Geoff Dyer - The Colour of Memory

‘About two hours a week — all sport, plus three or four hours of “The World at War” on video but I suppose that doesn’t count.’

‘The World at War?’

‘It’s a kind of hobby,’ I said, and with that the interview came to an end. I put the phone down feeling slightly bewildered. Usually I felt pleased and happy when I’d done one, as if I’d played my part in shaping reality. It seemed a much more effective form of political involvement than voting. Even in a survey with a large sample I was still speaking on behalf of tens of thousands of other people. My every opinion got multiplied many times over and in the course of time most subjects would probably be broached. Bearing this in mind I usually tried, when asked to express an opinion or preference, to pitch my answers within a broad consensus of approval or disapproval. There was no point in voicing opinions which were so extreme or confessing to habits so insistently peculiar as to consign you to an irrelevant one per cent of hardened eccentrics. As a general rule it was useful to ally yourself with the twenty per cent who dissented mildly on any given issue. If you played your cards tactically you could be influential in preventing a new chocolate bar coming on to the market; or you could be part of a significant minority who thought English newspapers should be printed in Arabic. We were living in an era of strong opinions: anything was possible.

Before getting down to painting my living-room — that morning I had realised quite suddenly that I couldn’t stand the piss-coloured wallpaper a moment longer — I made some tea and fiddled with the radio. I wanted to listen to one of those pirate radio stations that play great music all day but I couldn’t find one. I couldn’t find one ; I found hundreds, all cancelling each other out: snatches of reggae blending into chat shows, lunch-time plays and chart shows. I got a faint echo of soul music but as soon as I moved the knob the barest fraction I lost the soul and ended up with what seemed to be Belgian Radio 2. So many people wanted to have their say that nobody could make themselves heard. These days it was a twenty-four hour rush-hour on the airwaves, and at certain times it was probably possible to pick up every kind of music: everything from Bach to go-go in one ear-drum bursting roar, the whole of the world’s music in a single second.

I settled for silence — for the noise of the traffic — and levered open a can of emulsion. Magnolia: not a colour to get excited about, hardly a colour at all, not even not a colour. It hugged the pot neatly, the very image of soon to be disrupted serenity.

Slapping the paint on the wide expanse of walls was very pleasant — you got extremely good mileage out of those rollers. Unfortunately you also got a thin film of magnolia sprayed over carpet, chairs and stereo, none of which I’d properly covered with rags and newspapers. I only noticed this when someone rapped on the door and I made my way through the wreckage to see who it was.

‘Foomie!’ She was eating a pale yellow banana.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked. I kissed her carefully to avoid getting paint over her clothes.

‘This is not your lucky day. I’m decorating,’ I said, reboiling the kettle. ‘Actually maybe it is your lucky day. .’

She was shaking her head.

‘It’s creative, stimulating and great fun. Good practice for when you want to do your flat. I’ll give you a few tips.’

‘I bet. You’re covered in paint — look you must have stepped in some: you’re treading white footprints everywhere.’

‘Oh fuck. It’s not white, it’s magnolia actually. See, you’re picking up useful knowledge already and you learn even quicker on the job.’

‘Not me Michelangelo.’

‘Go on.’

‘Out of the question.’

In the end she agreed to help on condition that she was able to drink as much lager and smoke as much grass as was ‘reasonably possible’.

‘What does that mean?’

‘As much as I want.’

‘It’s a deal,’ I said, handing over money for her to pick up beer from the off-licence. While she was out I sorted out a sweatshirt and some old trousers for her to wear. From then on we were really flying. We drank beer almost continually and stopped for a joint every hour. I slapped on dripping coats of emulsion and she touched up neatly around the edges. In what seemed hardly any time at all the flat was transformed into a bright haze of not-quite white. The thick, fresh smell of paint felt heavy in our nostrils. By the time we finished I was so thickly covered in paint that I cracked as I walked; standing against one of the walls I was invisible except for two dark eyes. Foomie had only a couple of smears of paint on her hands and a small white dot the size of a mole on her face.

When I’d had a bath and peeled off my emulsion skin I cooked some sort of vegetable mush which Foomie ate without complaint. I tipped the dishes into the sink and we sat in the bright-smelling living-room, playing music quietly and drinking tequila. I turned on the main light, dyeing the night outside a deeper blue. The patter of rain.

‘Is this the trumpet you bought from Steranko?’ Foomie said, opening the case.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you learned to play it yet?’

‘No. I couldn’t get the hang of it at all. I was really determined to learn. For a while I practised for about twenty minutes a day. Then it dropped to ten. Then I just practised whenever I felt like it which was about once a week. After that I just left it lying around because it looked nice. Now I keep it in the case to stop it getting dusty. It’s principal function now is to serve as a symbol of non-achievement.’

‘I’m like that with my self-defence classes. I go for a couple of weeks. Then for some reason I can’t go and after that I stop going for about six months. Then I go again and wish I’d kept at it.’

We listened to the music which was only slightly louder than the rain.

‘What shall we do this evening?’ I said after a while. ‘What’s Steranko doing?’

‘He’s having dinner at his brother’s. He won’t be back till late.’

‘So shall we do something?’

‘Yes.’

‘What would you like to do?’

‘Let’s go out dancing.’

‘I knew you were going to say that.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘I hate discos.’

‘We wouldn’t go to a disco,’ Foomie said. ‘We’d go to a club.’

‘All clubs are really discos.’

‘Have you ever been to one?’

‘Several. Hundreds. Years ago I went to loads and I never had a moment’s pleasure in any of them. All I did was watch people having what I thought was a good time but which I now realise was simply a highly ritualised form of boredom. Besides I’m allergic to clubs.’

‘I love dancing,’ Foomie said. ‘Don’t you like dancing?’

‘Hate it. Can’t stand it. It’s one of those things I’m really glad I don’t do. Every time I don’t do it I get a small thrill of pleasure. It’s like playing chess or doing crossword puzzles. Chess, I don’t like to even think about; I can rest easy knowing that it’s something I’m never going to be interested in and will never regret not having taken up. As for crosswords. .’

‘We’re supposed to be talking about dancing.’

‘Right, actually I sometimes have an urge to dance but I’m always too embarrassed to actually do it.’

‘It doesn’t matter how you dance. It’s just whether you do it.’ As she finished speaking Foomie started dancing a little, moving slightly to an imagined beat. She held her hands up like fists and moved them slowly and rhythmically, her eyes half-shut.

‘See?’ she said, rocking her head to the beat. ‘Come on: groove that body.’