I’d never seen. Made notes to research it in botany books when I returned.
I told Mahesh I will never marry. Nothing can rival freedom. Warm feet can, Mahesh countered, Fat buttocks and soft skin can. The solitary life, I said, Is derided by those who buckle to convention and later regret it. Mahesh said if I am homosexual I should just say so instead of coming across high-minded, etc. I said I simply plan a life without fetters, regardless of man or woman. A life of one’s own. Mahesh burst out laughing.
Awake at dawn to a thick white fog softening the quadrangle. A conspiracy of droplets. A cabal of molecules. A form appears between buildings, delving the fog in swaths. Mahesh. Ecstatically I tear across the quad and immediately smack into a bench. Limping, I reach him. It’s
Veronica persica
. The blue flower at Fenton. Known as Persian speedwell, I looked it up. Mahesh keeps walking, replies mildly, Patrick, you will lose sight of truth by pursuing it so avidly.
Avidly
. Like a child gorging chocolate.
Hypocrites. They crowd into Mahesh’s study to listen to Foster’s recital. How he grovels for Mahesh’s approval. Watched Mahesh lazily accept cigarettes, compliments from these fickle boys until I couldn’t bear the hypocrisy and stared moodily out the window. The rendition was atrocious, beyond reproach. Yet Mahesh clenched his cigarette between his teeth in order to clap vigorously. One imagines the Russians are not such sycophants. As soon as Foster left the room, all the knives came out and one boy fell off the bed he laughed so hard. When we were alone again, I fervently made Mahesh swear he would never give me false praise. He offered to give none instead.
This mind betrays me with interruptions. Desultory thoughts of tennis scores, images of boyhood. Tangents, non sequiturs. I long for a funnel of reasoning, thought spiraling to a critical point. Left instead with this gyre. Backed out of the Christmas Ball at the last moment. Mahesh asked was it a pair of nice ankles I was frightened of meeting, perhaps a pair attached to shapely legs and so on. I said I was suffering severe insomnia, my head rattled with ideas. Mahesh suggested that rather than take myself so seriously, I try hot milk and syrup. It was after midnight when I heard him on the landing. I threw open the door. Well? Mahesh stopped, leaned himself against the wall and regarded me with a steady gaze of inebriation. Thousands of men have ideas, he said finally, rousing himself from the wall. Most are not important. He began to climb the next flight. I called out, Ideas or Men? He continued walking. I called again, Important ideas or Important men? He didn’t answer.
I tell Mahesh that Vermeer was a mathematician, that his paintings are abject studies for perspective. I say it to goad but he simply stares out my window. I know Mahesh finds debate with me tedious. But why must we always talk about paintings, which I loathe, when I could tell him a hundred things about Hamlet.
Mahesh has accepted the role of Claudius. Against my advice. The rehearsals drain him. Today I dragged him in off the landing when I heard him pass by. Why do you never come to see me? Hating how petulant I sounded. Mahesh hovered in the doorway for two minutes then left saying, And what of this solitary life you aim for, Patrick? When he went, I felt an actual stab in my side. Loss for his easy warmth. I like to look across and see him arranged in my window, legs propped against the casement, cutting the window into triangles. I went into my pockets and threw a coin across the room. An auction of lacunae. Art will save you or kill you.
Oxbow. How grubby it is, provincial. The smear of clouds, overheard inanities in the newsagents. Mahesh, virtually disappeared. Paris, Paris, I mumble mounting the steps to my room. Unlocking the door, I cast about at my drab belongings, four salvaged tea bags drying on the sill, a stack of half-read books. My contribution to literature:
I told Mahesh I will never marry. Nothing can rival freedom. Warm feet can, Mahesh countered, Fat buttocks and soft skin can. The solitary life, I said, Is derided by those who buckle to convention and later regret it. Mahesh said if I am homosexual I should just say so instead of coming across high-minded, etc. I said I simply plan a life without fetters, regardless of man or woman. A life of one’s own. Mahesh burst out laughing.
Awake at dawn to a thick white fog softening the quadrangle. A conspiracy of droplets. A cabal of molecules. A form appears between buildings, delving the fog in swaths. Mahesh. Ecstatically I tear across the quad and immediately smack into a bench. Limping, I reach him. It’s
Veronica persica
. The blue flower at Fenton. Known as Persian speedwell, I looked it up. Mahesh keeps walking, replies mildly, Patrick, you will lose sight of truth by pursuing it so avidly.
Avidly
. Like a child gorging chocolate.
Hypocrites. They crowd into Mahesh’s study to listen to Foster’s recital. How he grovels for Mahesh’s approval. Watched Mahesh lazily accept cigarettes, compliments from these fickle boys until I couldn’t bear the hypocrisy and stared moodily out the window. The rendition was atrocious, beyond reproach. Yet Mahesh clenched his cigarette between his teeth in order to clap vigorously. One imagines the Russians are not such sycophants. As soon as Foster left the room, all the knives came out and one boy fell off the bed he laughed so hard. When we were alone again, I fervently made Mahesh swear he would never give me false praise. He offered to give none instead.
This mind betrays me with interruptions. Desultory thoughts of tennis scores, images of boyhood. Tangents, non sequiturs. I long for a funnel of reasoning, thought spiraling to a critical point. Left instead with this gyre. Backed out of the Christmas Ball at the last moment. Mahesh asked was it a pair of nice ankles I was frightened of meeting, perhaps a pair attached to shapely legs and so on. I said I was suffering severe insomnia, my head rattled with ideas. Mahesh suggested that rather than take myself so seriously, I try hot milk and syrup. It was after midnight when I heard him on the landing. I threw open the door. Well? Mahesh stopped, leaned himself against the wall and regarded me with a steady gaze of inebriation. Thousands of men have ideas, he said finally, rousing himself from the wall. Most are not important. He began to climb the next flight. I called out, Ideas or Men? He continued walking. I called again, Important ideas or Important men? He didn’t answer.
I tell Mahesh that Vermeer was a mathematician, that his paintings are abject studies for perspective. I say it to goad but he simply stares out my window. I know Mahesh finds debate with me tedious. But why must we always talk about paintings, which I loathe, when I could tell him a hundred things about Hamlet.
Mahesh has accepted the role of Claudius. Against my advice. The rehearsals drain him. Today I dragged him in off the landing when I heard him pass by. Why do you never come to see me? Hating how petulant I sounded. Mahesh hovered in the doorway for two minutes then left saying, And what of this solitary life you aim for, Patrick? When he went, I felt an actual stab in my side. Loss for his easy warmth. I like to look across and see him arranged in my window, legs propped against the casement, cutting the window into triangles. I went into my pockets and threw a coin across the room. An auction of lacunae. Art will save you or kill you.
Oxbow. How grubby it is, provincial. The smear of clouds, overheard inanities in the newsagents. Mahesh, virtually disappeared. Paris, Paris, I mumble mounting the steps to my room. Unlocking the door, I cast about at my drab belongings, four salvaged tea bags drying on the sill, a stack of half-read books. My contribution to literature:
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