{"id":66600,"date":"2014-02-12T18:58:38","date_gmt":"2014-02-12T23:58:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=66600"},"modified":"2014-03-07T13:57:16","modified_gmt":"2014-03-07T18:57:16","slug":"common-language","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/02\/12\/common-language\/","title":{"rendered":"Common Language"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"snooker<\/a>

Photo: Konstmat, via Flickr<\/p><\/div>\n

During my junior year of college, I had the chance to study at a university in London. I flew out of JFK on September 15, 2001, and the flight was so empty I was able to lie down across four seats for the first and last time in my life.\u00a0In England, many of our fellow students seemed to feel obliged to either ask solicitously about our 9\/11 experiences, or express their views on American imperialism. In both capacities, I felt I proved a disappointment.<\/p>\n

During that year abroad, my American friend Rachel and I became fascinated with a group of fellow literature students who seemed to us unspeakably wonderful. They never said anything in seminar, they always looked glamorously ridiculous, and, best of all, their company was highly exclusive.<\/p>\n

We came up with names for all of them. There was the seeming leader, \u201cRobert Smith,\u201d who had sculptural, Cure-like hair. \u201cCharles and Camilla Macaulay\u201d looked a bit alike\u2014in fact, the whole crew struck us as very Secret History<\/em>-esque. We called one tall, severe boy \u201cAdam Bede\u201d; one emaciated fellow was \u201cSchiele\u201d; another, I\u2019m sorry to say, was just \u201cthe Balding One.\u201d<\/p>\n

They moved in a pack, smoked roll-ups in a secretive cluster, exchanged notes and amused eye contact during class, and cohabited, or so we assumed. The clique seemed to us all things not-American. It shamed us to think that they associated us with the Boston girl who was always shouting loud, obvious things about Sylvia Plath or the sleazy Arizona boy who hit on all the prettiest girls. We were desperate to prove our worth to them, but how? The only person outside their circle with whom we\u2019d ever seen them associate was a studious, translucently fair young man named Rupert Davies. <\/p>\n

For weeks, Rachel and I watched the group from afar, talking about them an unhealthy amount, like teenagers with an obsessive crush. We pretended our interest was ironic. We both knew the truth. Where did they go? What did they do? Whatever it was, it was obviously much cooler than what we were doing, which, in my case, was eating at the Indian YMCA every night in the old man cardigan that was my ill-considered uniform.<\/p>\n

One evening, at the department Christmas party, something momentous happened. Rachel and the Balding One danced together\u2014sort of\u2014for the entirety of a Grease<\/em> medley. But they were all very drunk. Lots of people were, besides the abstemious Rupert Davies, who did not dance. And the next day they went back to ignoring us.<\/p>\n

Several weeks later, Rachel and I were sitting in the student union when the entire pack of them came in. They seated themselves at the next table and their conversation was wholly audible. Talk had turned to Rupert Davies; it seemed he was not, in fact, a member of their circle at all, because they were mocking him.<\/p>\n

\u201cI have often wondered,\u201d said Camilla Macaulay, \u201cwhether he bleached his eyelashes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, come now, he\u2019s an albino,\u201d said Robert Smith impatiently.<\/p>\n

Then, magically, he turned to us. \u201cRupert Davies.\u201d he stated. \u201cAlbino?\u201d<\/p>\n

We fell all over ourselves in our desire to please. Oh yes, we said. Albino. Definitely an albino. Clearly an albino. Absolutely.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt would explain a great deal,\u201d said Schiele, somewhat obscurely.<\/p>\n

Rachel and I stood the next two rounds. Obviously we did. We learned their names. They offered us cigarettes. We hardly dared look at each other for the elation.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Americans this year,\u201d said Camilla, whose name was Kate. \u201cDo you know many of them?\u201d<\/p>\n

Oh, no<\/em>, we said. They were awful, appalling, embarrassing, we had nothing to do with them.<\/p>\n

The evening wore on; it was last call.<\/p>\n

After what appeared to be some silent communication amongst the others, Robert Smith\u2014whose name was Gareth\u2014turned to us. \u201cWould you like to come to our after-hours?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

We trudged for what felt like a very long time to an unprepossessing street. But we were walking on air; we were about to be admitted to the inner sanctum, to a place that was surely so cool, so exclusive, that no other American had ever been extended the privilege of entry. We were, we both felt, now in that exclusive fraternity of the acceptable inhabited by T.\u2009S. Eliot and Henry James.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere we are,\u201d said Charles, whose name was James. We descended some steps and there we were.<\/p>\n

It was a twenty-four-hour snooker parlor.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho\u2019s buying?\u201d said Arthur, formerly known as the Balding One, looking at us expectantly.<\/p>\n

\u201cI will,\u201d I said somewhat reluctantly. After a moment. \u201cWhat would people like?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSmirnoff Ice,\u201d said Robert Smith. \u201cIt\u2019s what we all drink.\u201d I waited another moment to ascertain whether he was joking; he was not. I tried to decide whether this was awesome. I was beginning to suspect otherwise.<\/p>\n

The twenty-four-hour snooker parlor was brightly lit and stuffy.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, do you play?\u201d I asked after yet another moment of silence as I absorbed the shock of my first-ever Smirnoff Ice. (Berry.)<\/p>\n

\u201cOh no,\u201d said Arthur. \u201cWe just come here. Every night.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d said Rachel.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, not every<\/em> night,\u201d said Kate, leaning in. \u201cSome<\/em> nights \u2026\u201d she lowered her voice as if about to reveal a delicious piece of gossip. \u201cSome<\/em> nights we go to mine and we work out the harmonies for Beach Boys songs. A cappella.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the only reason to bother with that albino Rupert Davies,\u201d said Robert Smith\/Gareth. \u201cIn fairness, the man is very good on the high harmonies.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWould you like to join us some night?\u201d said Arthur eagerly.<\/p>\n

\u201cUh, maybe,\u201d I hedged.<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Sloop John B\u2019 is our best, probably,\u201d said James, or whatever his name was.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s something I\u2019d like to ask you,\u201d said Kate, \u201cbut I don\u2019t want to overstep.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure, anything,\u201d said Rachel.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell\u2026 \u201d she said. \u201cWhere were you on 9\/11?\u201d<\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

We never saw them again after the Night the Magic Died. We made other friends, good friends, and the year went on. It turned out they were right about one thing: Rupert Davies had a really beautiful voice. He wasn\u2019t, incidentally, an albino.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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