Zadie Smith: NW

Why you being cold to me now? What have I done to you? I ain’t done nothing to you.

Who was that girl, the little one, in the headscarf?

Huh? Why you worrying about her?

You live with her?

That’s your problem: you want to be up in everybody else’s dream. We’re friendly — we’ve been walking nice and friendly. Why’re you stepping to me now?

Wasn’t she at Brayton? She looked familiar to me. Is her name Shar?

Didn’t know her then. That ain’t her name with me.

What’s her name with you?

We in court? I call my girls all sorts.

What do you do to your girls? You send them out to thieve? You pimp them out? Do you phone women up? Do you threaten them?

Whoa whoa, slow down, man. You got me twisted. Listen, me and my girls stick together. That’s all you need to know. They got my back. I’ve got theirs. We’re many but we’re one. Fingers on a hand.

You hiding from someone, Nathan? Who’re you hiding from?

I ain’t hiding from no-one! Who says I’m hiding?

Who is that girl, Nathan? What do you do to your girls?

You’re not right in your head. You’re talking some pure craziness now.

Answer the question! Be responsible for yourself! You’re free!

Nah, man, that’s where you’re wrong. I ain’t free. Ain’t never been free.

We’re all free!

But I don’t live like you though.

What?

I don’t live like you. You don’t know nothing about me. Don’t know nothing about my girls. We’re a family.

Strange family.

Only kind there is.

Hornsey Lane. Said Natalie Blake. This is where I was heading.

That was true. Although it could be said that it did not really become true until the moment she saw the bridge. Nathan looked around. He scratched at the sore on his neck.

No-one lives here. Who you looking to see up here? Middle of nowhere up here.

Go home, Nathan.

Natalie walked toward the bridge. The lampposts at either end were cast-iron, and their bases molded into fish with their mouths open wide. They had the tails of dragons, winding round the stem, and each lamp was topped by an orange glass orb. They glowed, they were as big as footballs. Natalie had forgotten that the bridge was not purely functional. She tried her best but could not completely ignore its beauty.

Keisha, come back here, man. I’m talking to you. Don’t be like that.

Natalie stepped up onto the first little ledge, just a few inches off the ground. She had remembered only one layer of obstruction, but the six-foot barrier before her was topped by spikes, like a medieval fortification: spikes up and spikes down, an iron imitation of barbed wire. This must be how they stopped people going nowhere.

Keisha?

The view was cross-hatched. St. Paul’s in one box. The Gherkin in another. Half a tree. Half a car. Cupolas, spires. Squares, rectangles, half moons, stars. It was impossible to get any sense of the whole. From up here the bus lane was a red gash through the city. The tower blocks were the only thing she could see that made any sense, separated from each other, yet communicating. From this distance they had a logic, stone posts driven into an ancient field, waiting for something to be laid on top of them, a statue, perhaps, or a platform. A man and a woman walked over and stood next to Natalie at the railing. Beautiful view, said the woman. She had a French accent. She didn’t sound at all convinced by what she’d said. After a minute the couple walked back down the hill.

Keisha?

Natalie Blake looked out and down. She tried to locate the house, somewhere back down that hill, west of here. Rows of identical red brick chimneys, stretching to the suburbs. The wind picked up, shaking the trees below. She had the sense of being in the country. In the country, if a woman could not face her children, or her friends, or her family — if she were covered in shame — she would probably only need to lay herself down in a field and take her leave by merging, first with the grass underneath her, then with the mulch under that. A city child, Natalie Blake had always been naïve about country matters. Still, when it came to the city, she was not mistaken. Here nothing less than a break — a sudden and total rupture — would do. She could see the act perfectly clearly, it appeared before her like an object in her hand — and then the wind shook the trees once more and her feet touched the pavement. The act remained just that: an act, a prospect, always possible. Someone would surely soon come to this bridge and claim it, both the possibility and the act itself, as they had been doing with grim regularity ever since the bridge was built. But right at this moment there was no one left to do it.

Keisha, it’s getting cold up here. I need some warmness. Come on, man. Keisha, don’t be moody. Chat to me some more. Step down.

She bent over and put her hands on her knees. She was shaking with laughter. She looked up and saw Nathan frowning at her.

Listen, I’m out. I got to keep moving. You’re a fucking liability. You coming or what? Asked Nathan Bogle.

Good-bye, Nathan. Said Natalie Blake.

She saw a night bus coming up the street and wished she had some money. She did not know what had been saved exactly, nor by whom.

The woman was naked, the man dressed. The woman had not realized that the man had somewhere to go. Outside their window came the noise of a carnival float testing its sound system, somewhere to the west, in Kensal Rise. Out in the street they call it murda. After a few bars the music stopped and was replaced by the tinkle of a passing ice cream van. Here we go round the mulberry bush. The woman sat up and looked for the letter she had left on the man’s side of the bed, in the early hours of the morning. It had taken her a whole day and most of a night to “marshal her thoughts.” Finally, as Monday began, she had licked the glue on the white envelope and placed it on his pillow. He had moved it to a chair, unopened. Now she watched her husband place his feet in some fine Italian tasselled loafers and draw a baseball cap down low upon his curls. “Aren’t you going to open it?” asked Natalie. “I’m going out,” said Frank. The woman knelt up in an imploring position. She could hardly believe that she had awoken to find herself in the same situation as yesterday, and of the day before, that sleep could not erase it. That she would be in the same situation tomorrow. That this was her life now. Two silent enemies shepherding children to their social appointments. “I’ll be out for a few hours,” said the man. “When I get back I’ll take the kids till seven. You should find somewhere else to be.” The woman picked up the envelope and held it out to the man. “Frank, just take it with you.” The man took a thin volume from a bookshelf — she was too slow to identify it — and put it in his back pocket. “Confessions are self-serving,” he said. He left the room. She heard him go down the stairs, pausing briefly on the second floor. A few minutes later the front door slammed.

• • •

There was a choice of either stasis or propulsion. She got dressed quickly, dramatically, in bright blue and white, and ran down a flight of stairs. Her children met her in a hallway. Naomi was standing on an upturned box. Spike was flat on the floor on his stomach. Both were silver. Silver faces, silver sprayed clothes, foil hats. Natalie couldn’t tell if this was the consequence of a dramatic event, a form of game, or something else again.

“Where’s Maria?” she asked, but then answered her own question: “Bank Holiday Monday. Why’re you wearing that?”

“Carnival!”

“Again? Who said both days?”