Black Chalk

‘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

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 glance 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.