Geoff Dyer - The Colour of Memory

On the way home I stopped off at Steranko’s to pick up the money he owed me. I put two ten-pound notes in my shoe and a fiver in the cheap wallet that I always carried. Apart from that fiver the only things in it were cancelled bank cards and library tickets. There was nothing paranoid about doing this — like taking a quick look down a dark street before turning into it or walking on the outside of the pavement, I did it as automatically as a driver putting on a seatbelt. It was always a good idea to have some money you could get at quickly if you got jumped. Unlike Carlton, Freddie and Steranko I’d never actually been mugged but I knew that nine times out of ten you handed over the money and nothing much happened. It was when you didn’t have any money that things got nasty.

Pursued by the tolling of the town-hall clock I left Steranko’s at midnight and walked home through drizzle so fine it was hardly more than a damp breeze. Behind me I heard the sound of running. I turned round, feeling the first warning shock of adrenalin, my arm half raised to protect myself, as someone charged past. A few seconds later he disappeared round a corner, still running, feet slapping hard on the wet pavement. My heart was beating fast. People tended not to run like that after dark round here. It was like a false alarm that set others on edge and made them nervous — it looked too much like you were running away from something.

That was on Wednesday. On Saturday morning Carlton and Freddie called for me and the three of us called for Steranko.

We trooped up the stairs to his room, opened the door and found that everything in it had been moved round. Steranko did this from time to time, turning his room from a place of relaxation into an obstacle course for living in. There were coloured scaffolding poles everywhere, the bed was perched up on a platform of planks about six feet in the air and most of the other things he used regularly — record-player, books — were stored well above eye-level. If you went to bed drunk and got up for a piss in the night it seemed unlikely that you’d be able to find your way back to the bed. Steranko was nowhere to be seen. Freddie called his name and Steranko’s head appeared over the side of the bed.

‘What time is it?’ he said, still half-asleep.

‘Twelve thirty.’

Carlton dumped a pile of clothes on the floor and sat on the seat they’d been occupying. I looked out of the window which was thick with grime that the sun arranged in patterns. To the left of the window there was an easel with the beginnings of a painting. Propped up against one wall was a battered-looking cello. Steranko had lain back on the bed and disappeared from view. He reappeared a few moments later, yawning and rubbing his head.

‘How come you’re here so early?’

‘You said come round for breakfast before Foomie’s party.’

‘Did I?’

‘No but we came anyway,’ said Freddie. There was some rustling up on the bed. Steranko pulled on a dressing-gown and swung himself down to ground level.

‘So what’s this supposed to be?’ Carlton asked, gesturing towards the bed. ‘Urban Tarzan or what?’

‘It’s my experiment in negative ergonomics. An attempt to turn the fabric of the everyday inside out. It’s pretty exhausting.’

‘I bet. So that’s why the bed’s up there. .’

‘A man’s bed should be like an eagle’s nest — Nietzsche said that,’ explained Steranko.

‘Did he fuck,’ said Carlton.

‘What he really said was only a fool goes to bed while he could still be working,’ said Freddie. ‘He used to sleep about half an hour a day in his bed and spend the rest of the time nodding off at his desk because he couldn’t bear the idea of being proved stupid by his own logic. That’s what I call will power.’

Steranko grunted and headed towards the bathroom.

‘Have you still got that trumpet Steranko?’ Carlton asked.

‘It’s over there in that case. You want to buy it?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I thought I was buying that,’ I said. Hearing Carlton say he was interested in the trumpet made me suddenly certain that I wanted to buy it. Up until then I hadn’t been bothered one way or the other.

‘First come first served. Maybe you’d be better off with the cello,’ he said, glancing towards it and then going out the door. A great variety of musical instruments passed through Steranko’s hands. He picked them up cheaply, learned to play them a little, and then sold them.

Carlton took the trumpet from its case, inserted the mouthpiece and made a few screeching blasts. There was no hint of a note let alone a tune but he was wearing a suit and looked good (‘a little like the young Miles Davis even,’ said Freddie).

When he had finished I picked up the trumpet and blew loud and tunelessly. Freddie meanwhile was sawing away at the cello and by the time Steranko got back from the bathroom Carlton was banging out random notes on the out-of-tune piano in the corner.

‘What a racket,’ Steranko said, rubbing his face with a towel.

‘It’s free-form, man,’ Carlton said. ‘Collective improvisation.’ Freddie and I sniggered; Steranko looked pissed off.

‘I’ve only been awake five minutes,’ he said.

‘How much do you want for the trumpet then,’ Carlton asked.

‘Twenty-five quid.’

‘Thirty,’ I said, gazumping Carlton.

‘Do I hear thirty-five?’ Steranko said, buttoning up his trousers.

‘You’ll never learn to play it,’ Carlton said.

‘Probably not but at least I’ll stop you getting it,’ I said.

‘You can have it,’ said Carlton, ‘and I bet in six months you still can’t play anything remotely resembling “My Funny Valentine”.’

‘I only want to play “The Last Post” anyway,’ I said. ‘Something to bring tears to my eyes.’

‘I bet a fiver you’ve given it up completely in a month,’ Carlton said.

‘You’re on,’ I said, extending my hand. ‘Shake.’

‘Two months,’ said Carlton extending his.

‘Actually now that you don’t want it I’m not sure I’ll even buy it,’ I said, withdrawing mine.

‘Jesus,’ said Steranko, putting a record on the turntable. ‘What a kid.’ A few moments later the clean, intelligent emotion of Jan Garbarek’s tenor filled the room. Audible landscapes formed and re-formed themselves around us. Morning music, mist melting in the sun.

‘It’s going to be a nice day,’ Carlton said.

We went down into the kitchen where Steranko stirred a saucepan of porridge. He made porridge perfectly and patiently and ate it every day regardless of the weather.

When it was ready he filled four bowls. Carlton dumped in a lot of brown sugar and then some more after he’d taken one mouthful. It was still too hot to eat. We blew on it. Carlton poured more sugar in.

We were all blowing on our porridge and taking gasped spoonfuls from round the edge. It felt like it was burning my stomach.

‘Beautiful,’ said Carlton when it had cooled down enough to eat.

‘You sure it’s sweet enough?’

When we’d finished Steranko chucked the bowls in the sink and we went back up to his room. While Steranko finished getting ready Carlton fiddled around with the cello.

‘Can you play this?’ he asked, leaning it back against the chair.

‘Not really,’ Steranko said. He reached for the cello, settled himself behind it, ran the bow across the strings a couple of times and then played what was recognisably the beginning of Bach’s first cello suite. Freddie, Carlton and I clapped.

‘That’s all I know,’ Steranko said, smiling.

Carlton had to call for Belinda but Steranko, Freddie and I arrived together at Foomie’s place. The party was already in full swing. Foomie smiled warmly at both Steranko and me and said how glad she was that we could come. We introduced her to Freddie and they said hello and smiled at each other. Foomie was in a black sleeveless dress. Her hair was piled up and tied in a bright scarf and she wore big gold earrings. She asked if we wanted some punch but the three of us, at exactly the same moment, all said ‘BEER’. The single perfectly synchronised syllable belched loudly into the room, followed quickly by three separate mumbles of ‘please’. I could feel myself blushing.