The Bellwether Revivals (5 page)

There were twenty or so people maundering in the living room: girls perched on the arms of chesterfields, boys slumped in leather wingbacks by the gleaming fireplace, couples dancing half-heartedly, others standing by the stereo speakers, browsing through records. What looked like an antique harpsichord was pushed against the far wall, a lace tablecloth and a vase of roses set upon the shiny teak lid. The room had its own bouquet, a mix of drying denim, firewood, and the musky odour of bodies. Oscar had never seen a party quite like it.

When they came through the door, everybody turned. Three girls rushed over to greet Iris in a pincer movement, wrapping
their arms around her, screeching: ‘Oh my God, Iggy, you were am-a-zing!’ ‘I nearly cried at the end!’ ‘I just
love
your dress, by the way!’ The rest of the crowd hung back, waiting for their moment. Then a stocky, acne-scarred man in a cream linen jacket came over and took her by the palm. ‘I hear you nailed the Fauré,’ he said. ‘Good for you.’ He was a short, pear-shaped thing, about twenty, with razored sideburns and teeth like a dry-stone wall. His words were pronounced in a measured way, as if to conceal his slight German accent.

‘Thanks, Marcus,’ Iris said, hitting him on the stomach skittishly.

‘If you play some Bach next time, I promise I’ll come and listen.’

‘All you ever want to hear is Bach,’ Eden said. ‘You’re so obvious.’

Marcus tilted his hands in the air, spilling wine from his glass. He trampled it into the rug. ‘Why bother yourself with hobbyists like Fauré when you can perform the music of a master? That’s all I’m saying.’ He glanced at Oscar, raising his eyebrows. ‘And who do we have here?’

Iris made the introductions. She explained how she’d met Oscar at the chapel and Marcus stood there, nodding courteously as she talked. He hardly seemed interested in what she was telling him until she mentioned Cedarbrook, then his grey face brightened. ‘The place with the wisteria?’ Marcus asked. ‘Oh, how lovely. Did you know about this, Eden?’

Eden blinked a few times. ‘Of course.’

The four of them small-talked for a while. Marcus was in the final year of a music degree and writing a dissertation on the death of J. S. Bach. He was quick to make sure Oscar knew how little shame he felt for being at Downing College: ‘It isn’t one of the glamour colleges, but so what? Back in Germany, in my parents’ little mountain town where people still churn their own milk, they treat me like royalty. I should really go home more
often, come to think of it.’ Marcus took a large swig of wine, so big he had to pool it in his cheeks before gulping it down.

‘It’s still not a real college like King’s, though, is it?’ Eden said.

‘You keep out of it. I’m chatting with your friend here.’

Eden laughed. ‘Did you say
vitt
? Chatting
vitt
?’

‘Oh, stop it.’ Marcus turned to Oscar. ‘They’re always making fun of my accent. If they had the balls to go to Germany and talk German they’d get a rude awakening.’

‘Excuse me,’ Eden said, ‘you’re only half German. And I didn’t hear anyone laughing at my accent when I was in Heidelberg with you.’

‘That’s because we don’t laugh in people’s faces. It’s funnier to do it behind their backs.’ Marcus smiled. ‘Do you know what they call Oxbridge students in Germany?’ He moved a step closer to Oscar, lowering his voice. ‘Pretzels.’ He let the word hang a moment. ‘All that dough leaves a bad taste in the mouth.’ He giggled wildly at his own joke. ‘Actually, I heard somebody say that at a formal dinner. Or it might have been Alistair Cooke on the radio. But it’s true, don’t you think?’ He raised his glass and dredged the last trickle of wine from it.

Somebody took the opportunity to change the music. The first bar of ‘Can’t Stand Losing You’ blared from the speakers, and Iris looked over to the stereo. ‘Oh, I just a
dore
this song,’ she said, and held out her hand, willing Oscar to take it. ‘Will you dance with me?’

Oscar looked at her expectant face, dewy with sweat. There was no way he could refuse her.

‘I warn you,’ Eden said. ‘She doesn’t dance very often. It might put you off her for good.’ He leaned an arm on Marcus’s shoulder and whispered into his ear. Marcus responded with a squint of his eyes, as if measuring something on Oscar’s face. ‘Yeah,’ Marcus said, giggling. ‘That’s what I assumed.’

Oscar felt Iris take his hand, her soft fingers closing around his wrist. She led him into the small crowd of dancers in the middle of
the room. When she let go, he felt her absence on his skin like a draught. She closed her eyes, dropping her shoulders to the beat of The Police, dipping her hips, shifting her pale bare feet and lifting the long hair away from the back of her neck, her fingers steepled at the base of her skull. Her lips moved silently around every lyric—she knew them by heart.

The longer they danced, the less conscious Oscar felt of himself and his surroundings. He lost sight of Eden and Marcus, and stopped wondering what they were thinking about him, what they were saying to each other. The beat of the music seemed to lock itself to the beat of his heart. He hoped that he could stay there with Iris on the makeshift dancefloor, a couple forever heel-stepping to a perpetual rhythm. When the first song died out, another one kicked in, then another. They danced closer to each other, Iris turning her back, rolling her hips, sinking. He tried to follow her movements, placing his fingers gently around her waist—she didn’t tell him to stop. The skin on her shoulders was moist with sweat, and he was almost out of breath. He wanted to kiss her, there at the base of her neck.

After four or five tracks, Iris was finally tired. ‘Oh, I haven’t danced in ages,’ she said. ‘I need a clove like you wouldn’t believe. Wait there.’ She smiled and walked off, scouting for a cigarette. He watched her move into the hall, out of sight, and the breadth of the room began to widen. His chest heaved and settled, and he was suddenly remembering himself
—early shift tomorrow, can’t stay too late
. The night was beginning to creep over him like tidewater.

‘You guys seem to be getting along okay,’ came a deep voice from behind him. An American accent, or possibly Canadian; it was difficult to tell. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen Iggy dance with a guy before. Wish I knew your secret.’ A broad-bodied Chinese man was standing there, beer in hand, one thumb hooked in his belt-loop. ‘You want a drink?’

‘No thanks, I’m fine.’

‘Suit yourself.’ The man sniffed. His face was wide as a dinner plate. ‘I’m Yin,’ he said. ‘I take it you’re Oscar.’

‘Yeah. How did you know?’

‘I was just talking with Marcus and Eden.’

‘Oh.’

‘They say you work at some nursing home.’

‘Why does everyone keep mentioning that?’

‘Hey, I was just making conversation.’

Oscar went to sit down on the chesterfield, feeling a sudden ache in his feet. Yin followed, taking a seat right up beside him. His aftershave was the same as Mr Antrim’s in Room 15, a foreign, citrus fragrance that smelled too sharp in the flatness of autumn. ‘Okay look,’ Yin said, ‘I admit we were talking about you, but not in a gossipy way. I guess we’re all so institutionalised that it’s kind of a thrill when we get to meet someone normal. If we could get by without leaving our colleges every day, we would.’

‘You’re not in your colleges now.’

‘Not technically.’

‘Not
actually
.’

‘No, man, believe me, it’s not as black and white as all that. It’s like—’ Yin cleared his throat gently. ‘It’s like Eden and Iggy—they’re allowed to live outside college grounds. They’re the only undergrads I know who
are
. Apparently, it distracts us all from studying if we live off campus, like we’d never read so much as a cereal box if we lived among the bright lights. But the only people Eden knows are college people anyway. So coming here isn’t really any different. This place is like Bellwether Hall or something.’

‘How come they get to live off campus and nobody else does?’

Yin flexed his eyebrows at the thought. ‘Let’s just say their family has plenty of sway around here.’ He rubbed his fingers together. ‘Buildings have been paid for. Donations have been made. You know what I mean. My parents do fine by anyone’s standards, but I’m still sharing a bathroom over at St John’s. That’s how it goes.’ He let out a weary laugh, clutching his forehead as if
the zing of his aftershave had given him a headache. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t usually talk this much. I guess I’m a little drunk.’

Oscar shifted right. The closeness of Yin’s wide body had started to bother him. He searched the room for Iris but couldn’t find her. Eden was nowhere to be seen. The party was now just a gathering of backs turned towards him, strange faces making polite conversation. Marcus was talking to a brunette by the drinks table; a studious couple were standing timidly near the doorway, making eyes at each other. Nobody was dancing any more but the music was still fizzing in the speakers.

Yin leaned forward, elbows on knees, and said: ‘I don’t even know most of the people here tonight. They must be Iggy’s classmates or something. We don’t throw parties that often—you can probably tell.’

‘Do you know where she went?’

‘She’ll be back, man. Relax. Have a beer with me.’

Oscar looked at his watch. It was getting on for midnight already. There was nothing to do but wait around. He didn’t want to seem too eager, to go about the house looking for her, room after room. She would only be smoking a clove out by the back door, or chatting in the kitchen with her college pals. They would only glare at him if he interrupted their discussion, and she wouldn’t be able to give him her full attention. So what harm was there in having a drink with Yin?

‘Cool,’ Yin said. ‘I’ll see what I can rustle up.’

Oscar flicked through the stack of records over by the window. They were mostly 45s from the eighties, pristinely kept in polythene sleeves, and each one had a white label on the reverse that said: P
ROPERTY OF
Y
IN
T
ANG
. He set them down on the windowsill. Through the seam of the curtains, he could see out onto the tenement steps. And there she was, outside with Eden, smoking, talking, gazing across the quiet floodlit street. She seemed red-faced, upset.

‘Drink up.’ Yin appeared beside him with a bottle of Tuborg. For
a second, he glanced down at Iris through the window, too, and then pulled his eyes away, nudging the bottle into Oscar’s arm. ‘I think you should stick around awhile. This whole thing’s gonna wind down soon, I guarantee it. Then we’ll get back to normal.’

‘What’s normal around here?’

‘I mean it’ll just be the five of us. Me, Marcus, Jane, and
them
.’ He nodded at the window, at the shapes of Iris and Eden on the steps. ‘We’re a pretty closed circle most of the time. Our parties tend to fizzle out fast.’

Oscar stayed in the living room, talking with Yin on the chesterfield, until they’d drunk a few more beers between them. Yin was from California, and that made him very different from the others. He was chatty, laid-back, but he spoke frankly at times, never worried about offending Oscar’s sensibilities. He was studying for a degree in history. Though he lacked Eden’s intellectual bluster, it didn’t make him any less sophisticated. He spoke about important, complex affairs like weapons of mass destruction and the Bush administration in a brisk, uncomplicated way, as if they were categories on a game show, and talked freely about his life and family in San Francisco. Sometimes, he let out a deep guffaw to emphasise his jokes.

Yin seemed to hold such a deep affection for the Bellwethers that it spilled out each time he spoke. He would always move the conversation back to them: ‘Yeah, I mean, my mom’s side of the family is weird that way. They don’t let anyone get close to them. It’s a Chinese thing, I guess. But then, maybe
not
. It’s kind of the same deal with Eden and Iggy, too. We’ve always had our own little clique going’—he pronounced it ‘click’—‘and I guess we all like it that way, otherwise we’d let a few more people into the circle.’

‘So why don’t you?’

Yin grinned at him drunkenly. ‘I don’t know. I guess we don’t meet too many people we like that much. It’s hard for people to come in from the outside. We’ve known each other a long time.’

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t worry about it. You’re doing fine. You’ve already got Iris on your side—that’s pretty clear—and Eden won’t let just anybody hang out with him. He must have a good feeling about you or you wouldn’t even be here … I, on the other hand, am still to be convinced.’ Oscar couldn’t tell if he was joking until his face cracked into a smile and he began laughing through his teeth. ‘No, I’m kidding. You’re okay by me.’

Yin was right about the party winding down. Around midnight, the last few guests were putting their coats on in the hallway and others were mounting their bikes outside. The final seven-inch was spooling on the record player. There were only four of them in the room: Oscar, Yin, Marcus, and Jane, who’d taken a seat on the other chesterfield, her thin legs crossed and stretched out.

Oscar knew very little about her. She was a reedy girl with tangerine hair and a star-map of freckles on her face. There was nothing especially attractive about her if you studied her features one by one, but somehow when they were put together in a jumble like they were—small eyes, pale skin, short ears, thin nose—she was quite pleasing to look at.

Soon, Oscar heard the front door close and Eden came striding into the living room. ‘Mind if I turn down the din?’ he said, and flicked off the stereo without waiting for an answer. The silence made everything seem louder somehow: the strain of the leather upholstery against Marcus’s back, and the scuff of Iris’s feet upon the hardwood as she came in from the hall after her brother, looking solemn, tired-eyed.

Eden collected a few wine bottles and took a seat beside Jane. There was something so cordial and Victorian about their behaviour towards each other—a smile here, a kind look there, but not a single touch between them—and Oscar found it strange that they could be so close together on the couch and yet so distant at the same time. They listened while Marcus and Yin discussed the
art of punting: whether a traditional wooden pole was the best choice on a cold day, or if a metal pole and some sturdy gloves were more appropriate. It was the cause for some debate.