is cloudless, lacking in form and detail. Have you ever looked at the sky at night after it has snowed? Orange glow, light caught between somewhere. Makes you want to reach up and touch, so sometimes, you pray. If prayer is mostly desire from the inner self, then you’re praying for a safe trip for her.

  She says:

  There’s nobody here to hear the soft pad of her feet across gold dust. Warm rush of the ocean. Just needed to get away. Just needed some peace of mind. Just needed to breathe. Sky here is cloudless too. The blue of a heatwave. Summer in January. Funny how time works.

  Pulled herself over all sorts of lines to get here. Drew this line from herself to him, her father, all by herself, just to be close. No, the line was there, is always there, will always be there, but she’s trying to reinforce, to strengthen. Blood and bone across the water, across continents and borders. What is a joint? What is a fracture? What is a break? It’s all very difficult. Language fails us, especially when he doesn’t open his mouth. It’s all just, a lot. So she’s reaching into a pocket of time, where there’s nothing but heatwave blue, a summer in January, golden dust stuck between toes, the roar of a quiet body of water.

  Also, a thank you. She’s grateful.

  You say:

  There’s a piece of art which comes to mind by Donald Rodney, titled In the House of My Father. A photo: a dark hand, palm turned upwards, lifelines ­criss-­crossing skin; in the centre of the palm, a tiny house, loosely constructed, held together with several pins. You’ve often had such an image, or something similar, where you are made aware that you carry the house of your father, which means you also carry a part of the house he carried, your father’s father’s, and that this man would’ve done the same. Your first instinct is to ball your hand into a fist, crushing the thing, letting the weight drift to the ground; but perhaps it would be necessary to prise open its doors, to search the rooms which are lit, glance into those which are not, to see what, as of yet, remains unseen. Then leave this place, in peace, with peace, both his and yours, intact.

  You know what it means to have to draw the line yourself. You know what it means to have rugged anger melt, when your father laughs so hard at his own joke that tears stream down, down, down. You know what it means to find tears streaming down, down, down. Caught you unawares. A few years ago, and you had to turn off into an alley in the darkness and cry. The rush of memories like the tow of the ocean, the recollection of a man for whom love was not always synonymous with care. You cried like the time he left you in the shop and did not return. You cried yourself hoarse and soft. You cried like an infant does for their father. How ironic. I
ndeed, what is a joint? What is a fracture? What is a break? Under what conditions does unconditional love become no more? The answer is you will never not cry for your father.

  You don’t always like those you love unconditionally. Language fails us, always. Flimsy things, these words. And every­­thing flounders in the face of real gratitude, which even a thank you cannot surmise, but a thank you to her also.

  She says:

  Language fails us, and sometimes our parents do too. We all fail each other, sometimes small, sometimes big, but look, when we love we trust, and when we fail, we fracture that joint. She doesn’t want it to break and maybe that’s not possible, but she doesn’t want to find out. She’s not religious either, but she knows what she desires.

  She’s looking forward to returning home, to a place familiar, where coherence and clarity might make an appearance.

  6

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Nah, man.’

  ‘I’ll order. Chinese, Indian, Thai, Caribbean?’ you ask.

  ‘It’ll never arrive if you order Caribbean. Chinese?’

  ‘Chinese is always a safe bet,’ you say.

  You have the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, supermarket shopping basket swinging from the other arm.

  ‘What do you want? From the takeaway,’ you add.

  ‘Send me the menu. Actually, just something with chicken in it. Or no, ribs. Get me ribs, please.’

  ‘Done deal. I’ll see you soon.’

  Back home, in your kitchen, you unpack the bag of things you know she likes but don’t normally have stocked: those sweet chilli crisps, soy milk, Earl Grey teabags. You’re only going to look over the sample images you took the week before, for the photography project you’re working on together, but you would like her to feel comfortable, like her to feel at home.

  Your house is too quiet, or rather it is loud in the absence of others. Your parents are still in Ghana, celebrating your grandma’s life. Your little brother has returned to university. You’re home alone. The silence is something you normally crave in such a full household, but something is missing. Every time you’re at hers, you can guarantee the portable speaker is sending sound through the room. What to play? What says you’re not overthinking this? Probably not having that thought, but it is too late now.