Thefrontdoorisgreen.
With frosted glass panels and a big chunky knocker The bell doesn’t work Has never worked He remembers that first viewing, standing in front of it, expectant, hopeful, hand in hand with Marius He remembers, like his first kiss, the first time he put the key in the lock, turning first the wrong way, then the right, fumbling over the not-yet-familiar gesture.2
WhenItellpeoplewhatIdo,theyalwayswanttoknowifI’veworkedonanythingfamous.
TheBenJonsonShakespeare.3
TheAustenjuvenilia 4
TheAbingerpapers 5 Ihave,butthesearen’ttheprojectsIcherish.
WhatIlike are diaries and letters, commonplace books and ledgers, calendars, invitations and almanacs: the everyday documents ofnobodyinparticular. Ephemera, it’s called. Fromthe Greek. Like those frail-legged mayflies, withtheir laceand-stainedglasswings,wholiveonlyforaday
Iwonder,sometimes,ifit’sastrangeoccupation,thissemi-obsessivepreservationofthetransitory Butwhereasformost people historyis a few loud voices declaimingartand makingwar across the centuries, for me it’s a whisperingchorus of laundrydayandgrocer’sbills,dresspatternsandcroprotations.Thepriceoftallow.
Onlythatmorning,as Iwas assessingandstabilisingseveral folders oflate nineteenth-centuryletters inpreparationfor digitisation,Inoticedthatsomeoftheaccompanyingenvelopesseemedslightlythickerthantheirfellows Insideone,Ifounda handfulofpressedflowers.Insideanother,somepiecesoffabric.Evenmyphone’simpatientremindersofawaitingmessage couldn’tbreakthemoment.
Meandthesepiecesoflives,linked,foralittlewhileatleast,inquietnessandtime.
ThenIpeeledoffmyglovesandpickedupmyphone
Ihadn’tseentheskydarkenorheardtherainbegintofall,butall ofasuddenitwascomingdownhard,juststreamsof greywateronthewindows,blurringtheviewliketears.
Themessageread: sureuyouknowthissweetiebuttheresafloodwarningforurarealollovemumx.
Two, nearlythree years on, and Marius’s mother still keptintouch, still remembered mybirthday, and still gave every indicationoflovingme Unlikeherson
Shehadnoideahowmuchithurt
Sometimes,Itriedtoblameher.Ifshehadraisedhimwithalittlemoreguilt,alittlemoreshame,agreatersenseofsocial andpersonalobligation,hemightneverhaveleftme.
Whatwe’dhadwasgood.Itwouldhavelastedalifetime.
The lol wasn’tpersonal She’d picked itup as a thingcommonlysaid onsocial media, and we hadn’tquite realised the magnitudeoftheproblemuntil UncleTeddydeadlol,andbythenitwastoolatetodoanything.
Iwanted to ignore her, butshe would worry. So Isentback fine lol, whichwould probablybe true. We I lived ona
floodplain,butmostofthecityisfloodplain.MyfriendGrace,whowaslessromancedbysandstoneanddreamingspiresthan me,oncecalleditEngland’scunt.ShesaidOxfordwasbasicallyabigwetcleftinthemiddleofthecountry aphrasethathas somehowneverquitefounditswayintothepoetryorhistoryoftheplace.ButIalwaysthoughtshemeantitaffectionately.She wasthesortofpersonwhocouldgetawaywithsayingthingslikethat 6
Thehousehadfloodedtwice,oncein1947andoncein2007,thoughnotsincewemovedin.We’dknownitwasaflood riskwhenweboughttheplace,butI’dwantedit,andMariushadapparentlybeenwillingtoindulgeme.Sincetheearlydaysof ourrelationship,we’dfoundwaystolivetogether incrampedstudentrooms,awkwardlyinsharedhousingwithfriends,ina flatwe’drented butthiswasthefirst,theonlypropertywe’deverowned
Youdon’treallyfallinlovewithahouse.Youfallinlovewiththelifeyoucouldhaveinit.
FromthemomentIsawit,Isawus.Isawusineveryroom:talking,touching,sharing.Isawitall.Butasitturnedout,I sawonlymydreams.
Whenwebrokeup,he’dwantedtosell,butIbeggedandheletmebuyhimoutinstead Ithinkitwasaweirdrelieftoboth ofusthattherewassomethingIcouldfightfor,sincehe’dmadeuphismindIcouldn’tfightforhim
Lookingback,Idon’tknowwhatIwastryingtokeep.BecauseallI’vegotareresponsibilitiesandemptyspaces.7 WhenIgotbacktothemthatevening,IdutifullywenttotheEnvironmentAgencywebsiteandcheckedfor myarea.The wholeofthesoutheastwasonredalertstatus: FLOODEXPECTED,IMMEDIATEACTIONREQUIRED
SoIwenttobedwithabook Surroundedbythethuddingoftherain
Ataboutteno’clock,lostinthatinterminablenowhere-timebeforeyoucanlegitimatelygotosleep,Iwentdownstairsto makemyselfacupofHorlicks.I’dcallitthecomfortdrinkofthesinglegentleman,butI’vehadaHorlickshabitforaslongas Icanremember.Basedonabsolutelynoevidencewhatsoever,I’mvaguelyundertheimpressionithelpsmesleep.
Thekitchenandthesunroomareextensionstotheoriginalstructure Minerunsparalleltomyneighbour’s,sowecansee straightthroughintoeachother’shouses Mariuswouldforgetandwanderaroundwithhisshirtoff “It’sallright,”I’dtellhim “Sheappreciatesornamentalyoungmenintheirnaturalhabitat.”AndIremember,unfadedbytime,astreakofviridianonhis innerwrist.Acurlofpurplemadderathisthroat.
Thelightwasonacrosstheway,soIcouldseeMrs.Peaberrywithherkettle.Iwavedatherthroughtwopanesofglass andarainstorm
Thetruthwas,wealwayssaidgoodnightthisway Andgoodmorningjustthesame Bookendingeachother’sdaystostop themcollapsingintoheapsofjumbledtime.
Whenwe’dmovedin,she’dwelcomedus.WhenMariusmovedout,Isatonherfloorandcried.IsupposeIcouldhave calledanynumberofourfriends,butthatwastheproblem.Theywere our friends.Evennow,whenIseethem,whichisn’tas oftenasIshould,Ifeelless LessthanIusedtobe WhenIwaswithhim8
Shepickedupthewhiteboardshewasmeanttokeepforemergencynumbers,scribbled,andhelditup Itwashardtoread throughtherain,butIthoughtitsaid, fuck this weather eh.
Inoddedandmimedout, Are you okay?
Sheshrugged.
Iwonderedifshewasworried She’dbeenfloodedoutin2007,butherhusbandhadbeenalivethen “I’mcominground.”Iaccidentallyspokethewordsaloud,myvoicesoalieninthesilenceofmykitchen. She held up a packetofHobnobs: anoctogenarianEve withanoddlyshaped apple, and Ipretended cartoonishly to comerunning.
Somethingstrangehappenstomesometimesbehindmykitchenwindow It’sasifmybodyforgetsitself,andtriestomake jokeswithoutme
Ipulledmycoatovermyoh-so-stylishtartanloungetrousersandT-shirtcombinationandhesitatedbythehalfemptyshoe rack.Ireallydidn’thaveanythingsuitablefortheweather.
WhenIwasatuniversity,I’ddevelopedasemi-ironicpreppyimage:chunkyscarves,cable-knitjumpers,andtweed.But theironyworeofflongbeforeIhitthirty,andnowhowIthinkIlookisold
myirony, or perhaps somethingelse entirely, butImusthave lacked convictionbecause the momentMarius saw them, they weren’tquirkyatall.Theywerejustincongruousandtrying-too-hard,andIneverdaredtowearthemagain.
Ituggedthemonandplungedintotherain Iwasoutsideforlessthanaminute,butitwasstillenoughtoleavemechilled throughanddrippingapologeticallyalloverMrs.Peaberry’shall.
Shewaswaitingformeinherraincoat,withabigyellowsou’westerjammedfirmlyonherhead.
Ihidmysmile.“Youlooklike…whicheverofthemisthedoginWallace &Gromit. ”
“Gromit”Sheunhookedherstickfromtheradiator “Now,comealong,Edwin”
“Arewegoingsomewhere?”
“Totheriver.”
“Butwhy?”
“Toseewhatwecansee.”
“Ireallyd-don’tthink ”Weweregoingtoendupasnewspaperheadlines: PENSIONERANDHOMOSEXUALFOUNDDEADIN RIVER COINCIDENCE,TRAGEDY,ORSATANICRITUALGONEWRONG?
“Itcouldbedangerous”
“Itwillbe” sheglintedatme “anadventure.”9
Ihave a sortof…thing, Isuppose, for certainwords. Theysparkinside me, somehow, turningme to touchpaper, butI don’tknow whattheyareuntilsomeonesaysthem.Once,onaveryordinaryday,Marius insomeodd,theatricalhumour hadleanedacrossatableinthecaféinthemodernartmuseumandwhisperedthathecouldn’twaittogetmehomesohecould ravish me And Isatthere, electric-brightand honey-sweet, staringatmyhands, undone inall the ways bya single word I don’tthinkherealised,becauseheneversaiditagain,andIdidn’tknowhowtotellhim.Orask.10
IthinkIalsolike secret.Thewayithingesonitscentral c,likeaboxopening.Or pod,enclosingitselfalways.
And,ofcourse, adventure getsmetoo.Notquiteinthesamewayas ravish,butitgetsme.Itmakesmefizzalittle.Idon’t know how or evenwhenMrs Pworked it out, but she’s beenexploitingit ever since Weedingher lawnis anadventure Replacing a lightbulb is an adventure Taking her bin out is an adventure Or perhaps it’s just easier for both of us than admittingshestrugglestodothesethingsherself.
MovingatMrs.P’space,slow butrelentless,webatteredourwaythroughtheraintotheendoftheroad,navigatingthe oldchurchyardinthehazyglowfromthelaststreetlamp.Bythetimewestumbledontothefootpath,thedarknesswasadamp fistclosingroundus
Livinginacity,it’ssoeasytoforgethowabsolutethenightcanbe.
Mrs.Ppaused,herbreathharshbeneaththewind.“I’msurethere’sariveraroundheresomewhere.”
“Just…waitamoment.I’llcheck.”
Icreptforwardthroughastickymessofoverhangingleaves,thewetgravelcrunchingbeneaththeheelsofmyboots Itwas aratherjollysound,really defiantpercussionwithinthesymphonyofrain 11
Anotherstepandmybootswerefullofwater,andIwassoakedallthewaytomyknees.Acold,wildshockthatmademy breathcatchandmyheartjump.
“Ithink,”Icalledout,“If-foundtheriver.Andit’snotwhereit’ssupposedtobe.”
Backathome,adventureconcluded,Ituggedoffmysparklyboots,turnedthemupsidedownovertheradiatortodry,and peeledoutofmysoakingpyjamabottomsbeforeIruinedthecarpet
TriednottothinkhowridiculousIlooked,bare-leggedinthehall,withnobodytheretolaughandmakeitmeansomething.
Thehallwayistoonarrow.
He remembers tangles, elbows and coats, and shoes and knees, and laughter and impatience
He remembers arriving, and waiting for arrival: the rattle of a key, the slam of the door, footsteps upon the stairs And hello darling, and I’m home, and I missed you.12
He remembers when that stopped. Not the day, or the moment, because there was never a day or a moment, but the poison-ivy sting of realising that one routine had become another
At workthe next day, fasciculingthe letters and listeningto the rain, I forbade myself to worry. Fascicule, from fasces (a bundle ofauthoritative rods), then fasciculus, meaningpartofa workpublished ininstalments The technique was invented here,backintheseventies,andremainsOxford’sgifttotheprofession It’samethodforstoringlooseleavesorsingle-sheet materialwithoutdamagingit:pagesaresidehingedontoarchival-qualitypapersheetsusingJapanesetissueandstarchpaste.13
Iliketheneatnessofit.
Bylunchtime, the internet was wild withnews of the flooding. The Oxford Mail had alreadystarted live-bloggingthe event,mainlyupdatesfromtheMetOfficeandtheEnvironmentAgencyandpicturesofmoderatelythreateningpuddles Then camethe“precautionary”barriers,thesandbagdeployments,andthemessagesfromthecouncil’semergencyplanningofficer Theybasicallyamounted to “monitor the EnvironmentAgencywebsite, protectyour home, expectpower outages, and don’t drown.”
Therewasaninterestingtypoforawhile:poweroutrages.
Bylateafternoon,thepictureshadstartedfloodingin Sotospeak Carsplungingthroughmuddywaves Housesalready partiallysubmerged.Theusualartyshotsofsun-gleamonnew-formedwaterways.
Iputmythings away,shedgloves andlabcoat,andhurriedhome,paststandstill traffic,brake lights blurringongolden stone.
Ididn’tseeanyfloodinguntilIsuddenlyrealisedthebottomofChristChurchMeadow wasalake,andthesportsfields oppositemyroadwereahazeofgreenish-greywater
Mystreetwas quietatfirst, a few doorways here and there dutifullystoppered withsandbags. Butatthe far end there wereacoupleofflatbedtrucks,enginesrumbling,andseveralclumpsofyellow-jacketedworkers.Whateverwasgoingonhad notpreciselydrawnacrowd thatwasn’tthesortofthingEnglishpeopledid butvariousindividualshadfoundoccasionto wanderinthatdirectiononsomecoincidentalbusinessoftheirown
Iwascurious Alittleconcerned
ButIdon’tlikecrowds,andI’mnotgoodwithstrangers.
Of course Mrs. P knew what was going on. “They’re putting up demountable flood barriers, and we’re a Bronze Command.”
Ihadnoideawhatanyofthatmeant,butitsoundedasifthey’dsentusBoyScoutsworkingtowardtheirCommunityFlood Defencebadges.“I’dbetterseeaboutsandbags.”
Shebangedherstickagainstherdoorstep,likeateenagermoodilyscuffingatoe.“I’vedecidedI’mnotgoingtobotherthis
year.”
“Um.”Isuspectedaploytoavoidputtingmetotrouble.
“Notafter lasttime ThestupidbuggersbuiltthemupsohighIcouldn’tgetoutmyownhouse AndwhenIcomplained, theytoldmeIwasvulnerable.IsaidIwasn’tvulnerable,Iwaspissedoff.”
There’dbeenafloodscarein2009,notlongafterwe’dmovedin,notlongbeforeMariusmovedout.Icouldremember drivingouttothePark&RideatRedbridgetopickupsandbags.Forwhateverreason,wehadn’tthoughttokeepthem. Maybewe’dsecretlybeenlookingforwardtoanotheradventure
Because,nowIthoughtaboutit,thewholebusinesshadfeltlikeanadventure Aslightlysurrealone,involvingahugepile ofsandinthemiddleofacarpark.Weshouldhavemadecastleswhilewestillhadthechance.
Weweregoodatbuildingthingsoutofsand.
Therainhadstoppedatleast,leavingthenightwetandheavyinitswake.IwalkedtotheendoftheroadwonderinghowI couldgettothedrop-offpointwithoutacar Mariushadtakenoursduringtheinequitabledivisionoftheassets Ithoughtabout callingataxibuttheroadswerenothingbuttrafficjams,andIcouldn’treadilyimaginepersuadingacabbietoletmefillhis bootwithbagsofsand.
There’dbeensomethingonthe floodblogaboutextra pallets beingdeliveredtoour local pub,soIdecidedtotrythere first.Itwasonlytenminutesuptheroad,pastthefrozencarsandbuses,butalthoughthedoorwasopenandthelightswereon, thepubitselfwasempty Itwasaneeriefeeling,tobealoneinaspacedesignedformanypeople Icoughed,notquitedaringtoshoutouthello.
Astrange thingperhaps, but the echo of myvoice inmyownears always sets me…apart frommyself somehow, selfconscious.
Noanswer Justthehollowricochetofmycough Imovedthroughthespaces betweenunusedchairs andtables,andfinallyintothebeer gardenwhereahandwrittensign toldmetherewerenosandbagsleft.
Onthestreetagain,Istareduptheroad,tryingtoestimatehowlongitwouldtakemetowalktoRedbridge,andhowmany timesIwouldhavetodoit.Assuminganhourpertrip,andmaybetensandbagsforeachhouse,itwouldtakemeallnightand abouttwentymilesofwalking
Defeated,Ireturnedhome
Whatever was goingonatthe Bronze Commandwas still goingon.Some ofmyneighbours were out,puttingupplastic barriers.
Myownhelplessnesswelledupinsidemelikedirtywater.Ihated this.
Lifeissofullofroughedges smalltasksandexpectationsthatscratchyoubloodyandremindyouthatyou’renakedand alone
Andwithoutafuckingcar.
Iglancedagaintowardsthemenintheirbrightjackets.Icouldheartherough,authoritativetonesoftheirvoicesoverthe whirringofthetrucksandtheclankingofmetal.
IfItriedtotalktothem,oraskforhelp,theymightlaughatme Andmywordswouldsticktomytongue,fightingtheirway tofreedomclumsily,ifatall.
Butwhatwasthealternative?Leavemyelderly(insistentlyunvulnerable)neighbourtobefloodedout?
Itwas a longwayup myroad. Everystep became a heavything. The closer Igot, the harsher the lights, the louder the voices,thefacesofsomanystrangersblurringintoaterriblecollage
Therewassilencenow Worse,somehow,thanthenoise Adragon,openmouthed,waitingformetospeak,onlytodevour me.
Iswallowed.Twistedmyfingerstogether.Lookednowhere. Mustered…anything.Courage.Defiance.Desperation.
Spoke
“Sotherearenosandbagsleft Howf-fuckedarewe?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”Someone,slowandlazy,treacledropsandflattenedvowels.“Nosandbags?”
“Atthepub.Theblog.Itsaidthereweresandbags.Atthepub.Therearen’t.Soifitf-floods.Arewefu-fucked?”
“WehadfortytonnesofsanddeliveredtoRedbridgeearlier” “I…Idon’thaveacar.So.Ican’t.”
“We’vegotsomesandbagsintheback.Youcanhavethose.”
Wordless.Mindless.Nothingbutit can’t be this easy.“Really?”
Alaugh Butitwasn’tunkind “Aye,really”
Atlast, Iwas able to lookathim, connectthe voice to a body, and resolve thembothinto the impressionofa person Awkwardheightandungainlylimbs stuffeduntidilyintoorange waders andWellingtonboots.He turnedaway,andbeganto unhookthesidesofthetruck.
Istaredatthebackofhisneckandathishair,whichwasaschoolboytousleonlycharitywouldhavecalledred.Itwas orange,carrot,ginger,marmalade,shininglikeanambertrafficlight,temptingyoutotryyourluckandrun 14
“Wecanmakeyouapilehere,right,lads?”
Nods,mumblesofassent.Nobodyseemedtomind.
“Thank you,” I said bravely, dropping the syllables cleanly, like marbles, and secretly full of the most pathetic pride imaginable.Ihadspokentostrangers.
Hemusthavecaughtmestaring Hiseyesweretheplainest,deepestbrown,wetearth,almostlightless 15
ThenextthingIknew,hewasdumpingasandbagintomyarms.Itwasliketryingtocatchababywhale.I oofed,andclung on,andjustaboutmanagedtostopitflumpingontotheground.
Hegrinned,teethanddimplesandfrecklesmoving,likedustinarayofsunlight.“Ayup,petal.”
Oh
Ayup:fromtheOldNorse se upp,watchout,orlookup Usuallyagreeting Petal, most likely post-classical Latin. Even in remembering, slipping between the consonants, my tongue tastes the softnessofthevowels.
Iwalkedawayfromhim,wrestlingmywhaleandtryingnottoembarrassmyself.AsIdumpeditonMrs.P’sdoorstep,I heardstompingbehindme,andtherehewas,asandbagswingingfromeachhand “Thisit?”
Isodesperatelywantedtolookathim.“Youreallyd-don’t…Ican…It’smyneighbour’s.”
Thedoorswungopen.“Damnrightit’smyhouse,andI’mnotvulnerable,andIdon’twanttobeuptomyearsinsand.”
Asoftthumpasheloweredthesandbags.Iwonderedifhewassmilingather.“I’mjustdroppingthemoff.”
Mrs Pregardedhimwithmagnificentscorn “Sothisisit,isit?ThegreatOxfordFloodRiskManagementStrategy Aman withsomesand”
Ididn’tknowwhattosay.Iwasafraidhemightbeangryorsador,worse,thathemightnotcareatall.Becausehewasa stranger and so he might not know. He might see Mrs. P, this walnut of a womanwithgnarlyhands and tight lips, and not understand.Hemightnotunderstandthatshewaskindandfunnyandsharp,andthatshewasimportant.
Butwhenhespoke,therewasonlywarmth,deepashiseyes,andthevelvet-roughedgeoflaughter ThesortoflaughterI likebest,laughterthatisn’treallyat anyone.
Laughterthat’sjustthere,foritsownsake,likethetouchofafriend,oralover.“You’dbesurprised,”hetoldher,“whata mancandowithsomesand.”
“Humph”
“We’regoingtobehere,alldayeveryday,untilit’sover So,ifyouwantanything,justletusknow” “Humph.”
“Andthatgoesforanyoneinthearea.We’reheretohelp.”
Iknew.Ijustknewhewaslookingatme.AndIcouldn’tnotlookback.
Oh
“Thankyou,”Isaid
Moremarbles. P hadoncerebelledagainstme,so please wasdangerous,butIwasgoodat thank you.Icouldcarryout wholeconversationswithit.16
HeprobablythoughtIwasafool,tamethankyouornot Andhewasprobablyright He was turningto go backto his team. But thenhe paused. “Youknow whythe houses onthis street don’t have flood cellars?”
Weshookourheadsinunison.Mrs.Plookedlikeshedidn’tcare.
“Well,here’sthething”Hetuckedhishandsbehindhisback,likeasix-foot-fourschoolboyrecitinghisLatingrammar “If youallhavefloodcellars,anditfloods,everyone’sfine Ifyouallhavefloodcellars,andacoupleofyouusethemforstorage instead, everyone’s fine and a couple of cheeky buggers get an extra basement. If everyone plays cheeky buggers, though, everyonefloods.”17
Mrs.Pwitheredhim,butIknewwhathewasgettingat.Igrabbedawordandshoveditathim.“Tragedy.”
“Well”Helookedabitbemused “It’snotthatbad It’sjustoneofthosethingsthat ”
Sometimes I just wanted to fucking punch myself in the fucking face “No” I clenched my fists “The tragedy of the commons.”
“Oh.Right.Yes.Exactly.”ItwaslikeI’dturnedonalightinsidehim.AndIsuddenlyrealisedI’dbeenlookingathim,and he’dbeenlookingatme,allthistime.Fourwholesentences.Fourwholesentenceseach.
“Isthereapointtothis?”askedMrs P
“Well,the sandbagthingis similar.Icouldgive youabigfancyspeechaboutair bricks andflow capacitybut,inbasic terms,ifwatergetsintoyourhouse,it’llgetintoyourneighbour’s.”
Shesighed.“Allright,allright,Itakeyourpoint.ButifIenduphavingtoeatmyownarmlikeacoyote,I’msuing.”
Givenwhatwasclearlyadangeroustendencytostareatastranger inWellingtonboots,Ihadthoughtitbesttolimitmy attentiontotheground,oranemptyspaceofairsomewhereofftotheleft ButnowIcarefullyfocusedonMrs P Myfriend I thoughtofteaandbiscuitsandSundayafternoons notastrangerwhoseeaseandkindnesswasitsownthreat andpulledout mywords.Slowly,knowingthatwithMrs.P,theywouldbesafe.
“LasttimeIchecked,”Isaid,“youhaveenoughHobnobsintheretolastanuclearwinter.”
“AwomancannotlivebyHobnobsalone”
“No,youneed” custard creams “JammieDodgerstoo” Shenodded.“Andprotein.”
I went to get another sandbag. That little exchange should have pleased me, settled me. It had. It did. But there was a buzzingbetweenmyeyesandatightnesssomewhereinsidemyskull.
No, you need Jammie Dodgers too
Mrs Pdidn’tevenlikeJammieDodgers Toostickyforherdentures
OhGod.Iwaschoosingmywords.AtechniqueIhadlearned,thenbuiltintoahabit,thenbuiltintoaninstinct.Andthen foughtsodesperatelyovertheyearstobreak.
Allbecauseof
Damn thecarelesspowerofstrangers
Andmeforbeingweakandsillyandvain.Inthemostharmfulpossibleways.BythetimeI’dassembledenoughsandbags tobuildabarrier,theman mytoo-gentlenemesis wasback,thistimewitharollofgroundsheeting. Heglancedmyway.“Youknowthetrick?”
Ineededhimtostoplookingatmelikethat Itwascasual Thewayhe’dlookatanyone,Iwassure Butitmademefeelso verythere Ishookmyhead
“There’skindofasecrettoit.”Hesmiledatme.“CanIshowyou?”
No one could have called himhandsome, and the orange waders probablydidn’thelp butwhenhe smiled? Suddenly, handsome didn’t seemimportant anymore onlythe things happiness could do to a man’s face. It was nothingmore thana tendencyofsociability,butitmademerealisehowlongithadbeensinceI’dbeensmiledatbyastranger HowlongsinceI’d hadsomeonetosmilebackto
SoInodded. Yes, please, tell me a secret.
“Well,firstyoucoverthedoorway…”Hebeganarrangingsandbagsovertheplasticsheet,pullingthemarounduntilthey wereneatlylinedup
“Youknow,”saidMrs.P,“whileyoudothat,whydon’tIputthekettleon.” Helookedup,andtherewashisbroad,effortlesssmileagain.“Thatwouldbechampion.”
Thenhe showed me how to build a defensive wall withsandbags, how to stackthemina pyramid, stamp themdown against the ground to make a seal, and bundle the whole package in plastic sheeting By rights, it shouldn’t have been particularlyinteresting,buthisvoicewrappedmeuplikeablanket,andIlikedwatchinghisbighandsintheir workgloves, pullingthesandthiswayandthatwithakindofno-nonsensecertainty.
Itmademewonderhowitwouldfeelif No.Iabsolutelydidnotwonderthat.
Whilehespoke,peoplegatheredtowatchandlistenandaskhimquestions Ithappenedsograduallythatitfeltstrangely natural,butsoonnearlyeveryonewasinthestreet,lightspillinginpuddlesofgoldfromopendoors Irecognisedmostofmy neighbours,someofthemIevenknewbyname,butIdidnotknow them.
Tonight there was something different. Something both deeper and shallower than friendship. Familiarity, perhaps, the sudden realisation that we lived our sealed-up little lives in closeness to each other. That we had something to share and somethingtolose Somethingtoprotecttogether 18
He did that, somehow. He reminded us. And Iwatched ithappen: the chainwe formed for passingsandbags downthe street,thewaypeopletookturnstohelpeachotherbuildtheirbarriers,thehandingoutofcupsoftea.Eventhechildrenhad beenallowedtostay,runninghereandthere,asthoughitwasaparty.
Maybeitwas Ofakind
And he was rightinthe middle ofit, notcontrollingitor takingcharge, butpartofit, easilysmiling, endlesslyhelpful Effortlesslybelonging.
Hisaccentwasn’tstrong,butitwasunmistakable,itsownroughmusic,andmyearseemedtoseekit.IthinkIwaswaiting for himto call someone else petal. Icaughtthe occasional “duck,” and evena “chuck,” buthe never said petal again. Ihad beensosureitwasjustahabitofspeech Whyelsewouldhehavegiventhewordtome?
Afterawhile,IretreatedtoMrs P’skitchentohelpwiththetea-making Somethingtodothatwasn’twatching.
Itwasprobablyclosetoeleveno’clockwhentherainbegantofallagain.Drizzleatfirst,makingthenightglisten,growing heavierandheavieruntilatlastpeoplebegantodriftaway,disappearingintotheirhomes.
Ifinishedwashingup,andthenIrealisedI’dbeensobusyhidingthatI’dforgottentolookafter myownhouse Ididn’t expecttheretobeanysandbagsleft,buttherewasaneatrowofthemwaitingformebymyfrontstep
Mrs.Phadlentmeoneofherumbrellas,whichItuckedintothecrookofmyelbowasIshovedthesandbagsintoposition. Iwasbuildingthemintoapyramid,asI’dbeentaught,whenthevoiceI’dbeenhalf-hearingallnightlongsaid,“Don’tforgetto stamp’emdown.”
Therainwasslidingalloverhimandhishairwassoakedthrough,lyingtightagainsthisskull Theweightofwaterhad pressedallthegoldoutuntilitlookedalmostrespectable,red-brownandordinary.
Irosefrommycrouchandputatentativefootatopmysandbagstack.Itwobbled,whichmeantIwobbled,whichmeanthe caughtmyelbow.
Justkindness,Iremindedmyself Likehissmile
ButithadalsobeenalongtimesinceI’dbeentouchedbyastranger
I’dtried.AfterMariushadleftme,I’dtried.I’dgonetoclubsbecausetherewasn’tmuchexpectationoftalking,andI’d foundbodiestomoveagainstmybody,butithadallfeltsomeaningless,thepleasureasrandomasnoteshammeredonanoutof-tunepianobyamanwhocouldn’tplay.
Once,becauseIhadn’tgonefarenoughafield,I’dseenMarius He’dlookedso so He’dlookedhappy
Boldandlaughingandfulloflife,andmeallfullofnothing.
Ihadn’tbeenclubbingsince.Sexwasn’ttheanswertowhateverIwasasking.SometimesIwasn’tsureIevenknewwhat thequestionwasanymore
OnceIwassteadyagainonmysandbag,Ididn’tknowifthestrangerletmegoorifIpulledawayfromhim.AllIknew wasthewarmthofhishandwasgone.Weworkedinsilenceforaminuteortwo,stampingthesandflat,andthendisembarked tobundlethebagsinplasticsheeting.Thenhestoodbacktosurveyourwork,andpronouncedit“grand.”
Therainwaseverywherebetweenusnow Eventhetipsofhislashes
Andall Iwanted,inthatmoment,wastosaysomethingtohim Somethingthatwasn’t yes,or no,or thank you, or some forced-outhalf-thoughtthatwasn’twhatImeantatall.“Id-don’tthinkI’veeverseenanyonesohappyoversomesand.” Or,alternatively,Icouldjustrandomlyinsulthim.
Butheonlyshrugged,smilingalittle,asifitwerealreadyajokeweshared.“Simpleman,simplepleasures.”
I thought of everythinghe’d done that night, the wayhe’d talked to people, includingme, and I didn’t thinkthere was anythingsimpleabouthim “Sandandthetragedyofthecommons?”
“Apparentlyso.”
God. Edwin. Do
Something.Anything.“Thet-tragedyofthecommons.That’sagameth-theoryth-th-thing,isn’tit?”Iasked.
Two th’sincloseconjunction WhatwasIthinking?Andsuchascintillatingopenertoo Heshooksomeofthewaterfromhishair.Isawthedropletsglintinthemomentbeforetheyfell.Withoutreallythinking aboutit,Iraisedmyarmandangledmyumbrellasothatitpartiallycoveredusboth.
“Aye,it’s…ahobby,Isuppose.Well,notahobby.Idon’tsitdownforariotouseveningofstrategicdecisionmakingwith myfriends Aninterest”
“Ionlyknowalittlebitaboutit,butitf-feelsaveryabstractwayoflookingatthings” “Oh?”Hetiltedhishead,curious,eyessosteadyonmine. His attention. Sweet and intense at the same time. Like a barleysugar I could untwist fromits plastic and hold inmy mouth.Afloodofsecretpleasure.EverybodyelseIknowisso used tome.Idon’tthinkIborethem atleast,IhopeIdon’t butI’meveryday,andinsomeverysmallwayhewasmakingmefeellikeSundaybest
“Well,intheprisoner’sdilemmaIwwanttoaskwhy thewardenkeepssettingthedilemmasinthefirstplace”19 Itwasn’tthepoint,ofcourse.Justfoolishness.Iwaitedforhimtotellmeso.
“Well,”hesaidgravely,“yousee,theprisonisonabarrenislandfarfromcivilisation,andit’sstaffedentirelybypeople who have themselves committed terrible crimes. So while it’s day-to-dayfunctional, the administrationtends to be a little unorthodox”20
Iputmysparehandtomymouth Thetasteofrainonmyfingertips,somethingthatfeltlikeasmile “Ith-thoughtyouwere goingtotellmeIwasbeingtooliteral.”
“I’dnever.ButnowIthinkaboutit,aren’tpleabargainsbasicallyaniterationoftheprisoner’sdilemma?”
“Onlyifyou’regoingtobeallsensibleandrationalaboutit.”
“Sorry”Hegrinned,teethbrightinthegloom “I’manengineer;Ican’thelpmyself” “Why?D-dotheytakeawayyourlicence?”
“Yes.AndthenIhave tospendthe restofmydays workingoutthe optimumdistributionofgoldcoins amonggroups of strictlyhierarchicalpirates.”
Iblinkedupathim “Id-don’tthinkIknowthosepirates”
“Oh,it’sa” hemadeaclumsygestureofdismissalwithonehand “anothergametheorything Youhavefivepiratesand ahundredgoldcoins ”
“D-doubloons.Spanishdoubloons.”
“Sorry,yes,ofcourse.CursedSpanishdoubloons.”
“Wait,whyaretheycursed?”
“Becauseit’straditional And,anyway,thepiratesdon’tknow that,they’rejusttryingtodistributethem
hierarchyamongthepirates,let’scallthemAtoE,andthewayitworksisthis:asthemostseniorpirate,PirateA ” “Captain,Ithink,t-technically.”Whatwas Idoing?Inever interruptpeoplewhenthey’respeakingbecauseIknow only toowellhowannoyingitis Butwithmyeverybrattishinterjection,thedimplesdeepenedatthecornerofhislips AndIwas half-drunkonhissmilingandthepowerofsayingthingsthatmadehimsmile.“AndBisp-probablyquartermaster.”21 “Notfirstmate?”
“Inp-pirate” OhGod,toomanyp’suponeachother’sheels “crews,thequartermasterissecondinranktothecaptain. Firstmateisfortheroyalnavy”
Hetiltedhishead “Youreallydoknowalotaboutpirates”
“Oh…um-uh-uh…”IclosedmymouthbeforeIunspooledintostringsofunfinishedsyllables.Atleastthegloomhidmy blushes.
PerhapsI was rather toofull ofpiratical factoids.Thoughmyfamiliarity,suchas itwas,existedmainlytocontextualise somerathermorelurid(tosaynothingofsolitary)imaginings
“The captain,” the man said, blissfully oblivious to the true and deviant direction of my thoughts, “gets to propose a distributionofthe coins. And everyone gets to vote onwhether to acceptthe distribution, includingthe captain, who, bythe way,alsogetsthecastingvote.”
“Thatdoesn’tseemveryfair.”
Hiseyesgleamedwickedlyinthedarkness “Pirate Whatdoyouexpect?”
Itwasagoodpoint.Wellmade.Iswallowed.
“However,iftheyrejecttheproposal,theyflingthecaptainintotheshark-infestedwatersoftheCaribbean,andthewhole thingbeginsagainwithPirateBincommand.”
“Sop-presumably” Ithoughtaboutitforamoment “thecaptainhastogiveawaymostofthegoldinbribes” “Well,you’dthink”Hewasgrinningagain Itshouldhavebeenmaddening “Butactuallyhecankeepninety-eightcoins” “Buthow?”
“It’s, uh, quite boringreally. Youhave to reasonbackwards, startingwiththe possibilitythat all the pirates have been killedexceptDandE.”
Iclosedmyeyesandworkeditthrough Ifonlytwopirateswereleftalive,thenPirateDwouldgettokeepallthemoney Whichmeantthatifthree pirates were leftalive,thenCwouldbe able tobribe E,as Ewouldstandtogainnothingifthere wereonlytwopirates.Andsoon,allthewayupthechaintothecaptain.
I opened myeyes again, patheticallypleased withmyself, wantingto laymyreasoningat his feet witha flourish. But plosives were lined up ahead of me like landmines. I was already struggling with pirate. Bribe would surely be unconquerable I’dsinkintomyspeakingasifitwerequicksand,andhe’dhavetorescueme AndI’dinevitablyresenthimfor it
“He gives a cointo P-Pirate C and E and keeps the rest.” I didn’t feel proud anymore. Just small and hindered. “But nobodywouldactuallythinkitthroughlikethat.”
Hislaughclimbedintotheskylikesmoke,fadingtooquickly.“MaybeIshouldhavesaidfiveaccountants.”
Oh,whatwasIdoing?Keepingthiskindstrangerstandingintherain Hewasprobablywetandcoldandtired,andlater hewouldtell thisstorytoafriendoralover.Iimaginedhisbighandscradlingacupoftea he’dlikeithotandstrongand sweet andhewouldn’tbemockingexactly,onlygentlybewildered: I wanted to get home,he’dbesaying, but this daft bloke kept me talking about game theory of all things.Thenhe’dshakehishead. I suppose he was lonely or something.
“Id-don’treallyseehowthisisanylessabstract”IhatedhowIsoundedrightthen:prissyandcold “Itdoesn’tactually illuminateanythingaboutthewaypeoplereallythinkormakedecisions”
“Thatwasn’tthebestexample,”headmittedsheepishly.AndIhatedevenmorethatIhadmadehimfeelthatway.“Butyou canuseitasasortoftoolkitforunderstandingsomestuffaboutthewaytheworldworks.Stuffthatwouldprobablydriveme spareifIcouldn’tsay, Ah, that’s what’s going on there ”
I told myself that we were simply caught on the awkward edge of politeness that uncertain moment between the suspensionoftheusual rulesofinteractionandtheir resumption Butinsteadofsomethinghelpfullynoncommittal thatwould
sethimfreetogoawayandforgetaboutme,Iheardmyselfask,“Whats-sortof…um,s-stu-stu-uff?”
Eventhough stuff is prettymuchmypublicenemynumber one.Asibilant,fricativenightmare,withthat uh-uh-uh inthe middletopratfallover
Hissmileshoneatmethroughthegloom,brightasacrescentmoon.“Theworstandstupideststuff.Thepettythings,you know,likewhythere’sneveranyspoonsintheofficekitchen.ItusedtoreallybugmethatIwasthesortofpersontogetwound upoversomethinglikethat.”22
“Well,it’sveryannoying”Particularlybecause I wasalwayssocarefultoreturnmyteaspoonsafteruse “Itis,” he agreed,andIfeltsoabsurdlytouchedtobe sharinga small irritationwithsomebodywhoseemedless like a strangerwitheverywordheuttered.“Butit’sworththinkingaboutwhy ithappens.”
“Becausepeoples-suck?”
He shookhis head inmockchagrin. “How did somebodyso prettygetso cynical? Itdoesn’treallyhave anythingto do withpeoplesucking Takingonespoondoesn’thurtanyone,unlesseverybodydoesit Theproblemiseverybodydoes doit”23 Iwasinterested,charmed,butIwasalsohavingtroublefocusingonwhathewasactuallysaying Instead,Iwasthinking, Pretty?
Etymologicallycomplex,thatone.RootsinOldNorwegian,Low German,MiddleDutch,Mercian,somanyvarietiesof pronunciation,ofmeaning.
WhenIdidmyMAinLondon,I’dbeenallowedtosee the original manuscriptofthe YorkMysteryPlays inthe British Library.24
Medium:inkonvellum.
Ihaveneverforgottenthatboldscript,defyingtimewithitsaggressivedownstrokes,itsoccasionallysensuouscurves.I’d wantedtotouchit,runmyfingersovertheshapeofthewords,thewayonelearnsthesweepofalover’sspine ThewayIhad once read Marius I remembered now, withpeculiar vividness, the lines, “he schall, and he haue liff / Proue till a praty swayne.”Sodashing,theswishofthe s,theloopofthe y,theunflinchingcertaintyofletters.
And, ohheavens, suddenlyall Icould imagine was a differentbodybeneathmyhands. Longflanks and freckles and… spoons.Weweretalkingaboutspoons.
“Surely,”Isaid,“itdoesn’tmatterwhetherit’smaliciousifyous-stillcan’tfinds-somethingtostiryourdrink”
“Maybenot Butratherthangettingallpissyaboutit,Ijustthinktomyself:Right Well It’sjustunderstandingpeople andgroupsandincentives.Thetragedyofthecommonsagain.”
Istaredathim.Thismanwhowouldmakearationalchoicenottobeannoyedwithhiscolleagues,whereIwouldsimply marinateinbitterquietandsipmyinadequatelybrewedtea.“B-butiftheoutcomeisalwaysnoteaspoons,isn’tthisaratherddepressingportraitofhumanity?”25
“Well,that’swhereitinterestsmemostbecause” hedustedsandfromhisgloves,andtheparticlesdancedgoldeninthe rainlikedustmotes “itdoesn’tjustshowyoutheproblem,itshowsyouthesolution.” “Getmorespoons?”
“Actually,no.”Theuncertainlightmadehiseyesgleamtigerishly.“Unlessthere’smassivelymorespoonsthanpeople,it’s alwaysgoingtobebetterforanyonepersontotakeaspoonthanputitback”
“So,it’sinsoluble?”
“Notatall.Youjusthavetoteachpeopletovalueeveryoneelse’saccesstospoonsasmuchastheyvaluetheirown.”
Itriednottostareathim.Howdidsomeonelikethisjust…happen?Randomactofatoms?Orwasthereagodsomewhere who,thirtyyearsorsoago,hadwokenuponemorningandthought, What the universe needs right now is someone to think deeply about teaspoons “Buthowdoyoudothat?”Iasked Heshrugged.“Ohpetal,ithappensallthetime.It’swhywedon’tliveinwhatHobbescalledthestateofnature.People don’twanttohurteachother;it’sjustsometimestheyforget.That’swhatcommunityis.Itremindsuswe’reallconnected.You take a spoon for yourself because you know there’s never any spoons. But then you only have to think for a second about everybodyelse,andyouputitrightback”
“Goodheavens”Iwasn’tevensureifIwasjokinganymore “I’mneverwantonlytakingaspoonagain”
His shoulder nudgedagainstmine.Itwas sucha small movement,itcouldalmosthave beena mistake.“See? AndIget whyyouthinkgametheoryisweirdandabstract,butitdoesn’thavetobe.Itbasicallyjustcomesdowntowhatpeoplecare about”
There was somethingabout his sinceritythat made me feel oddlysafe. Safe enoughto be mischievous. “We are s-still talkingaboutspoons,aren’twe?”
“Andeachother.”Hesmiledatme,lettingthewordshangthereintherainbetweenus,andthenwenton.“That’skindof what a community does, or family, or friends, or your partner it teaches you how to count something as a win even if it doesn’tbenefityoudirectly”
Istaredathim sofullofquestions,thingsIhadnorighttoasksomeoneIbarelyknew andthenatthepileofsandbags, becauseitseemedeasier.“Sorry,I’mkeepingyououtintherain.”
“IfIwasworriedaboutgettingmyfeetwet,I’vemadesomeseriouslydaftcareermoves.Whichremindsme” hepulled offoneofhisworkglovesandheldouthishand “Adam AdamDacre I’mwiththeEnvironmentAgency”
Weshook Hewassowarm AndIwantedsomuchto 26
Heclearedhisthroat.
Oh, what was I doing?
Idropped the hand I’d held far too long, mumbled somethingthatcould have beengoodnightbutwas probablynothing morethanapileofsyllables,andfledintomyhouse
AwayfromAdamDacre,withhiseasysmile,andhiswarm,warmhands.Whosekindnesswasfarmoredangeroustome thananyforce ofnature. Iknew itwas nothingmore thanthe vaguestsense ofconnection, the kite-stringtugofanintriguing stranger.ButIsimplywasn’treadytofeelthesethingsagain.
Togatherupthedustofmyheartandscatteritagainonthewindsofhope
Thebedroomisamess.
Because it’s better that way It helps him pretend it’s a different place to the one he shared nightly with Marius It’s a smallish room with a too-big bed
There are many things he could remember. Their joined hands wrapped together around the brass spindles. But mainly what he remembers are moments in the dark, stirring to wakefulness in a pool of shared warmth, and lulled back to sleep by the rhythm of another’s breath
ThenextmorningIopenedmycurtainsontoanunfloodedstreet.OfcourseIwasrelieved,butitgrantedthepreviousnighta rather dreamlike quality Careful preparationfor a non-event I went to workas usual, and buried myself inephemera and fascicules, and tried notto thinkofhow I’d made a fool ofmyselfbecause a nice manhad smiled atme, talked to me, and calledme“petal.”Though,as ithappened,Iendedupleavingatlunchtimebecausethefloodblogpostedapictureofaman kayakingpastmystreet.
Thestrangestthingaboutfloodingisthenormalityofeverythingelse.
The city centre slumbered in a haze of gold and grey, like it was any other winter day There were slightly fewer pedestrians and slightlyfewer cars, butthe shops were all openand the streets were dry Itwas onlywhenIheaded south downaclosedroad,pastdrownedfieldsandahotelthatseemedtorisefromthemiddleofalake,thatthefloodbecamereal again.And,allatonce,IfeltlikeIhadwalkedintosomequietapocalypse.
It’ssomethingIimagineoccasionally:wakinguptodiscovercivilisationhasended,leavingnothingbutemptystreetsand silence Idon’tactuallywantthattohappen,butIponderwhatI’ddo,andhowI’dstayalive Howitwouldfeeltobe really alone,andformylonelinesstobewrittenonthelandscaperatherthanmerelyuponme.Therewouldbepocketsofsurvivors, ofcourse,becauseI’mneitherquitesoselfishnorsocourageousastokilleveryoneonEarthexceptmyself.Sometimesthere’s someoneinparticular.He’snotwell-articulatedinmydaydreaming.Idon’tthinkitmatterswhothismanisorwhathelooks like,onlythathe’s there,andwesomehowfindeachotherattheendoftheworld 27
ItoldthistoMariusonce Hetoldme,notnastily,thatIwasweird Hewasprobablyright
My street was not, in fact, a boating lake, as I’d half-convinced myself it might be. Most of it looked relatively dry, althoughthejunctionwasunderwater.Smallwaveslappedgentlyatthesandbagbarriersthatranalongthesidesofthecorner houses.This,too,seemedslightlyunreal aquietincursionofwater.
Adamandacoupleofhismenwereputtingupbarrierstocloseofftheroad Hewasablurofbusycolourinthissubdued world ButIdidn’tlookathim Icouldn’t Iwouldhavelostmyselfinworryingandseenmyselftooharshlythroughhiseyes, clingingtohishandintherain,sodesperatetobetalkedtoandsmiledatandtosharehisthoughts,thesincerityandpassionof astrangeratastrangetime.
I’dwornmycowboybootssincetheywerethemostflood-suitablefootwearIowned,andhadsatatthebenchallmorning withmyfeettuckedself-consciouslyoutofthewayincasesomeonesaworcommentedorlaughed Ihesitatedamomentonthepavement,wonderinghowdeepthewaterwas.
Thisisthestoryofmylife:standingontheedgesofthingsandworrying,whenI’msupposedtojustwalkthroughthem.
Ituckedinmytrousers,pressedmyselfagainstthewallofthehousewherethefloodinglookedtobeatitsshallowest,and inchedforward.Thewatercoveredmytoes,thenmyfeet,thenmyankles.Mybootswerebetterthanshoeswouldhavebeen, buttheyweren’texactlywatertight Itoldmyselfthatcoldandindignitywerenottheworstthingsintheworld
Though,truthfully,I’malittlebitscaredofboth.
Anenginegrowledsomewherebehindme,andIturnedjustintimetobedrenchedbyapassingcarasitploughedthrough theflood.Igasped,drowninginthesuddenchill andinthatsenseofclammydreadthatalways comes withknowingyou’ve beenmadetolookridiculous
“Oi!”Adamleapthisbarrierlikethehotshotheroinanactionmovieandwadedafterthecar “Oi Mardarse Stop”29
Hebangedonthefenderuntilthedriverstoppedandwounddownthewindow.Icouldn’thearmuchofwhatwassaidat first,possiblybecauseAdam’saccenthadthickenedtoalowgrowl,butIcaughtwordslike“bowwaves,”“dangerous,”and “dingbat.”Fromthedrivercame“notthepolice,”“ownbusiness,”and“inahurry.”
Iglancedtowards the other men Theywere grinning thankfullynotatme,butinthe directionofAdam There was no mockerythere,justatouchofanticipatoryglee AsharedjokeIcouldn’tunderstand
After amoment,Adamsteppedawayfromthecar,hishandsinthesurrender gesture.Itmadehimlookverytall indeed, andnotintheleastbitlikehewassurrenderingtoanything.“Well,it’syourchoice.Butyouknowwateronlyhastobeabout sixinchesdeepbeforeit’sgettingsuckedintotheexhaustorwashingintotheairintake,right?Andonceyou’vegotfloodwater inyourengine,thenyou’relookingataboutfivegrand’sworthofdamage Thisontopofallthepedestriansandcyclistswhose dayyou’llberuininginyourrushtodrivedownaclosedroadinthemiddleofaflood.”
Thedriversighedandleanedoutofthewindow,squintingintothedistance.“Well…well…howdeepisitdownthere?” “Offthetopofmyhead?I’dsay…ohhh…sixinches.”
Thedriverduckedbackinside Andthenthecarturnedroundverycarefullyandcrawledbackthewayithadcome Adamstrodeback,rubbinghishandstogether “Well,that’soneproblemfixed Nowforthisflood”
Oneofhiscolleaguesshookhishead.“Whatyouare,mate,isanarseholewhisperer.” “ImightkeepthatoneoffmyCV,ifit’sallthesametoyou.”
I beganto edge away, makingmyunamphibious escape, but the universe had not yet finished fuckingwithme. I heard splashing, and there was Adam coming after me, his gangly-legged stride carrying him easily through the flood water In daylightandupclose,hewasmerciless,allsmilesandfreckles,thebrightest,boldestflameamothcouldwishfor “Don’tyouknowit’sdangeroustowalkthroughfloodwater?”
Thememoryofyesterdayrolledthroughmeawfully,fillingmymouthwithsilence.30
Until,“Oh,I’lljustturnroundandgob-b-back,shallI?”
Ididn’tmeantobehorrid ItwasthelastthingIwantedandthelastthinghedeserved Butthatwasalltherewasjustthen, self-consciousnessandsharpness,differentsidesofthesamespectrum,andIwasamilksnake,defenceless,masqueradingin redandblack.
Heshrugged.“Icouldgiveyouapiggyback.”
The worst of it was, I could imagine it, clinging to his back and laughing. “If w-walking through f-flood water is dangerous,I’msurepiggyb-b-ba-backing” God,Ihated b’stoday “isevenworse”
“I’maprofessional,remember?”
“At” Iranatitlikeawildhorseatatoo-highfence “piggyback?”
Andhewaslaughing,andI’dmadeithappen.“I’vetwokidsisters,so seasonedamateur,Iguess.”
“I I’m There’sjustme”
“Yeah,you’vegotthelookofanonlychild”
Oh.
“Alittlebitenchanted,”hewentonquickly.“And,believeme,you’renotmissingout.Hellhathnofurylikeahousewith twoteenagegirlsinit.”
Enchanted? Itwasn’tthe sortofword Iwas used to hearingaboutmyself Had Marius seenme thatwayonce? Before he’dlearnedIwasn’t
IwasstilltryingtofindsomethingtosaywhenAdamtouchedmyelbow.“Comeon,let’sgetyouhomebeforeyoucatch yourdeath.”
Thatwas whenmybodyabruptlyrememberedsomethingother thanthefleetingpressureofbluntfingers Itremembered howwetitwas,andhowcold.AndIbegantoshiver.
“Here,”saidAdam,“stepwhereIstep.”
SoIdid,pickingmywaycarefullyafterhim,myfootstepscradledbyhis,somewherebeneaththeflood.
“Whatareyousmilingabout?”heasked,glancingoverhisshoulder,catchingmeintheact
“Nothing justthinkingIfeellikeaspy OrthatI’minanactionmovie Thereshouldb-bethememusic”
“Youjoke, butas the water table rises, itcansometimes pushyoungcrocodiles up throughsewer gratings and onto the streets.”31
Istaredathim.
Hestaredback
“There there Arethere I’msuretherearen’tcrocodilesinEngland” Hisfacedidn’tchange.
“Really?”AndthenIsawhowhiseyesbetrayedhim,darklygleaming.
UnthinkinglyInudged his arm, as thoughIweren’tbad withstrangers, as thoughwe were friends. “Youb-bastard. You tookadvantageofmebecauseyouhaveatrustworthyface”
Hehunghishead,butIdidn’tbelievehimforamoment.“I’msorry,petal.”
“Youshouldbe.Iwasterrifiedofcrocodilesmywholechildhood.”
“Aw,really?”
“Ithoughtcrocodileslivedundermybedandifmyfeethungovertheside,they’dgetbittenoff SoIsleptinaball Ithink Istilldoactually”OhGod Shutup Shutup “Outofhabit,Imean,notcrocodiles Id-don’tthinkthatanymore Obviously” Hewasquietamoment.Andthen,faintlyaccusingly,“Youknowthat’sadorable,don’tyou?”
I tripped hard over adorable and couldn’t think how to answer. So I said nothing at all, and merely enjoyed my few minutesinadangerouspuddlewithamanwhomaybethoughtIwasadorable.
AlthoughheprobablyalsothoughtIwasprofoundlydull Givinghimsilenceinreturnforhis OhGod,washe flirting withme?Itseemedthewrongwordforwhateveritwashewasdoing;thesesmallofferingsofattention,histhoughtsslipped intomyhandslikeachocolatebarintheplayground.
I’dneverhadtonavigatethesedelicateuncertaintieswithMarius. Let’s go,hadbeenhisfirstwordstome. I want to paint you.
Itwas the sortofthingyoucould onlygetawaywithsayingifyouwere a beautiful, dark-eyed, tousle-haired eighteenyear-old He’dtakenmyhandandledmeupthespiralstaircasetohisoak-walled,canvas-filledrooms,wherehehad,infact, paintedme.Eventually.
Whenwereacheddryland,Adam’sgazealightedonmyboots.
“Not,”hesaid,“whatIwasexpecting.”
“B-bestIhad”
“Hey,noexplanationnecessary.”
Istaredatmyfeet,thesestrangersinpurple.“Areyoucertain?”
HewhisperedsomethingsosoftlyIcouldbarelyhearit.IthinkhediditdeliberatelysoIhadtolookathimagain,andinto hiseyes,andalltheirwickednessandwarmth “W-whatwasthat?”
Hejustgrinned
“D-didyoureallyusethephrase‘boot-scootinbaby’?”
“ThatIdid.”Unrepentantlytoo.“What’smore,Ibetyouanythingyourememberthedance.”
He was right, of course. “W-well, I’m gay, and I was a teenager in the late nineties, so it would be culturally and physicallyimpossibleforme not torememberthe‘5,6,7,8’dance”
Helaughed,madeagunoutofhisfingers,pointedthem,andthenspunroundtwirlinganimaginarylasso
Likethemanhadsaid,itwasnotwhatIwasexpecting,notfromsomeonewhowasostensiblyanadult,andcertainlynot fromamaninorangewaders.Hewasn’tbyanymeansanaturaldancer.Hisbodyhadclearlybeendesignedtobeshirtlessand heftinghaybalesaroundinthehotsun,ratherthanswayingitshipsclumsilytohisownrenditionoffaux-countrythemedpop musicinthemiddleofahalf-floodedstreetinOxford.
ButthereIstood,charmed,utterlycharmed,bythefacthediditanyway.
Hegottothelineabouta cowboy guy from head to toe,andstopped.“Exceptmorelikejustyourtoes.”
“Yes Cowb-boyguyinaveryspecific,localisedarea”
“It’simportanttomixitup”
“Ohyes. I’ma” Iwanted to saybadass, butIdidn’ttrustmyselfwitha b and a d so close to eachother “maverick. Mixingitup.IstotallywhatIdo.”
Hegrinned.God.Dimples.AndIcaughtmyselfwonderingifhehadanymore.Atthebaseofhisspine.Abovehiships. Allfulloffreckles
“Soanyway,”Iblurtedoutfrantically,“w-what’syourexcuse?” “Excuse?”
“ForlisteningtoSteps.”
“Itoldyou,twokidsisters.”
Oh
Thereitwasagain:mischief,fillinguphiseyeslikelight.“And,asyousay,gayteenagersinthelateninetiesdidn’thave muchchoice.”
Oh.
“Plus,I’mkindofaconnoisseurofpop Thecheesierthebetter Ifyouthinkaboutit,‘5,6,7,8’isalmostaprecursorto ‘GangnamStyle’It’sallaboutthe ”
Hislassohandcameupagain.
“Youwouldn’tdare.”
Hedared.
Andlaughingwithhim,rightthereonthepavementoutsidemyhouse,feltalittlebitlikedying AsthoughImightnever breathethesameagain
“You’dbettergo,”hesaid.“Haveagoodlongshower,andgetthoseclothescleaned.Youdon’thaveanyexposedcuts,do you?Andyoudidn’tingestanyfloodwater?”
That was when I remembered: he was kind, and this was his job, and suddenly I wasn’t laughing anymore. I wasn’t anything AndIhatedbothhiskindnessandhisjobbecausetheyfeltsoclosetosomethingelse Somethingtheyweren’t Flirting Iwaspathetic
So I reassured him, thanked him, and went inside, where I showered and cleaned my clothes. The washing machine thrashedsoftlybeneaththefreshfallingrain,andIwassomewhereoutoftime,maroonedinthemiddleofanafternoon. Laterthatevening,aknockonmydoorandtheblurofayellowjacketthroughfrostedglassmademyfoolishheartflutter. Butitwasn’thim
Hislittletaskforcewasgoingtodoortodoor,warningeachofusinturnthatwemightflood,eithertonightortomorrow, asriverlevelswerepredictedtopeak.AnemergencyshelterhadbeensetupintheBlackbirdLeysLeisureCentre,butIdidn’t wanttogo.And,fromaquickglancedownthestreet,itdidn’tlooklikeanyoneelsedideither.
Ipackedabag,though,asI’dbeentold,bungedupmytoilet,turnedoffmyelectricity,gas,andwater,andthenwentnext doortocheckonMrs P
Shepointedlyhadn’tpackedabag.Butshehadtakentheprecautionofboilingonelastkettle,whichmeantwegottodrink teainthedeepeningdark,andlistentotherainasitkeptonfalling.
Afterwards,Imovedsomeofherthingsupstairs,andstackedupeverythingelseasbestIcould.
“Valuables,myarse,”shegrumbled “I’meighty-two Idon’thaveanyvaluables I’vejustgotalifetime’sworthofcrap” Ismiledandthoughtofmyhouse,toofullandtooemptyofmemoriesandthings,halfwishingthewaterwouldcomeand
ruinitall,washitaway,andmakemestartagain.Halfwishing,butmainlyterrified.
Whateverwedid,itwouldmakenodifferencetotherainandtherisingwaters,sowelitallthetealightswecouldfind, huddledinblankets,andplayedcribbage Mrs Pkickedmyarse,becauseshealwaysdid 32
“So,thatwossisname,”shemurmured.“Heseemsnice.”
Isquintedfretfullyatmyhand,whichwasabigcollectionofnothing.“Adam.”
“Mm-hmm.”Then,afteramoment:“EdwinandAdamsittinginatree…”
Predictably,Ilosttrackofmypoints,andshemuggedthem “W-wewerejusttalking” “Youweremakinggoogly-eyesathim”
Iprobablyhadbeen.Pricklyheatburstoutallovermyskin,andIwasn’tsureifIwasangryorembarrassed,orsomething elseentirely.“Thisisn’tpoker,youknow.You’renotsupposedtobetryingtopsychmeout.”
Shesaidnothingforawhile.Theshufflingofcardssoundedlikewingsinthesilence.
“Whywereyouspyingonme?”Iasked “Therewasnothingonthetelly” Igaveheralook.
“Ohcomeon,Edwin,Iwasn’tspying.Iwouldn’tdothat.Ijustworryaboutyousometimes.”
“Idon’tneedyoutotakecareofme.”
“No,youneedakickupthearse”Thecardsslippedfrombetweenmyfingers,andshepouncedonthemwithouthesitation orshame.“Ooh,you’vegothisnobs.”
“It’sd-d-dishonourabletopeekatsomeoneelse’scards.”
“Cribbage is cutthroat.” Mrs.Pmetmyeyes throughthe muddle oflightandshadow.“I’mnottryingtoupsetyou.Ijust thinkit’sabouttimeyoumovedon”
“Ihave movedon”
“Haveyou?Becauseitlooksalotlikestandingaroundtome.”
Wasthattrue?WasthatallI’ddonesinceMariusleftme?“W-well,maybeit’smorecomplicatedthanthat.Tenyearswwiththesameman.It’snots-s-somethingyoujustgetover.”
“Iknow,” she said,witha gentleness thatshookme more deeplythananythingelse she couldhave done “Youtoldme Love at first sight Together forever” She moved her little peg away from mine, consolidating an impressive lead into a mortifyingone.“Butnothing’sforever,Edwin.”
Icringedabit,rememberingthethingsI’dsaid,betweenthesnotandthetears,hereinthisveryroom.I’dbeensoangryat Mariusthen,forturningthelifewe’dbuiltintoapileofliesandbrokenpromises.“Whataboutdiamonds?”
Shesmiledatme “Notverycuddly AndI’mnotsayingyoushould marry wossisname Justgiveyourselfachancewith him”
“Achancetowhat?”
“Bewithsomeoneagain.”
“Iw-w-wantto,”Iwhispered.“Butwhatifitgoesthesameway?W-whatifI’munbeablewith?”
She actuallyrolledher eyes Mydeepest,mostdesperate late-nightfear,andthatwas the reactionitinspired “Youmet someone,youfellinlove,youweretogetheralongtime,youbrokeupamicably.That’snotexactlyatragedy.”
“Butisn’tthatworse?Devastatedbynotexactlyatragedy?”
“Look” shesighed,putdownhercards “thethingis,lifeis…it’s…long.Andit’sevenlongeratthebeginning.Youmet Mariusatuniversity Youstillhadshellon Youbothdid Andyou’rethirtynow”
“Thirty-one,actually”Asifthatmadeadifference AsifitmadetheyearsafterMariusanymoremeaningful “That’salotofliving,andalotofchanging,andsometimeslovedoesn’tchangewithyou.”33 Iblinked.
“Isthismeanttobecomforting?”
“I’mjustsaying Helovedyouwhenyouwereeighteen”
“AndIwouldhavelovedhimforhiswholelife”
“Him?Orsomeoneheusedtobe?”
I thought of Marius. Wild, wonderful, Byronic-fantasy Marius, who had somehow found something he wanted in the everydayquietness ofme Until he hadn’t Iputmyheadinmyhands “Oh,Idon’tknow anymore Idon’tknow where love endsandhabitbegins.”
“Who does?” She reached outand patted myarm. “ButEdwin, youneed to letsomeone fall inlove withwho youare now.”
Imusthaveansweredwithsomethingsillyordismissivebecausethegamewenton,andIlostsoonafter ButonceIgot home again, as Iblundered throughmyhouse bythe lightofmymobile phone tryingto find a torch, Icouldn’thelp thinking aboutwhatshe’dsaid,andaboutwhatitwouldmean.
ForsomeonetolovethemanMariushadleft.
Thekitchenislongandnarrow,likeatraincarriage.
The light is languid here, and paints strips of gold upon the counters and the floor He filled it once with small dreams: two bodies sliding past each other, arms around his waist, a chin on his shoulder as he cooks.
Sometimes other fantasies, more urgent, less domestic ones, of being pressed against the pantry door or hoisted onto the washing machine to be taken in a rush of heat and need, as sweet as the scent of the herbs coriander, thyme, and parsley blooming on the windowsill
Thenextmorning,Iwaswokenbytherumblingofengines,andwhenIpulledbackmycurtainsIsawthestreetwascoveredby athinlayerofshiningwater Idraggedonsometrousersandhurrieddownstairs,buttheworstofthefloodinghadn’treached meyet.Theedgesofmysandbagswerebarelydamp.IcalledworktotellthemIwouldn’tbein,anditturnedoutIwasn’tthe onlyone.The roadclosures hadapparentlyturnedcentral Oxfordintoa ghosttown.The truthis,the Englishlive for mildly extreme weather conditions.We are,after all,a nationwhowill call aninchofsnow a snowpocalypse. And no matter how muchyoulovewhatyoudo,there’ssomethingirresistibleaboutstolendays
Itwascoldinmyhousewithoutanyheating,butIwrappedmyselfinajumper,acardigan,andablanket,andcurledup cosily in my study. I was working on a first edition of The Flora of Ashton-under-Lyne and District as compiled by the Ashton-under-LyneLinnæanBotanicalSociety,includingalistofthemossesofthedistrictbyMr.J.WhiteheadofOldham.I’d founditinthebargainboxofacharityshop,thefrontboardpartiallydetachedandonlyafragmentofthespinestillintact.The shopassistanthadletmetakeitawayforninety-ninepence,somewhatbewilderedthatIwouldwantitatall
I’ve been so fortunate that my life allowed me to make my hobby my job, but it has never stopped being my hobby. SomethingMariusunderstoodeasilyenoughwhenitcametoart butheneversawtheartinthis,northedeep,quietpleasure ofit.Hisnaturewastocreatenewlybeautifulthings,andminetorestorelostones.
Sometimes I wonder what will happen when someone comes to archive me What a peculiar library they will find Roscoe’s Wandering in South Wales (1845, cloth binding), The Survey Atlas of Scotland (1912, JG Bartholomew, large folio, maroon cloth binding), A Practical Discourse Concerning Death (date unknown, brown leather stitched binding), Reminiscences of Michael Kelly, of the King’s Theatre, and Theatre Royal Drury Lane, Vol. I (1862, half-leather binding withmarbledendpieces).AlltheseforgottenbooksIhavefoundandtendedandmadewholeagain.34
I’d alreadyremoved mostofthe rottenspine linings of Flora, and now IsetaboutreplacingthemwithJapanese paper, fixingeverythinginplace withwheat starchpaste ThenI carefullyreattached the boards with Aerocotton, and created an oxfordhollowoutofacid-freekraftpapertoprovidemoresupport.Itwasnothowithadoriginallybeenbound,butitwould makethespinemoreflexibleandlesslikelytosplitwhenthebookwasopened.
WhenIlookedupagain,Ihadacrickinmyneck,itwasthemiddleoftheafternoon,andsomebodywasknockingonmy door IhurriedtoopenitandfoundAdamwaitingthere,holdingapairofwellies “Ta-da!”
Ilookedatthem.Theywerenotprepossessing.Batteredandtatteredandmud-streaked.
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Mercier, General, 495.
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Moncaut, C., 82, 110, 120.
Moncoro, 85
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Mondor, 219.
Monselet, Ch., 251 ff., 464.
Montazet, de, 104.
Montespan, Marquise de, 71
Montesquieu, 36, 63, 64, 87, 89, 105, 124, 248, 281.
Montesson, Madame de, 104, 222.
Montgaillard, 266.
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FUSSNOTEN:
[1] „Genesis“. Das Gesetz der Zeugung Bd. III. Leipzig 1899. S. 10.
[2] G Herman a a O S 8
[3] Ernst Haeckel „Anthropogenie“ Bd. II, Leipzig 1891. S. 793.
[4] Ueber „Hermaphroditismus“ und „Gonochorismus“ handelt Haeckel ausführlich in seiner „Generellen Morphologie“ Leipzig 1866 Bd II S 58–71
[5] G. L. Kobelt „Die männlichen und weiblichen Wollustorgane des Menschen und einiger Säugetiere“. Freiburg 1844.
[6] Bisher erschienen Bd VII Abt 1 Teil 2: „Die weiblichen Geschlechtsorgane“ von Dr W Nagel
[7] „Die Abstammung des Menschen u. die geschlechtl. Zuchtwahl“ übersetzt von J. V. Carus. 5. Auflage. Stuttgart 1890.
[8] Victor Hensen „Physiologie der Zeugung“ in Hermann’s „Handbuch der Physiologie.“ Bd. VI. Leipzig 1880.
[9] „Anthropogenie“ Bd II S 793
[10] Eine allgemeine, übersichtliche Darstellung des Geschlechtstriebes nach seiner physischen Erscheinungsweise giebt H. Rohleder in seinen „Vorlesungen über Sexualtrieb und Sexualleben des Menschen“. Berlin 1901.
[11] Albert Moll „Untersuchungen über die Libido sexualis “ Bd I Berlin 1897 S 1–95
[12] M. a. a. O. S. 96–310.
[13] Karl Neisser „Die Entstehung der Liebe“ Wien 1897
[14] „Die Suggestions-Therapie bei krankhaften Erscheinungen des Geschlechtssinnes“. Stuttgart 1892.
[15] H. Rohleder „Die Masturbation.“ Berlin 1899.
[16] Eine zusammenfassende Behandlung dieser drei Faktoren giebt Havelock Ellis „Mann u. Weib.“ Leipzig 1894.
[17] Sappho hat in einer ihrer berühmten Oden eine Psychophysik der Liebe gegeben. Vergl. F. G. Lipps „Grundriss der Psychophysik.“ Leipzig 1899. S. 143.
[18] „Das Weib in der Natur- und Völkerkunde.“ 6. Auflage, Leipzig 1899.
[19] Vergl. hierüber: L. Stein „Wesen und Aufgabe der Soziologie“ 1898. Th. Achelis „Soziologie“ Leipzig 1899.
[20] E Westermarck „Geschichte der menschlichen Ehe“ A d Engl von L Katscher und R Grazer 2 Auflage Berlin 1902
[21] P. Dufour „Histoire de la prostitution“ 8 Bde. Brüssel. 1851–
54. Eine recht gute Arbeit über die Prostitution im 19. Jahrhundert ist das Werk von Dr. Jul. Kühn „Die Prostitution im 19. Jahrhundert“. 4. Aufl. Leipzig 1897. Rabutaux’ besonders durch eine vorzügliche Bibliographie (von Paul Lacroix) sich auszeichnende „Prostitution en Europe“ Paris 1851 reicht nur bis zum 16. Jahrhundert.
[22] In „Eulenburg’s Real-Encyclopaedie der gesamten Heilkunde“ 3. Auflage, Berlin u. Wien 1898 Bd. 19. S. 436–450.
[23] Tarnowsky „Prostitution u Abolitionismus“ Hamburg 1890
[24] A. Hegar „Der Geschlechtstrieb“ Stuttgart 1894.
[25] C Lombroso „Das Weib als Verbrecherin und Prostituirte“ Hamburg 1894
[26] W. Rudeck „Geschichte der öffentlichen Sittlichkeit in Deutschland“. 2. Aufl. m. 58 Illustr. Berlin 1905.
[27] Fr Nietzsche „Jenseits von Gut und Böse “ 4 Auflage Leipzig 1895 S 111 L Feuerbach hat in seinem Aufsatze „Ueber die Glorie der heiligen Jungfrau Maria“ (Werke Bd I Leipzig 1845) das Verhältnis zwischen Religion und Liebe sehr deutlich gemacht. Vgl. auch das interessante Werk von LaurentNagour, „Okkultismus und Liebe“ Berlin 1903.
[28] C Abel „Ueber den Begriff der Liebe in einigen alten und neuen Sprachen“ Berlin 1872 Samml gemeinverständlicher wissenschaftlicher Vorträge von Virchow u Holtzendorf No 158/159
[29] „Die Welt als Wille u. Vorstellung“ ed. E. Griesebach Bd. 2. Leipzig 1891. „Metaphysik der Geschlechtstriebe“ S. 623–668.
[30] E v Hartmann „Philosophie des Unbewussten “ 6 Auflage
Berlin 1874 S 671–681
[31] W. Wigand „Die wahre Bedeutung der platonischen Liebe.“ Berlin 1877. S. 27.
[32] „Neben der physischen Zeugung wandelt die geistige in der Welt“, sagt Ph. Mainländer. („Die Philosophie der Erlösung“ Leipzig 1894 Bd II S 489 )
[33] Hegel’s Ideen hat am klarsten und überzeugendsten entwickelt Kuno Fischer „System der Logik und Metaphysik oder Wissenschaftslehre.“ 2. Auflage. Heidelberg 1865. S. 527–530.
Vgl. jetzt auch K. Fischer „Geschichte der neuern Philosophie“, Jubiliäumsausgabe, Heidelberg 1899. Bd. VIII (Hegel) S. 556–561.
[34] Diese Einleitung enthält die Grundzüge einer „Philosophie der Liebe nach dialektischer Methode“, die wir später in weiterer Ausführung darzustellen die Absicht haben.
[35] Th. Achelis „Soziologie“ Leipzig 1899. S. 37.
[36] Achelis a. a. O. S. 73–74.
[37] M. Schasler, „Populäre Gedanken aus Hegels Werken“ Berlin 1870 S 213
[38] K. Fischer „Diotima. Die Idee des Schönen“. Stuttgart 1852. S. 67 ff.
[39] a a O : „Les voilà, les voilà, ces monstres de l’ancien régime? Nous ne les avons pas promis beaux, mais vrais, nous tenons parole“
[40] Adolf Schmidt „Pariser Zustände während der Revolutionszeit 1789–1800.“ Bd. I. Jena 1874 S. 19.
[41] L S Mercier „Le nouveau Paris“ Band IV Paris 1800 S 190
[42] Paul Moreau (de Tours) „Des aberrations du sens génésique“ 4. éd. Paris 1887. S. 13.
[43] Edmond et Jules de Goncourt „La femme au dix-huitième siècle“. Paris 1898. S. 151.
[44] „Histoire du clergé pendant la révolution française“ par l’Abbé Barruel, London 1793 S 2–3
[45] Nach Barruel a. a. O. S. 4 hatte sogar Cérutti, der eine Apologie des Jesuitismus schrieb, sterbend geäussert: Le seul regret que j’emporte en mourant, c’est de laisser encore une religion sur la terre.
[46] A Schmidt a a O Bd III 1876 S 229
[47] Schmidt a. a. O. III S. 236.
[48] a a O S 58
[49] E. u. J. Goncourt „Les maîtresses de Louis XV“. Paris 1860. 2 Bde. „La duchesse de Châteauxroux et ses sœurs“. Paris
1878 Neuerdings erschien Comte Fleury „Louis XV intime et ses petites maîtresses “ Paris 1899
[50] „Le Parc au Cerf, ou l’Origine de l’affreux Deficit.“ Paris 1798 (von François Mayeur de Saint Paul). Vgl. ferner Faverolle „Le Parc aux cerfs, Histoire secrète des jeunes demoiselles qui y ont été renfermées.“ Paris 1808, 4 Bde.
[51] J A Dulaure, Histoire physique, civile et morale de Paris Bd V Paris 1821 S 367–369
[52] „Geschichte des Privatlebens Ludwig’s XV.“ Teil III. Berlin 1781. S. 17–18.
[53] Casanova erzählt in seinen Memoiren (ed. AlvenslebenSchmidt, Bd. V, S. 126), dass der Hirschpark von Niemandem besucht werden durfte, ausser von den bei Hofe vorgestellten Damen.
[54] „Justine und Juliette oder die Gefahren der Tugend und die Wonne des Lasters“ Leipzig 1874 S 31 ff
[55] In neuerer Zeit hat Louis Lacour, zuerst in der „Revue française“ Jahrg. 1858, Bd. XIV S. 546 ff., später in einer selbständigen Schrift „Le Parc-aux-cerfs du roi Louis XV“ (Paris 1859) sehr interessante kritische Untersuchungen über den Hirschpark veröffentlicht, aus denen hervorgeht, dass die Ausgaben über den kolossalen Luxus in diesem königlichen Bordelle sehr übertrieben waren In Wirklichkeit war der „Hirschpark“ nach Lacour ein sehr versteckt gelegenes Haus in der Rue Saint-Méderic, welches höchst einfach, ohne jeden Luxus eingerichtet war Der Inhalt eines ein Jahr später veröffentlichten Werkes von Albert Blanquet „Le Parc-aux-cerfs“ (Paris, 1860, 5 Bände) ist mir nicht bekannt Nach dem Umfange vermute ich in demselben einen Roman. — Ein sehr merkwürdiges, den verschiedensten Quellen entnommenes Kapitel über den Hirschpark findet sich bei Th. F. Debray „Histoire de la prostitution et de la débauche“ Paris o. J. S. 686–698.
[56] Moreau a a O S 59–60
