6

 

It is both an escape and a burden, this relationship with Ethan that I tend to so carefully. I count every word, and each moment is measured, analysed and guarded against over-exposure. I wonder whether this unnatural atmosphere we’re in is what keeps us together. If we were in a civilian environment, would we still be so close? How difficult it is to develop a relationship within such complex dynamics. And after all this nurturing it may all be in vain. But my time with Ethan is my cure, the exquisite amidst the dreadful.

 

The first stage is almost over. I have more than survived; I have fallen in love and made a new friend. Given the choice, I probably would not have had it any other way.

 

Walking through the rows of neatly spaced tents on my way back from the ablution block, one of my favourite tunes comes drifting towards me. I stop to listen and decide to find the owner of that song. If this is the kind of music he listens to, we will have a lot in common.

The tune is mesmerising. When it ends I meet the owner and we listen to it repeatedly until the batteries of the tape recorder have no power left. We ignore the protests of ‘hippie, blaspheming music’ from the other tents.

Leaving, I think-hear the words of Highway 61:

 

Oh God said to Abraham, ‘Kill me a son,’

Abe says, ‘Man you must be puttin’ me on,’

God say, ‘No.’ Abe say, ‘What?’

. . .

Well Abe says, ‘Where do you want this killin’ done?’

God says, ‘Out on Highway 61.’

 

***

 

Saturday, 2 February, 1980.

When the long, brown hair was shaved off the boy’s head, I was watching a monument being defaced in a coup d’etat of a new order. We greeted this new world with a ‘number one’ haircut. The same and yet so different. Now, two days later, blisters cover our inflamed necks where our long hair used to curl down to our shoulders.

The changes thrust on us define the new creatures we become in a world seen from different angles. I have become a planet torn from its orbit, left searching.

The first week of our acquaintance I spend only watching. This boy has a voice as tranquil as a glider in flight, beyond the mess, tests, injections and abuse.

The ‘browns pants’ we have to tuck into our boots are so unintentionally sexy on him. He is a perfect 32 as he tries on the trousers—a layer of taupe fabric shrink-wrapping my passion.