Read Online Parts Unknown by S.P. Davidson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: S.P. Davidson
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love to. What can I bring?”
“Just yourself, of course,” Trevor assured me.
I was unreasonably excited. Josh directed me to the local Sainsbury’s, and I walked up and down its bright aisles for a long time, looking for the perfect accompaniment to an African meal. The food in England was all so lusciously foreign—trifle in single-serve containers, chestnut-flavored yogurt, and muesli in big bags. The frozen foods aisle featured single-serve steak-and-kidney pies. I was so in love with this country now, the leftover pound coins in my pocket my passport to all this.
At last, I decided on a properly British dessert—ginger cake, brown and shiny, in a paper wrapper. Counting out my change confidently to the store clerk, I felt like I finally had the hang of things—until I realized I was meant to have brought my own bag. Was nothing free in this country? Grumpily, I paid for a plastic bag in which to tote my cake, and headed back to the safety of that row house.
Trevor was preparing the meal. I poked my head in. “I’ve got dessert,” I told him, presenting the cake. “My favorite!” he said politely; he would have been equally polite had it been his least favorite kind of cake, I was sure. “Now please, refresh yourself—I will call when dinner is ready,” he instructed. I waved goodbye and headed happily toward the stairs. A strange clanking sound was trailing from Boris’s room. What did he do in there all day? I stopped and listened. Now it sounded like cutting—scissors struggling to slice through a heavy piece of cardboard. I shrugged, and proceeded upstairs. I’d yet to meet the final flatmate, whose room was across the hall from Josh’s. I sort of hoped I wouldn’t—I wasn’t certain how thin the walls were, and I’d been rather noisy, the past few nights.
I opened Josh’s door with the spare key he’d given me and looked in; he was gone for the evening shift. I wandered out to the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall. Squinted at myself in the mirror—hard to make out my face in the hazy glass with the dim light bulb. I made some experimental funny faces, pulling my lips back ridiculously far, then, bored, went back to Josh’s room. Poked around his toiletries for a bit, trying to gauge his personality from the anti-perspirant he used. Speed Stick—hmm. I hadn’t a clue. Thumbed through his books. Inspected his BUNAC Student Exchange Employment Programme work permit, with a deer-caught-in-headlights blurry passport photo that barely looked like Josh at all. A gray rectangular stamp proclaimed HOTEL AND CATERING TRADES EMPLOYMENT SERVICE.
Then, I scouted around for a secret journal; couldn’t find one. I did find some folded-up pieces of lined paper scribbled with poetry I couldn’t understand:
The palimpsest
Writes the writer
A roundelay in close quarters
As the children outside
Play in the sand, erasing
Stick drawings as they make them.
I had a feeling this poem wasn’t very good. I found a few blank notebooks, some with fancy covers that must have been never-used gifts. Apparently, Josh was a blank slate, just as I was. All possibility. No follow through. Yet.
Finally, inevitably, rummaging through my duffel, I pulled out the sketchbook. The girls twirling around the fountain, the light glancing off their hair. Forever incomplete, because Josh had pulled me away from that moment, and into his. I started sketching—still life with anti-perspirant container—then stopped. Lay back on the bed and fell asleep.
A knock on the door woke me for dinner. I hastily smoothed my hair and slipped on some flip-flops, then scuttled down the hallway, bumping into a tall, olive-skinned man with masses of dark curly hair along the way. “Sorry!” I exclaimed.
“So you’re the new live-in, huh,” smirked the man over his shoulder.
“What?” I gasped, confused.
“Just joking!” he returned, grinning at my shocked look. “I’m Dov. I’ve heard about you. Well,
“Just yourself, of course,” Trevor assured me.
I was unreasonably excited. Josh directed me to the local Sainsbury’s, and I walked up and down its bright aisles for a long time, looking for the perfect accompaniment to an African meal. The food in England was all so lusciously foreign—trifle in single-serve containers, chestnut-flavored yogurt, and muesli in big bags. The frozen foods aisle featured single-serve steak-and-kidney pies. I was so in love with this country now, the leftover pound coins in my pocket my passport to all this.
At last, I decided on a properly British dessert—ginger cake, brown and shiny, in a paper wrapper. Counting out my change confidently to the store clerk, I felt like I finally had the hang of things—until I realized I was meant to have brought my own bag. Was nothing free in this country? Grumpily, I paid for a plastic bag in which to tote my cake, and headed back to the safety of that row house.
Trevor was preparing the meal. I poked my head in. “I’ve got dessert,” I told him, presenting the cake. “My favorite!” he said politely; he would have been equally polite had it been his least favorite kind of cake, I was sure. “Now please, refresh yourself—I will call when dinner is ready,” he instructed. I waved goodbye and headed happily toward the stairs. A strange clanking sound was trailing from Boris’s room. What did he do in there all day? I stopped and listened. Now it sounded like cutting—scissors struggling to slice through a heavy piece of cardboard. I shrugged, and proceeded upstairs. I’d yet to meet the final flatmate, whose room was across the hall from Josh’s. I sort of hoped I wouldn’t—I wasn’t certain how thin the walls were, and I’d been rather noisy, the past few nights.
I opened Josh’s door with the spare key he’d given me and looked in; he was gone for the evening shift. I wandered out to the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall. Squinted at myself in the mirror—hard to make out my face in the hazy glass with the dim light bulb. I made some experimental funny faces, pulling my lips back ridiculously far, then, bored, went back to Josh’s room. Poked around his toiletries for a bit, trying to gauge his personality from the anti-perspirant he used. Speed Stick—hmm. I hadn’t a clue. Thumbed through his books. Inspected his BUNAC Student Exchange Employment Programme work permit, with a deer-caught-in-headlights blurry passport photo that barely looked like Josh at all. A gray rectangular stamp proclaimed HOTEL AND CATERING TRADES EMPLOYMENT SERVICE.
Then, I scouted around for a secret journal; couldn’t find one. I did find some folded-up pieces of lined paper scribbled with poetry I couldn’t understand:
The palimpsest
Writes the writer
A roundelay in close quarters
As the children outside
Play in the sand, erasing
Stick drawings as they make them.
I had a feeling this poem wasn’t very good. I found a few blank notebooks, some with fancy covers that must have been never-used gifts. Apparently, Josh was a blank slate, just as I was. All possibility. No follow through. Yet.
Finally, inevitably, rummaging through my duffel, I pulled out the sketchbook. The girls twirling around the fountain, the light glancing off their hair. Forever incomplete, because Josh had pulled me away from that moment, and into his. I started sketching—still life with anti-perspirant container—then stopped. Lay back on the bed and fell asleep.
A knock on the door woke me for dinner. I hastily smoothed my hair and slipped on some flip-flops, then scuttled down the hallway, bumping into a tall, olive-skinned man with masses of dark curly hair along the way. “Sorry!” I exclaimed.
“So you’re the new live-in, huh,” smirked the man over his shoulder.
“What?” I gasped, confused.
“Just joking!” he returned, grinning at my shocked look. “I’m Dov. I’ve heard about you. Well,
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