As Switzerland Played
‘They got their own road sign,’ said the cabbie, drawing my attention, in our mutual silence, to the back of his bulbous head as it turned with pink follicle’d exclamation to a road sign with the house name on it. The car was meandering through east Anglian countryside, as unremarkable as it was attractive, and so attractive to my eyes for it echoed the summery paragraphs of my childhood that are hardest to recall and furthest away. We pressed on down a single-file country road, banked up both sides. All four windows were down. From the train station and through town, the air vibrated inwards, you know, shocking the drum of the ear, but off the A- and B-roads into the finest capillaries of Britain’s transport network, the hot Saturday afternoon in July had grounds to only drift in sweetly, carrying with it pollen and bugs and fine debris from the fields that brushed the sides of our vehicle. As we went deeper, I became nervous. If I should be abandoned, what would happen to me? I might sleep at the roadside; it was warm enough. It was a situation I found appealing. To hell with the gnatbites! there would be a story. The cat was looked after. Everything was golden and green. Earth’s strip of late afternoon was the perfect temperature for the surface of homo sapiens skin, four-and-a-half billion years in the works, everything was synchronised, finely balanced. I no longer wished to hunt or gather but to lie at the rim of a dry-mudded fire and exchange stories about how I was not abandoned by the side of the road.
‘You know where it is?’
‘Nah, not really. It’s my mate’s ten-year anniversary and the last time I was at this place was ten years ago and I wasn’t in the best condition.’
Nine minutes early, a large white marquee with people—the hosts—milling about, still getting organised. I walked towards his mother and she stared at me for a while, trying to recognise the stranger approaching, l’étranger with a bottle of rosé Veuve. At the very last moment, a couple of yards away, she recognised me, bellowed hello, and I saw her teeth; I would recognise her teeth anywhere, as if they might float in mid-air then I would know it was her, my old friend’s mother, Helen. We kissed our cheeks together, as elegant people meeting for an evening party often do. My old friend’s wife appeared, also elegant, to dispatch an update to the mother-in-law. It was then I greeted my old friend as he ferried crates of drink here & there. He passed me along my tour of the marquee’s perimeter to his father who may have been looking for an excuse to avoid his duties, and spoke to me with curious enthusiasm. In my younger days, he was a stern presence at the dinnertable, hands always stiff with grease & engine oil, a musk that worked its way into his clothes, the fine hairs on his head, into his atmosphere. He told me how well my old friend was doing, with the kind of mild pride fathers have for their sons, conveyed to everyone but the subject.
‘You know where it is?’
‘Nah, not really. It’s my mate’s ten-year anniversary and the last time I was at this place was ten years ago and I wasn’t in the best condition.’
Nine minutes early, a large white marquee with people—the hosts—milling about, still getting organised. I walked towards his mother and she stared at me for a while, trying to recognise the stranger approaching, l’étranger with a bottle of rosé Veuve. At the very last moment, a couple of yards away, she recognised me, bellowed hello, and I saw her teeth; I would recognise her teeth anywhere, as if they might float in mid-air then I would know it was her, my old friend’s mother, Helen. We kissed our cheeks together, as elegant people meeting for an evening party often do. My old friend’s wife appeared, also elegant, to dispatch an update to the mother-in-law. It was then I greeted my old friend as he ferried crates of drink here & there. He passed me along my tour of the marquee’s perimeter to his father who may have been looking for an excuse to avoid his duties, and spoke to me with curious enthusiasm. In my younger days, he was a stern presence at the dinnertable, hands always stiff with grease & engine oil, a musk that worked its way into his clothes, the fine hairs on his head, into his atmosphere. He told me how well my old friend was doing, with the kind of mild pride fathers have for their sons, conveyed to everyone but the subject.
Slowly others began to arrive. I did not know any of the guests and so I wondered around alone. It was an old chicken farm perched in the side of a relaxed valley. The marquee was dressed up for a wedding, all fairylights & floral arrangements, a stage for the band. It did not matter much that I had no one to talk to. By accident I was reunited, at the stroke of an arm, with his sister—‘I was probably the annoying little sister!’—and wondered to myself if it was her or thirst that was so beautiful? She wore stylish sunglasses, an orange gown that hung from her body, lips painted plum, children at home, country girl holding a stem, laughing boldly, gregarious and magnificent with it like a monument or a pagan holiday; leading us away from the speakers that we might hear each other; telling me about her life at the advertising agency and the change of career, asking me all, and in her glasses, hoisting my gaze if not from her concealed eyes then away from the soft skin of sloping breasts, the cloth that accentuated her figure, miles from me and yet close enough to adore, she became the most wonderful woman I had met in months, perhaps years. And it was the arrival of her husband, his posture like a seashorse in a lounge suit, who brought me back down.
These were not my people, after all, they were country and they bloomed as the sun shone. They had a Victorian school for their children and a property with land, a car for ferrying the kids to school and a cleaner on Thursdays. My carelessness about the direction my life was going, the lack of content and my indifference towards it, was a shock to them. They knew everything about the village and nothing about me. I wished to interest her with the activity of my life, but it was null and there are some people you see and you do not even realise it will be the last time.
When an old acquaintance dragged a joint beneath my nostrils, I followed not for draw but brief respite. We used to work in a chain pizza restaurant together and then we went down the end of the farm, by the paddock, he told me about his life out in Oslo, awarding artist grants. It was different to everyone else, to me. The donkey and horse in the paddock came to greet us; the former very possessive, the latter reticent. Music could be heard faintly. The marquee glowed. Yes, I might be part of an occasion. On our walk back to decade’s hubbub, the distraction of my senses tuned into the crunch of grass beneath my trainers.
I drank beer until the bar ran out then I went for cold white wine. My old friend told me about his vasectomy. In art class he used to make art about Star Wars. He told me that he thought having a vasectomy would mean he did not ejaculate. He had never come with such surprise. His wife had a difficult first birth, the second took four pints of blood with them. He was doing well; gone viral; a new workshop. Marriage (ten years) and fatherhood (nine) had not changed him an ounce. He encouraged me to dance but, no, I could stand at the edge, wine, I could watch them. I thought about cum and blood, four pints, I sipped white wine, I listened to a cover of 24K Magic. Perhaps to my detriment and my satisfaction, I was a spectator, always a spectator, of sports dull and long. I stood, they danced, the lights spun.
When the cab arrived with a vibration against the thigh, I said good-by to his sister and left. The cabbie made it clear that he was as uncomfortable with our surroundings as I. We spoke. The windows were open only an inch. I decided I would not discuss politics until I was at least walking distance from home.
These were not my people, after all, they were country and they bloomed as the sun shone. They had a Victorian school for their children and a property with land, a car for ferrying the kids to school and a cleaner on Thursdays. My carelessness about the direction my life was going, the lack of content and my indifference towards it, was a shock to them. They knew everything about the village and nothing about me. I wished to interest her with the activity of my life, but it was null and there are some people you see and you do not even realise it will be the last time.
When an old acquaintance dragged a joint beneath my nostrils, I followed not for draw but brief respite. We used to work in a chain pizza restaurant together and then we went down the end of the farm, by the paddock, he told me about his life out in Oslo, awarding artist grants. It was different to everyone else, to me. The donkey and horse in the paddock came to greet us; the former very possessive, the latter reticent. Music could be heard faintly. The marquee glowed. Yes, I might be part of an occasion. On our walk back to decade’s hubbub, the distraction of my senses tuned into the crunch of grass beneath my trainers.
I drank beer until the bar ran out then I went for cold white wine. My old friend told me about his vasectomy. In art class he used to make art about Star Wars. He told me that he thought having a vasectomy would mean he did not ejaculate. He had never come with such surprise. His wife had a difficult first birth, the second took four pints of blood with them. He was doing well; gone viral; a new workshop. Marriage (ten years) and fatherhood (nine) had not changed him an ounce. He encouraged me to dance but, no, I could stand at the edge, wine, I could watch them. I thought about cum and blood, four pints, I sipped white wine, I listened to a cover of 24K Magic. Perhaps to my detriment and my satisfaction, I was a spectator, always a spectator, of sports dull and long. I stood, they danced, the lights spun.
When the cab arrived with a vibration against the thigh, I said good-by to his sister and left. The cabbie made it clear that he was as uncomfortable with our surroundings as I. We spoke. The windows were open only an inch. I decided I would not discuss politics until I was at least walking distance from home.