Adam Thirlwell - Politics

Gosh. Jeez.

It is really very exhausting, being a non-talker.

8

And Nana was a non-talker.

Perhaps it surprised you that Nana did not interrupt Anjali. She did not ask her any probing questions. If a pretty girl called Anjali began telling you about her lesbian love life, you reckon that you would say something. I can even imagine people thinking that Anjali’s little speech was an invitation to question her.

But Nana was not a questioner. She was private. She was beautiful and shy.

Nana was a non-talker.

Most people who are not pretty, and most people are not pretty, think that pretty girls are powerful and haughty. But I think that this is wrong. More often, pretty girls are shy girls. They can be gawky, nervous, badly dressed. Often, they are surprised that they are called pretty at all.

Pretty girls are assumed to be haughty, I think, because people believe that pretty girls are constantly pretty. This makes them the opposite of unpretty people — who are only occasionally pretty. But prettiness is variable too. No pretty girl is constantly pretty. Prettiness is even variable in age. Some people are pretty fourteen-year-olds and some people are scrumptious sixty-seven-year-olds. Some people are only pretty when they are four and that is a tragedy.

And Nana was pretty. Nana was beautiful.

But how beautiful was Nana really?

Nana couldn’t not be beautiful. She tried not to be beautiful and she was still beautiful. That was how beautiful she was. Nana had attempted the long hair, the short hair, the wispy fringe, the bob, the feathered bob, the crew-cut, the scraped back ponytail, the highlights, and now the short asymmetrical fringe. Even, in a moment of retro glee, a month-long phase of a Marcel wave.

She couldn’t not be beautiful.

In Director’s Cut, on Edgware High Street, hairdressers wandered away from their wet unhappy clients so they could offer advice to Nana. Let us call these hairdressers Angelo and Paulo. Nana entranced them both. Angelo had a pencil moustache and black curls. It was her pallor, he said. Paulo thought that it was her pallor and the colour of her hair. They asked her if she had ever dyed her hair. Nana said no. They told her to never dye it. It was the most extraordinary colour. It was the strangest mixture of blonde and white.

Her hair was beautiful. Nana was tall, thin, pale, blonde, breasty. Her glasses were little black rectangles and she was still pretty.

But — and this was the thing — when she was young she was ugly. When she was at school, Nana was the tallest one, the gangliest bespectacled one. She was mannish and severe. And this had repercussions. All through her childhood, Nana believed she was ugly. Everyone said she was ugly. So that, as a result, she did not like pretty people. Or rather, she did not think prettiness was valuable. Instead she became the clever one, the careful one, the quiet one.

When you’re fourteen you’re gangly and mannish. When you’re twenty-five you’re leggy and elegant. This is ironic. This is a psychological problem.

Now that she was beautiful, she was praised for being beautiful. And Nana was confused by all this praise. Angelo and Paulo upset her. It made her feel pointlessly favoured. She was a girl who hated her beauty. She distrusted it. Pretty made her powerful and that unsettled her. But what could she do? You cannot stop people when they tell you how pretty you are. You cannot tell people that you think looks are unimportant. If you do that, you sound pretentious. You sound hypocritical.

This was why Nana became a non-talker. It might have looked like haughtiness, or oddness, now that she was pretty. But it was not.

An uneasy prettiness — that is how I would describe Nana.

9

Meanwhile, Moshe and Papa were chatting. Moshe said, ‘So you’re in banking. Is that, I mean do you? Is that?’ ‘Well it depends what you mean by banking,’ said Papa. ‘Well, I don know,’ said Moshe. ‘It’s not so much banking as risk,’ said Papa. ‘Right,’ said Moshe. Papa said, ‘There are the elements of risk management in a global context. Then the cleanliness of risk data. Credit-risk modelling. The innovations of GARP.’ Moshe gawped. ‘Garp?’ he said. ‘Generally Accepted Risk Principles,’ said Papa. ‘Not to be confused with GAAP. Generally Accepted Accounting Principles. People often confuse them.’

‘I know,’ said Moshe. ‘GARP GAAP. Always annoys me.’ It did not get a laugh.

He tried again.

Moshe said, ‘I know a banking joke.’ Papa took another glass of champagne. Moshe said, ‘What’s the difference between an English and a Sicilian accountant?’ He waited. ‘No? Shall I tell you?’ he said. ‘Shall I tell you?’ ‘Tell me,’ said Papa. ‘The English one’, said Moshe, ‘can tell you how many people are going to die each year. The Sicilian can give you their names and addresses.’

It got a laugh. It got a polite laugh.

Papa said it was no joking matter though. Sadly he told Moshe that banking was a recipe for crash and burn. ‘Do you know New York?’ said Papa. ‘New York’s just insane. I used to think I’d have to bring my pillow into work and die right there in the conference room. When I worked at Banker’s Trust a friend of mine, Charlie Borokowski, the sweetest guy, odd ties with Egyptian designs. With Egyptian designs. Where was I? Insane. New York’s insane. Oh yes Charlie Borokowski. Charlie worked two days and nights preparing figures for audits, some business with capturing funds. He went to work on Monday morning and I literally carried him out on the Wednesday. He didn’t even remember being there at that meeting. He had very white teeth,’ said Papa. ‘He said apples were why.’

Papa said, ‘You know they want to make a deal when they say, they get on the phone and they say, “Hey hey friend.” That’s how you know they want to make a deal. They say, “Hey hey friend.”’

‘I like that,’ said Moshe. ‘Yes so do I,’ said Papa.

Papa liked this actor. He liked Moshe very much.

10

Nana said, ‘Have you met my father? I want you to meet my father.’ Anjali said, ‘Um um yes I.’ ‘Oh you must meet him,’ said Nana. She walked Anjali over to Papa. She introduced Papa to Anjali. Papa introduced Nana to Moshe.

Papa and Anjali began to talk about Papa’s gorgeous tie.

Nana said, ‘Iss doing really well you must be pleased,’ to which Moshe said, ‘Oh it’s just a paper house.’

This comment was meant to be charming, self-deprecating. It was meant to be a joke. Unfortunately, Moshe was incomprehensible. Nana had no idea what a paper house was. She eyed him, shyly. She said, ‘What’s a paper house?’ She drank from her champagne glass and then realised it was empty. And Moshe pretended not to notice. Instead he explained about the machinations of theatres, their two- for-one offers, their bribes. She said, ‘Oh.’ Then she had a practical worry. She said, ‘It must be ekzausting, learning all those lines. I hate having to learn things by heart.’ She put on her glasses again.

Two things were charming Moshe. The main charm was this. She was one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. The secondary charm was this. She was lovable as well. She was worried about Moshe’s health.

She must have a boyfriend, thought Moshe.

So Moshe tried to impress her. Ever the intellectual, he said, ‘But it’s such an, it’s so intresting to act in it.’ She nodded. Moshe said, ‘It’s really, just. So. Sa wonderful role. The lines aren’t a problem.’ Nana was musing. She said, ‘But all those repetitive jokes. Some of the lines are terrible. “Methinks the spirit of Charlotte Corday has entered my soul now.” That’s horrible. It’s so romantic.’