“psyche.” She told me she disliked “dogma.” She played Tito Schipa and Cleo Laine, even though Oliver thought them bourgeois. She brought me end-of-the-run M&S shirts with right-out-of-the pack creases, but also picked up a checkered blue and yellow sweater at a secondhand store, teaching me that
style
was a product of your ability to combine the new and the old. She showed me all the secret spots in the neighbourhood. Walled gardens with disguised doors. A bench hidden beneath a screen of climbing vines.
Number 95 New King’s Road in Hammersmith and Fulham was the flat I shared with Oliver. Number 107 New King’s Road was where Pippa lived. For a while, she would always return to her own place after her visits, but one evening during a thunderstorm, the walk home suddenly seemed too long and she decided to spend the night. Then came the time of sleepovers, of waking and running into a warm bed on weekend mornings. Of lying between Pippa and Oliver while they divided the newspaper until the bed was covered in a quilt of pages. It was a time of Pippa reading aloud from her latest detective novel, and Oliver delivering sermons on the crisis inthe Middle East and other topics that consumed his attention: coups, the Geneva Convention, cholera. There were a lot of statistics in these discussions. Sometimes there were questions:
What do you think will happen with the secession of Katanga? Do you think Belgium will remain a presence in the Congo? Has the UN been too lenient?
Sometimes, when he went on like this, you could see that Pippa wasn’t listening any more. She looked out the window, at the night sky, lost in the daze that too much information brings on. Sometimes she had a drowning expression. Occasionally she yawned.
I was experienced enough to let Oliver’s flood of facts wash over me. While he droned on, I pictured myself as a swimmer threading the waves. Sometimes my mind wandered and I fantasized that I lived in the top branches of a tree. I wondered what it would be like to draw people from up high. If I drew them from the sky, they would look stocky and more tied to the earth—like anonymous peasants. If I drew them from the ground, they would look taller and more heroic—like famous Bolsheviks.
It wasn’t all lectures, of course. Pippa knew how to soften Oliver. She teased him and made him laugh. She seduced him away from the news. She took him to the pub, to the repertory cinema to watch old movies, to local churches for free music concerts, and to galleries to see modern art. There were times it seemed that he stopped gazing at her only when he was asleep or when someone or something came between them and obstructed his vision.
No more letters on pink hospital stationery arrived by post, or if they did, Oliver no longer kept them. Pippa walked around the flat as if she belonged with us. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so happy. But I noticed that Pippa never stored her personalthings at our place: no clothes, no cosmetics, no books. She might leave an umbrella or her scarf behind, but only out of forgetfulness. When Oliver cleared a drawer in his dresser for her, she didn’t use it. It became an issue. I tried to stay out of it, but it began to upset me that when she was out, there were virtually no traces of her.
One evening Pippa said she wanted to go back to her flat. Her sister was inviting several friends over. A group of artists. Not wanting to spend the evening apart, Oliver asked if we could tag along. He had nothing against art. After all, Pippa was artistic.
Pippa laughed at his enthusiasm, its obvious insincerity, but quickly agreed and told us to get dressed.
As we made our way out the door, she murmured into my ear, “Are you ready to have your head spun around?”
I tried not to laugh when we walked into Pippa’s flat. But it looked as if someone had tipped all of the guests out of their chairs onto the floor. There were artists sitting in clumps of three or four around the
style
was a product of your ability to combine the new and the old. She showed me all the secret spots in the neighbourhood. Walled gardens with disguised doors. A bench hidden beneath a screen of climbing vines.
Number 95 New King’s Road in Hammersmith and Fulham was the flat I shared with Oliver. Number 107 New King’s Road was where Pippa lived. For a while, she would always return to her own place after her visits, but one evening during a thunderstorm, the walk home suddenly seemed too long and she decided to spend the night. Then came the time of sleepovers, of waking and running into a warm bed on weekend mornings. Of lying between Pippa and Oliver while they divided the newspaper until the bed was covered in a quilt of pages. It was a time of Pippa reading aloud from her latest detective novel, and Oliver delivering sermons on the crisis inthe Middle East and other topics that consumed his attention: coups, the Geneva Convention, cholera. There were a lot of statistics in these discussions. Sometimes there were questions:
What do you think will happen with the secession of Katanga? Do you think Belgium will remain a presence in the Congo? Has the UN been too lenient?
Sometimes, when he went on like this, you could see that Pippa wasn’t listening any more. She looked out the window, at the night sky, lost in the daze that too much information brings on. Sometimes she had a drowning expression. Occasionally she yawned.
I was experienced enough to let Oliver’s flood of facts wash over me. While he droned on, I pictured myself as a swimmer threading the waves. Sometimes my mind wandered and I fantasized that I lived in the top branches of a tree. I wondered what it would be like to draw people from up high. If I drew them from the sky, they would look stocky and more tied to the earth—like anonymous peasants. If I drew them from the ground, they would look taller and more heroic—like famous Bolsheviks.
It wasn’t all lectures, of course. Pippa knew how to soften Oliver. She teased him and made him laugh. She seduced him away from the news. She took him to the pub, to the repertory cinema to watch old movies, to local churches for free music concerts, and to galleries to see modern art. There were times it seemed that he stopped gazing at her only when he was asleep or when someone or something came between them and obstructed his vision.
No more letters on pink hospital stationery arrived by post, or if they did, Oliver no longer kept them. Pippa walked around the flat as if she belonged with us. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so happy. But I noticed that Pippa never stored her personalthings at our place: no clothes, no cosmetics, no books. She might leave an umbrella or her scarf behind, but only out of forgetfulness. When Oliver cleared a drawer in his dresser for her, she didn’t use it. It became an issue. I tried to stay out of it, but it began to upset me that when she was out, there were virtually no traces of her.
One evening Pippa said she wanted to go back to her flat. Her sister was inviting several friends over. A group of artists. Not wanting to spend the evening apart, Oliver asked if we could tag along. He had nothing against art. After all, Pippa was artistic.
Pippa laughed at his enthusiasm, its obvious insincerity, but quickly agreed and told us to get dressed.
As we made our way out the door, she murmured into my ear, “Are you ready to have your head spun around?”
I tried not to laugh when we walked into Pippa’s flat. But it looked as if someone had tipped all of the guests out of their chairs onto the floor. There were artists sitting in clumps of three or four around the
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