We’ve turned left out of the school gate. She’s walking a few steps ahead of me and she doesn’t look back. Clearly, this day away from school is something she was going to enjoy anyway, with or without me. Not that I was thinking that it had been a spontaneous suggestion on her part, with her seeing my humiliation as an opportunity to spend some time alone with me or anything. I’m not that vain. Hell, who am I kidding? Of course I’m that vain. And actually I am somewhat deflated to realise that I’ve not become the centre of her universe. See what I mean about girls? I don’t have a clue what the hell goes on in their minds. I swear I don’t.
So anyway, I increase my stride and in a few steps I’m right there next to her. We walk down the street, past the row of tatty looking shops. I can’t help gazing at these store fronts with their peeling paint and cracked windows and general air of decay. There are five of them together in a two-storey block. I guess that when they were built, the idea was that the owners would literally live above the shop. Maybe they still do, but you wouldn’t really want to. Many of the windows that I can see on the upper floor are broken, and filthy grey voile nets hang behind them. As I try to imagine people living in the rooms beyond, just one word comes to mind: squalor.
I try to picture these stores as they would have been when they were first built; clean, with sparkling windows and filled with new stock and optimistic storekeepers and their families, all looking forward to a bright tomorrow. Thing is, I just can’t get that feeling. I usually can. Usually I have a great imagination, but this is asking too much of it.
The neighbourhood that these shops were built to serve, well, we’re walking past what’s left of it right now. This whole area is a demolition site. Most of the houses were condemned a long time ago and just a few ragged and lonely looking brick structures remain. You can’t believe that people still live in these places, but they do. Poor, rootless souls that everyone has forgotten about. The sense of dereliction is overwhelming and depressing. I’m depressed just walking through it. And it’s been like this for years now. Dead, empty land, strewn with demolition rubble. It’s owned by some big-shot property developers and they’re obviously in no rush to go ahead and actually develop. And in the meantime the city has to live with this rotting cancer right in its heart. I wonder where the property developers live. Right next door to me, probably. Property developers can be bastards.
In all this time, while I’ve been thinking, we’ve been walking, side by side. The sun has unfurled his wings and the day is definitely becoming hot. Funny how I think of the sun as being male. I think of the moon as being female. And come to think of it, I’m not alone in this. In French the sun is le soleil – a masculine word. The moon is la lune – a feminine word. It cracks me up how some languages divide inanimate objects by gender. I mean, can’t you just picture it? A suave masculine French mirror coming on to a saucy feminine table? You can’t? Well it cracks me up at any rate. And in German, some words are neuter. Neuter, for God’s sake! Books are neuter in German. Poor old books – the eunuchs of the German-speaking world.
Anyway, this is what I’m thinking as I walk along with this girl. I’m probably thinking all this babble because we haven’t exchanged so much as a single word yet and to tell the truth, I don’t know what to say. I’m not nervous around girls as a rule, even if I don’t have a clue what they want or what they’re thinking. I don’t think it’s her though; I think it’s because I’m conscious of walking through a demolition site wearing a sharp suit and carrying a briefcase. This is not an environment I’m entirely comfortable with.
‘Where are we going?’
I have to ask, if only to break the silence that I’m now conscious of and which is starting to bug me a little.
The girl stops and turns to me, smiling so that I can see the edges of her straight, white teeth.
‘I win.’
Then she giggles and brings up a hand to cover her mouth. I never saw anything so cute in all my life, I swear to God.
‘Just a game I was playing. Wondering who would say something first.’
See what I mean about girls? How can you possibly know what’s going on with them? I mean, I’ve spent tons of time with my sister and we’re really close and everything, but I still haven’t got a clue what’s going on with her most of the time. It’s exasperating. It really is. But the thing about girls is, despite everything, despite not having a clue about them or anything, they’re just lovely. Girls are just lovely and you love being around them. Isn’t that how it is? It is with me, at any rate.
‘Well I’m happy that you’ve won.’
I’m trying to act all adult now, like I’m above her childish game, though truth is, I’m finding it all cute as hell.
‘Now can you just tell me where we’re going?’
She turns and begins to walk on, and in a stride I’m beside her again.
‘Don’t you just like to walk?’
Now what can I say to a question like that? Of course I don’t just like to walk. Does anybody? But it’s obvious that she wants me to think that she might just like to walk. Could be that she’s trying to trick me. She likes playing games. Girls. Christ!
‘No. Not really.’ I decide that honesty is the best policy for now. ‘So where are we going?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Just walking. Come on, it’ll do you good.’
And then she does the damndest thing. We’re wandering along, side by side in the sunshine, among the ruins, and I feel her hand just slide into mine. Just like that, without looking, in one smooth movement like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And don’t get me wrong here, it’s not as though I don’t like it. I can feel the soft embroidered cuff of her blouse pressed gently against my wrist and it’s so lovely that I have to concentrate in order to just breathe properly. Her hand is very soft and smooth. And very warm. And dry. I hate it when you hold hands with a girl and it’s all hot and wet and sweaty. All the time you want to let go and wash your hand but you know you can’t because it would be a cruel thing to do and she doesn’t deserve to be hurt or humiliated or anything. But all you can do is fight back a grimace and wait until you can rush off to where there is soap and water and clean towels. Well her hand is not like that at all. If you want to know, it’s lovely. It really is.
So we’re walking for a while and not saying much, and we’ve left the dereliction far behind. We’re off the road altogether and we’re in this amazing place. I don’t know it – I’ve never been here before – but we’re walking along a path that winds through deciduous woodland with the huge trees shading us from the fierce heat of the sun. The land is not flat and in the hollows there are a couple of fair-sized lakes and the trees go right down to the edge of the water. And there’s a small brook. We can hear it but not see it yet.
There isn’t even the hint of a breeze and while we walk along the shingle path, I catch the scent of her hair. I can’t help myself. I lean just a little closer, so that my nose is almost touching her hair and I breathe in deeply.
That stops her. She turns to me.
‘What was that all about?’
She’s not angry or upset or scared or anything. Well, she doesn’t seem to be. But it’s obviously a new experience for her. What can I say?
‘It’s just your hair. It smells really… lovely.’
She lets go of my hand and although she does it in a gentle way so that I know that it’s not a gesture of rejection, I’m momentarily depressed. That surprises me. I’m usually pretty cool about things like that. But she never takes her eyes off mine as she reaches up and takes hold of her hair, pulling it from behind her smooth, pale neck, and she’s sort of offering it to me. I close my eyes and lean forward until my nose is buried in those soft black waves. I don’t think there’s been a more beautiful moment in history. There hasn’t been, I swear to God.
And after a moment she lets her hair fall, and it glides back into place, cascading about her shoulders. Then she takes my hand again and we’re walking, towards the sound of the brook.
Before you know it, we’re in this sort of clearing, and we’re sitting right by the edge of the brook, shaded by a big willow tree that must be a million years old at least. Thing is, I don’t mind sitting on the grass here, even though I am wearing a suit. It’s very dry. The brook is slow and lazy next to where we’re sitting, but we can hear it gently babbling downstream. It must narrow and run shallow over rocks and pebbles down there. If you must know, it’s very lovely. It really is.
‘It’s lovely here. It really is.’
She looks over at me from where she’s sitting, kinda sideways, and there is this glint in her eyes so that I wonder what she’s going to say.
‘Yes, it is. It really is.’
I could wonder if she’s mocking me or something. But like I’ve said, you just can’t understand girls. Then she laughs and kicks off her shoes and turns so that her feet can dangle in the brook. She leans back on her hands and turns her face to the sky with her eyes closed. I’ve never seen contentment like it, I swear to God, and if I could just bottle this moment and sell it I’d be a billionaire in no time.
I’m looking down at the lazy flow of the water, watching the sparkle of the sunlight on the surface and her toes wiggling below.
‘You should try this. Come on, kick your shoes off.’
‘And ruin a pair of Gene Meyer socks?’
To me that’s a joke, but she doesn’t laugh. Instead she’s looking at me like she’s all of a sudden wondering why she’s brought me here.
‘You sit there dressed like that and you look for all the world like a lawyer. This isn’t a place for lawyers.’
Well what do you say to that, exactly? I’m wondering whether it’s a sign she wants me to leave. Well I don’t know what I’m doing here in the first place, so maybe I should.
‘My dad’s a lawyer.’
Could I possibly have said anything lamer?
‘You don’t say. But you’re not one, right? Not yet at any rate. So chill out and enjoy the day.’
‘I am enjoying it.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes, I’m enjoying the goddam day. I really am. And I have no intention whatsoever of becoming a goddam lawyer.’
And that’s true; I’ve been to Dad’s office a few times. It’s like goddam death row in there, and even the secretaries, who mostly are beautiful, daren’t smile. And you can see that they’d be really happy and cheerful if it was allowed, and that they’re repressing their true natures. I shouldn’t wonder if they become wild drunken licentious sluts on the weekends. Now that would be something to see. I don’t get into the city much at night though.
She just nods a little and purses her lips.
‘Is that right, Holden? You’ve no intention of becoming a goddam lawyer?’
Now right away I know that there’s something going on here. I know exactly what she means when she calls me Holden, and I’m sure you’ve figured it out too. Holden Caulfield is the narrator of the goddam book I carry around with me, The Catcher in the Rye.
‘Why did you just call me Holden?’
‘Isn’t he your hero? Don’t you model yourself on him?’
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Well, you carry a copy of The Catcher in the Rye around with you.’
‘Have you read it?
‘More than once. But not as often as you I’ll bet. I don’t carry it next to my heart.’
‘So I like it. So what? I still don’t see why you’d call me Holden.’
‘Because you talk like old Holden. I thought you were doing it on goddam purpose. I really did.’
Oh that was cute. She’s very sharp, this girl, I’m realising that. And clever. And it looks like she’s well read. I kinda like clever girls, especially if they’re well read. I can’t stand it when you go out with a girl, and you’ve taken time with the way you look, and you’ve taken trouble in thinking about where to take her, and all the time you are with her, all she can talk about is some goddam celebrity or other. You try to discuss philosophy or current affairs, say, but all she can talk about, because it’s all she knows, is what happened to the latest celebrity retard. Celebretards is what Madeleine calls them, these moronic products of vacuous reality TV shows. I think Madeleine invented the word. She might have done. Madeleine is very clever. Anyway, a lot of girls are like that. A lot of boys too, but I don’t care about them. I don’t want to be dating any goddam boys.
‘I don’t talk like Holden Caulfield.’
I can’t look her in the eye as I say it, because while it’s never really occurred to me before, I realise that there’s some truth in what she’s saying, maybe.
She laughs out loud.
‘Oh come on. Tell me you do it on purpose – you must do.’
‘Actually, no. I mean, I’ll take your goddam word for it. But no, I don’t do it on purpose. Really I don’t.’
This time she sees that I’m making a joke of it all and she smiles.
‘You don’t mind if I call you Holden though?’
‘Well, the thing is, yes I do. I’m happy with my own name. And in any case, I’m in no way as cynical as Holden Caulfield.’
And I think that’s the truth. Holden Caulfield is a cynical, complex and contradictory person, wouldn’t you say? I’m really quite simple and straightforward. I don’t think I’m like him at all. Really, I’m not.
‘I’m going to call you Holden anyway. I think it suits you.’
She swings her feet out of the brook and rests them on the tinder-dry grass. Water droplets trickle down her ankles and sink into the ground. I take the Claytons linen handkerchief from my pocket and offer it to her.
‘What’s that for?’
‘To dry your feet with. I don’t imagine you’re carrying a towel around with you in that bag.’
She seems genuinely astonished.
‘You’re quite a gentleman, Holden. Thanks.’
I watch her as she carefully dries the water from her toes with my handkerchief.
‘You know something. While we’re on the subject of names, I don’t actually know yours.’
She stops dabbing at her toes for a moment and looks up.
‘Really? But we’ve been going to the same school for years.’
‘I’ve seen you around from time to time, but that’s all.’
I don’t know whether or not she’s hurt by this. It’s hard to tell. I don’t feel comfortable enough to tell her that I’ve fancied her for a long time and kept it all to myself.
‘Sylvia. You can call me whatever you like.’
The mood has definitely grown a tad heavier.
‘Sylvia is good. It’s lovely.’
And if you want to know, I truly think that it is. It has the ring of tiny glass bells to it when you say it. They’re barely audible drifting on a background breeze. That’s how it feels to me.
‘No wonder you feel happy here. This is your environment isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
She’s handing back my handkerchief but she’s looking directly into my eyes. Her question isn’t a challenge; it’s a genuine request for knowledge.
I squeeze the handkerchief gently in my hand for a moment, feeling it damp and soft, and for some crazy reason valuing it more because it has touched her feet.
‘Well we’re here, in this woodland, and Sylvia comes from the Latin word Silva, which means woodland. That’s what I meant.’
Now she smiles.
‘Yes it does. I bet there’s only you and me at that whole goddam school who would know that, wouldn’t you say?’
I’m not going to rise to that.
‘Maybe. But listen, just in case you ever feel like using it, my name’s…’
‘Tom. Yes I know.’
I must look surprised. I am surprised.
‘Oh, come on. Look at yourself. Everybody knows Tom Hathaway. It’s not like you go out of your way to blend in, is it?’
I have to admit this. To myself, if not to her. I must say, though, that I truly had no idea that I was some kind of school celebretard.
‘I’m still going to call you Holden though.’
‘Whatever.’
I’m getting used to the idea now. And what I like is that I’m getting the feeling that Sylvia and I are going to see more of each other, and I’m really going to like that.
We’re walking through the trees now and it’s late in the afternoon. She’s tucked her shoes into her bag and she’s walking barefoot.
‘Do you hate the movies as much as Holden Caulfield hates them?’
‘No.’
And it’s true, I don’t. I quite like them actually. Not all of them of course.
‘So would you like to go with me sometime?’
Would I?
‘Sure. That sounds nice.’
She seems genuinely pleased and that pleases me.
‘Would you like my telephone number? You could call me…’
She’s sounding a little hesitant now, as though she’s put herself out on the line and she’s not sure what my response will be. It’s kind of touching, actually, since this is the first time in the whole day that I haven’t felt that she’s one step ahead of me.
I take the phone from my pocket and offer it to her.
‘Here, put your number in this.’
She reaches out to take it with her left hand and that cute embroidered cuff rides up a tad and I can’t help but stare. She notices and pulls her hand back but it’s too late because I’ve seen. On the inside of her wrist and extending up her arm farther than I can see there are scars. Some of them look old and some of them look newer. But they are all from deep cuts and that is for certain. I’ve never seen anything like it, I swear to God.
She’s turned away from me and I’m standing, holding out the phone. What can I say? Should I say anything? I don’t want to talk to the back of her head. And do you know what? I think she’s started to cry. I really do. And it damn near breaks your heart, doesn’t it, to see a girl like that crying?
She’s not sobbing or anything, but there are tears rolling from her eyes as she turns to me.
‘Let’s just go home and forget that today ever happened.’
That’s not what I want.
‘There’s no need for that. And anyway, I thought we were going to the movies sometime.’
Even I’m smart enough to realise that it’s the wrong time to ask about those scars.
The tears are still trickling down her face and I am glad for her sake that she is not wearing make-up, because she’d be looking like Alice Cooper right about now if she was.
‘You’d still want to go? Even now?’
‘Sure I would. Why wouldn’t I?’
She’s pretty vulnerable now, not the confident happy girl who led me into this place earlier. I want to hold her, but I daren’t, not just yet.
‘You’ve seen. And you still want to go to see a movie with me?’
‘Of course I do. Nothing’s changed.’
And it hasn’t. I really do want to go out with her, no matter what.
‘Then I want you to see.’
She begins to unbutton that cute little embroidered cuff.
‘There’s no need…’
‘No, really, I want you to see. I don’t want you to think that I’ve got anything to hide.’
Still the tears are running down her pale cheeks as she rolls up her sleeve. I reach out with my handkerchief, still a little damp from drying her feet, and gently wipe them away. The goddam handkerchief will take on the aura of a holy relic before the day is through at this rate.
God but it’s a terrible sight to see. It really is. There are criss-crossing scars all the way up to the inside of her elbow. And some of the scars are like letters and they spell out a word that you can read as plain as anything. And I swear to God that the word that they spell out is Tom.