Chapter Text
Thus spoke the past. My gears had been thrown off course. It had been like a dream, yet like a projected photograph, it had faded to sepia but would not fade away.
I cut short my chat with a friend and hurried off to the record shop. My mother was at her wits’ end, for Jonathan had listened to every single record my father had left behind. That was why I found myself running there like this every day. Even if it was cold, seeing Jonathan so delighted—with those dull, glossy black records behind him, looking as though he might mistake the morning for the day Santa Claus had visited—made all my troubles seem worth it. Jonathan. Little, sweet Jonathan.
Jonathan, whose eyes would sparkle at Mozart, whose body would tremble slightly at Mendelssohn, and whose ears would be enchanted by the grains of sound in Ravel. The truth was, I simply wanted to see more of those smiles and those delicate gestures. The streets in April were still cold, and tourists who’d chosen thin coats were hugging themselves and shivering.
Though I felt a twinge of pity for him, there was nothing I could do—nor did I do anything—and I headed for my usual spot. It was the record shop my father used to take me to, a place that sold both second-hand and new records. The warm, woody orange walls and the gentle heating tickled my cheeks pleasantly, and I closed the heavy door, squinting involuntarily.
The dust, the warmth, and that distinctive, cloying smell made me shiver involuntarily, wondering if it might be the east wind that hadn’t yet blown. Even though I’d only been alive for a mere twelve years, why did my heart deceive me into thinking this was a place I’d known for ages, that this was where I belonged? My mind was far too immature for that, and all I could manage was to put off reaching a conclusion.
Glancing out of the corner of my eye at the classical section I’d always been transfixed by, I headed for the rock shelf. Magazine, Joy Division, Talking Heads. Ever since my sister introduced me to these, Jonathan and I had been captivated by the sound of guitars strummed in a way we’d never heard before, and by a world-weariness that sounded like a sob, all spilling out from the gleam of those spinning black discs.
It’s a good thing to be able to share a passion for the same things. Above all, it made it so much easier to obey my mother’s instructions. Jonathan listened far faster than I did, and with such precision and depth that he might just ask for the next one. Timidly, and with a touch of embarrassment. Every time I thought of that, my heart would swell with deep rapture, and I felt as though it were filling with something warm and viscous.
Reaching the shelf where my father used to fetch records for me, I truly felt I had grown up. Tracing the ‘T’ section, I reached out to pick up The Smiths. Then, something organic and cooler than anything I’d ever felt before, possessing a distinct mass, enveloped my hand. It wasn’t the paper of a record sleeve. It certainly had flesh, bones, and a heartbeat. ‘Oh no,’ I thought, and before I could forget, I instinctively squinted to see what sort of face this person might have—and from that moment on, I was drawn into ‘him’.
Shining dark brown hair, one eye covered by a white gauze patch. Though his gaunt face was as long as mine, and though he was of small stature, he somehow evoked the spirit of a child who had died too young. And the crowning touch was that eye. A blue eye peering out from sunken skin.
Ah. This encounter was more beautiful than Vienna itself, and more intelligent than Leipzig.
‘……Why are you still looking?’
So he murmured, surprisingly, from lips that were swollen and tinted. Yet the words, which seemed to trail off, were low, like a bird skimming the ground. He spoke as if he had seen more than I, the intelligent one, yet his voice—which had not yet broken—had a peculiar, slightly sticky quality.
‘Er, I’ve seen you before. You go to Abington School, and you’re in Class D, aren’t you? Your name is——.’
I’d seen those eyes before. After all, with such distinctive features—though perhaps each one on its own isn’t particularly striking—there’s no way I could have forgotten them. As those eyes darted about frantically, I found myself rummaging through the drawers one by one, only to realise, before I knew it, that time had run out.
‘Er, um…’
‘You don’t remember me, do you? Well, it’s a big school and I’m only just starting out, so it won’t make any difference if you don’t remember just one person. You seem to have plenty of friends, so it won’t be a problem.’
It was a sarcastic, barbed remark, yet somehow it didn’t bother me. Is this what people call ‘filtering’? His barbs seem to pass through my brain correctly before they reach me; I get the feeling it’s simply his way of being. Or perhaps people call this ‘distortion’? Or maybe he knows something else entirely.
‘That aside, pretending to remember me when you haven’t actually learnt my name is a minus point in my book.’
Saying this, he bared his sharp canine teeth and laughed. He looked a little sulky, which was somehow endearing. I felt I’d finally caught a glimpse of him acting his age. In the endless, empty night within his all-seeing eyes, there was a candle, and a platinum candlestick, into which one could insert it and light the flame.
The slightly strong heating felt pleasant.
‘Doesn’t it bother you? You’re surprisingly lenient with your marks, aren’t you?’
‘You’re the one who talks a lot for someone with such a demure appearance. I’m surprised.’
‘I’m often told that.’
And so, because it would become a memory even more hideous than this Oxford, with its sky full of clouds, stifling and chilly all year round.