Adam Thirlwell - Politics

Nana liked fashion in an amused way. She was one of the people who are interested in the technicalities. She liked the intricacies of stitching. She also liked the effort made by designers to cater for the tall thin girl. Unsurprisingly, she liked the gawkiness of models. And she liked new materials. She applauded the search for innovation. But Nana disliked the prices. She disliked the nastiness of fashion. Fashion, to her, meant exclusion. And Nana hated exclusion. The seriousness and anxiety of fashion made her bored — the quiet foreign minions, eyeing you up for appropriate savvy as you swished open the light glass doors.

Anjali did not like fashion at all. She was much more bored than Nana. She was even more astounded by the prices. The prices made it simply unrealistic. To Anjali, fashion was hype. She never really thought about it.

This brought her and Moshe together.

Moshe was the most passionate. He was passionately against. To Moshe, fashion was so much schlock. It was just nervous people intent on reproduction. It encouraged cults of the unoriginal. Fashion was conformity. That was his theory about fashion.

But every theory belongs to a particular person. In relation to Moshe, the theory that fashion was vacuous conformity may have expressed an inner moral gravitas. It may have been a theory based on disapproval of excessive care for ephemera. On the other hand, it may have been insecurity. It may have been that, because Moshe did not feel beautiful or rich enough for these sumptuous and delicate clothes, he decided to deride them.

Whatever — like Anjali, Moshe disliked fashion. It annoyed him.

10

But he tried. Honestly, Moshe tried. In Prada, yawning, he picked up a trainer and tried to look. This trainer was a jigsaw of a plastic black slipper, spotlit by an invisible halogen strip. Nana came over to him. She came over to look after Moshe. She stood beside him and touched up something that was floating and minuscule on a metal clanky hanger. Moshe tried to copy her. He made an ostentatious noise. The noise unnerved him.

They giggled.

Then a man came up behind them. His muscles stretched the elastic of his black T-shirt. There were diagonal rips on the arms. These were presumably deliberate. He was either, thought Moshe, a shop assistant or a model. Moshe could not tell.

While Moshe was wondering what his status was in the world of style, this man told Nana how much the little white shorts with the sailorstripe drawstring would suit her. He said she was really superb. So so sexy.

He was a shop assistant. Moshe hated him.

Are you flattered by your lover being flattered? considered Moshe. He did not consider the question for long. This was partly because he was depressed and jealous. It was also because he needed a shit. His intestines were leery with Starbucks coffee, and it was making him fart — small, furtive. As he juggled improbable panties on their slippy hangers, farting was anguish for Moshe. Each time he farted he had to keep on moving. He had to distance himself from his smell.

Moshe was regretting that morning’s coffee. His stomach had not been well for some time, but he had thought it would be better by now. But it did not seem to be better. It had been very distressed by the coffee.

Moshe felt unflattered here, no question. He hated fashion. He trundled himself, trying to soften his breathing, up the stairs. Are these clothes for boys or girls? thought suddenly androgynous hermaphrodite Moshe. The shops he understood had areas for girls and areas for boys. They had separate floors for boys and girls.

And then there was Nana, eyeing a pinstripe suit, with Anjali beside her.

He said, ‘It’s a boyzuit,’ to Anjali and Nana together. Nana frowned. She said, ‘Valways wanted a boy’s suit.’ She said it really to the suit, miniaturely tenting out the silkiness with bunched fingertips. She said to herself, ‘Erreckon it’d make me look taller.’ ‘Oh, taller,’ intoned Moshe. ‘Because that’s important, I mean you certainly could do with being taller.’

Nana smiled at Moshe. She loved it when Moshe teased her.

Nana looked at the boyish business suit, constructed for an elegant day in the city. Anjali tried. She said, ‘It’s cool, it’s got a nintresting cut.’ And she was right. Anjali could have been in fashion. The right pocket was placed just slightly higher than the left, a deliberate mishap in the symmetry. So it was cool. Because cool is knowing what to do with form. You don’t repeat yourself. Then Nana pushed some more hangers apart, to look at a pink shirt made of sewn-together sections, some crazy version of quilting.

Moshe said, ‘Shall we go?’ It was a statement, really, not a question. Although I have printed this with a question mark, Moshe did not say it with a question mark. He said ‘Shall we go.’

Moshe turned round quickly and bumped into a boy in a V-neck tank top. The tank top had two patterns — one on the front, one on the back. The back was horizontal blue and yellow stripes. The front was chevroned multicoloured lines. But there was one thing, thought gloomy Moshe, that this odd boy must have loved. There was a crazy quirk that must have been the clincher. The back pattern started on the front. It began on the front at the left-hand side.

I don’t know. Personally, I like the idea of this jumper. I am a little hurt that Moshe did not like it.

11

Nana said, ‘Did I take my pill this morning? I can’t remember did I take my pill?’

‘Yeah yes you took it,’ said Moshe.

‘Oh,’ said Anjali. ‘What kind are you on?’

‘Microgynon,’ said Nana.

‘And you like it?’ said Anjali.

‘Well yeah,’ said Nana.

‘It’s just,’ said Anjali, ‘just the Pill makes me so depressed.’

‘You take the Pill?’ said Moshe.

‘Well I did,’ said Anjali. ‘But I got this thing, I was going out with this boy, you remember, Torquil, and he, he. It’s like a coil, called Marina, it releases the Pill. Like hormones,’ she said.

‘Why do you still take the Pill?’ said Moshe.

‘It’s not the Pill,’ said Anjali.

‘Well whatever,’ said Moshe. ‘You don’t have boysex any more, do you? What kind of sex are you having?’

‘Me?’ said Anjali. ‘What kind of sex? I have none sex. You know that. That’s the kind of sex I have.’

‘I just thought,’ said Moshe.

‘But why do you want to know?’ said Anjali.

‘Well I just thought. I mean, if you’re doing boys again,’ said Moshe.

‘And isn’t it uncomfy?’ said Nana.

‘No no,’ said Anjali, ‘it’s fine, I just leave it for I think five years. You should have it,’ said Anjali to Nana, as Moshe pushed the door at Issey Miyake and so Anjali had to pull.

Clumsy Moshe.

Inside Issey Miyake, Nana was especially happy. She felt as if she were on holiday, reported chatty Nana to Moshe and Anjali. This duo, however, was being amused and amazed at a suit made entirely of small metal discs. Did she say she was going with Papa? Did she say they had booked a holiday, for the first week in September? Moshe pushed his lips out and nodded. She had been chatting to the clothes, and when she didn’t hear a word, not a murmur, she looked round. Moshe and Anjali were giggling. Moshe pushed his lips out and nodded. Nana nodded and carried on talking.

I am going to stop for a tiny tiny moment. I do not want Nana to be misunderstood.

Perhaps you are finding Nana unsympathetic here. She does not seem to be caring about Moshe’s dislike of fashion. As you know, Moshe disliked fashion. He only saw mock objects, overpriced and impractical. And Nana knew that this upset him. She agreed with him in a way. But Nana also understood Moshe. She understood the secret unhappiness that caused Moshe’s grumpiness. These clothes made Moshe feel ugly. And Nana wanted him to realise that, although it may have been mawkish to say it, he was beautiful. There was no need to be depressed.