We lived each
day as if it were a page from a great novel.
Our naïve enthusiasm conjured a spell that fell on everything we heard,
touched and saw. Once bewitched, the
world of that summer became like that in The
Grass Harp. For we were living
within a novel without a story; at least, not one that we, or perhaps it was
just I, could detect while still locked inside it.
It was books that brought us
together. English Literature A-Level to
be precise. The set text for the term
was The Great Gatsby. Both of us fell
in love with the elegant and doomed young things that floated through it and,
quite unaware of the book’s glaring subtexts or even its point, decided that we
could be just like them, together.
We shared the books that had touched our souls, absorbing yet more models
of behaviour from their pages as we did so.
As our relationship budded, then bloomed, we struggled not to say or do
a single thing that was not worthy of the characters found in the books we
read. Not for us the usual adolescent
pursuits of house parties or underage drinking on the village green, for they
could never compare to the grand parties of a Gatsby, or the splendid and fatal
intoxication of Dick Diver. Instead, we
took daytrips intended to become legends in our memory; to the local airport
with its Art Deco terminal, the drained lido, the old train station, a car boot
sale in the rain. The mundane did not
seem to be so to us. We sought beauty
where there was none, and yet found it still.
Our relationship was strangely
chaste, with tiny stolen kisses while we picnicked, tipsy from the day and the
liqueurs she purloined from her mother. A touch of a single breast one day, and
then - nothing else was offered, and nothing else was pursued. To give in to desire would break the spell,
we thought, or at least I thought that we thought.
It all ended with a phone call. I had not heard from her all week, but I did
not dream that it had already ended, and hoped to arrange another outing in
search of impossible and secret splendours.
She stopped me before I could make my suggestion, and said that she was
now seeing someone else, another, more obviously normal boy from college. I could see she was about to enter the real,
charmless world of drinking on the football pitch and house parties and
consummated love, if it had not already taken her in.
The words she used to break it off were not those worthy of a character
from a great novel, and for many weeks afterwards I went over them in my head
looking for some hidden beauty, but there was none, and I found none. In that time, I sank into a state that I felt
should be one of sweet melancholia, but could find no aesthetic pleasure in my
despair. Stubbornly it resisted
transformation into prose, until now.
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