Open Water, Caleb Nelson [best summer books txt] 📗

this question forever; rather than asking what is your favourite work, let’s ask, what continues to pull you back?

Last year, on a summer’s evening, you presented your battered copy of NW for Zadie to sign. A brown headwrap, gold hoops swinging from her ears, and something like knowing on her face, despite admitting earlier in the evening she was perpetually unsure. Her presence was peaceful, slow, ­sage-­like. She could see you were a little awkward, a little ­overwhelmed – your friend will swear you were close to ­tears – and steered the conversation.

‘Where’s your family from?’

‘Ghana.’

‘Ah. My mother married a Ghanaian, briefly. You’re wonderful people.’

‘What happened? Your mother, I mean.’

‘Some things aren’t meant to work out.’

You spoke some more, and you ­tried – and ­failed – to explain what the book meant to you. That there were many similarities between your ­south-­east London and her ­north-­west.

‘South-­east – where?’

‘Catford.’

‘My grandma lived in Catford. I spent a lot of time there growing up.’

You smiled, while she signed your book, unable to say any more. Unable to tell her you have read her book many times and will do so many more. To tell her where your breath catches, where your eyes widen. That illustrations of desire slipped into the comfort of a paragraph did not go unnoticed. You want to say when you read her essay about this ­novel –

The happy ending is never universal. Someone is always left behind. And in the London I get up ­in – as it is ­today – that someone is more often than not a young Black man.

–­ that you understood.

Her mother’s interest is piqued when you mention writing.

‘What are you writing, fiction?’

‘I dunno. Kind of. It’s just to supplement my photography, really. Trying to find another form to tell stories with. But yeah, I spend a lot of time with novels.’

‘So,’ she says, crossing one leg over the other. ‘There are really only two plot devices when writing: a stranger comes to town, or a person goes on a journey. All good work is just variations of these ideas.’

You ponder this when you leave. But what of NW, the book in which no one wins?

And what of the life you lead? Who is the stranger? Who is the familiar? And what are their journeys?

You didn’t know whether to hug her mother when you were leaving but rode an instinct, wrapping long arms around her quickly, not lingering. She smelt of petrichor and a place you might grow to call home.

Waiting for the bus in the darkness, you pull on the hoody. It smells like her: sweet like the torn petal of a flower, sweet like lavender plucked from its stem while in summer bloom. You put your headphones on and load up Kelsey Lu’s EP, Church, an album full of orchestral loops designed to reach towards a quiet ecstasy. You could be anywhere right now, your eyes closed, enveloped in her presence, which is heavier in her absence. But you are home, amongst the melody, slipping into percussive breaks, breathing easy.

10

You’re riding the Overground, from Shoreditch to ­south-­east London, when she calls. It snowed earlier in the day, a layer of white dust bordering on disruptive. Yet, when walking to the station, the only trace was in your memory, the ground wet now, the air crisp.

‘Where are you?’ she asks.

‘I am . . .’ You look outside and latch onto the enormous Sainsbury’s. ‘Pulling into Brockley.’

‘I’m back from Dublin. Thank God for reading week.’

‘I thought you were back on Monday?’

It’s another Saturday night and the train is loud with a group of football fans talking at a level you’re sure they have normalized across the course of the day.

‘Nope, today. Who is that?’

You get up and walk towards the exit, cupping the microphone to your mouth.

‘Bunch of guys. Palace fans, it looks like.’

‘Why are you whispering?’

‘Cause it’s all ­good-­natured but I don’t want them to think I’m chatting about them.’

‘Fair. ­Listen –’

‘Yeah?’

‘I think you should get in an Uber and come to mine.’

‘You think,’ you say, ‘I should get in an Uber and come to yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. I will.’

‘OK. OK. When will I see you?’

The train pulls in a few moments later. As you run off the platform and into the street, weaving towards your taxi, you experience a strange moment in which you are flung into the future, wondering how you will remember this. You would like a witness. You would like someone to stop you and ask, What are you doing?, to which you would reply, I’m doing what I feel.

‘Hey, friend.’

‘Hey, friend.’

‘I missed you,’ you say.

‘Did you now?’

‘I did.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘This is the part where you say, “I missed you too.” ’

‘Eh – kinda.’

‘Whatever.’

She beams and throws her arms around your neck, her mane of curly hair tickling your face as she pulls you close. Today, shea butter and coconut oil. As you separate, you point at her ­T-­shirt.

‘You drink Supermalt?’

‘Absolutely not. That drink is horrid. My cousin gave me this shirt.’

‘How can you not like Supermalt?’

‘It’s like a whole meal in a bottle. So heavy. It doesn’t taste good either, tastes like . . .’ She shudders, as if whatever she is trying to recall is traumatic.

‘The Ghanaian in me is offended.’

‘Unless you want to keep being offended, keep that drink away from me.’ You walk through to her living room, she to the kitchen. ‘Speaking of, have you eaten?’

‘Unless you count the two ciders I had earlier, that’s a no.’

‘Let’s get takeout. Pizza. Hot wings. Both.’

‘Both?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Hmm,’ you say, struggling to keep the smile from your voice.

‘What?’

‘You never finish food.’

She folds her arms and her features crumple in disdain.

‘You never finish your food.’

‘I always finish my food.’

‘No, fair.’ She shrugs. ‘My eyes are bigger than my stomach. Anyway, that means I always have lunch the next day.’

‘I’ll give you that one,’ you say, pulling up the takeout website. ‘I feel like a big part of our foundation is eating and drinking together.’

‘I don’t think those are bad things to take pleasure in.’

‘Neither, neither.’

When the food arrives, the doorbell buzzes, despite you leaving instructions to ring when they get here; she doesn’t want to