square white world

I’d been invited to a screening
in the internal courtyard at the back of the house
rented by the friend who makes movies,
short films. His attention was elsewhere
when I arrived, since there were others there
who were quite at home and on a table were
bottles. I think I must already have had a few.
Of course, they were neighbours and I wondered
whether they had been in the courtyard already
and, because they had equal right to use it, 
he couldn’t kick them out, or he had
invited them to see his film. Anyway,
he seemed comfortable to let them stay and very
soon started the film. I don’t remember a single
frame, as if the camera were pointed at the courtyard
where we continued our party and, seeing as how
we were in the midst of the action
being projected, on the screen
was nothing we were unfamiliar with. 
At the end, my friend turned to me,
expecting me to make
some comment. I’d noticed
him turning to me repeatedly, and,
since I’d had a few beforehand and I was scared 
of doing something stupid if I got too drunk,
I’d been avoiding saying anything. I’d even
been avoiding drinking more and, as I said,
I don’t remember a single frame.

Time passed and it seemed to quicken 
and stretch
so that images came and went.
I don’t think I did drink more
but I was feeling the effects. My friend
sat ahead, to the right of me, where
the wooden bar extended as far as the corridor
that was the entry to the courtyard. I was 
too worried about my own behaviour to glance up
at it but it is where the screen must’ve been
on which my friend had shown his short film.
The timber of the bar, like the table top
and benches we sat on, was recycled.
The wood was distressed. A dark tawny grey, 
patches of darker grey showed through. 
They matched the concrete of the courtyard floor, 
that, as if wet, had a sheen to it
reflecting below, even more dully,
dull festoon lights above
and the sky, a lighter
grey above that. Night
may have been coming on or not,
I could not tell. At first no trees
or greenery were visible and the men 
were used to each other. They did not notice 
I was a stranger.

My friend turned pale.
He was sweating and his hair stuck to
his head and neck. In front and to the right,
he was turned to me. If anything, he looked
frightened. I thought, he must not want me
to draw the others’ attention to him, so I
relaxed. But he was very grey, like a fish.
His eyes bulged and he gulped the air.
Seeing as how I’d relaxed, he seemed to as well
and had a drink. Then, it happened again.

He went pale, grey, his face wet, his hair
stuck to his neck and to his head, dripping
with sweat. He turned one way, then the other,
slowly shaking his head. It was as if he could not
believe it, but what could I do?
I looked down, at the table. I saw my hands
clenched in my lap. I tried to relax. Act natural,
I told myself. Had I really had so much to drink?

Others seemed to notice. They patted my friend’s
shoulders and back and asked, Are you all right?
But, when I looked up, he was facing me directly. 
He stared at me accusingly. I could not 
do nothing now. I got up. I walked away, 
in the other direction. Carrying my drink,
I went out into the garden.

The owner of the house was explaining something
to a few other men. He pointed first to a patch of 
ground in the front garden, the corner 
of the property, where a big tree
grew beside the fence and the grass had not
been mown and blackberry wands
stood up from the bushes, and then he 
pointed back, to the right of the house, where,
on the same side of the property as the ground 
he’d indicated, a pergola stood.
It came off the house and had once been white. 
Now rust stains ran from the bolts that held 
it together and the paint had lifted. 
It had a patio below it, small and unloved, 
with grass and weeds around it. He said,
It will match the one by the house.

He was talking about a building project
in the front corner of the property.
They held beer bottles. The others 
were younger than him and listened,
without drinking, while he went on 
pointing and gesturing. His watch’s
stainless steel strap stretched 
in the thick black hairs that grew there. 
It caught the light on the hand holding 
the bottle and his eyes too
glittered.

My friend had looked at me 
like a beaten animal.

Inside the house the couches were
pushed up against the walls.
A younger man was with his friends,
ashtrays balanced on the armrests.
The couch was covered with an old 
sheet. He said to me, What is the enmity
between those two? He was the eldest of 
two brothers. Animus, I repeated to myself,
but this had not been what he said.

He took me through
the front part of the house that
was just a facade and opened up
to a large space, 
its timber rafters exposed, like a barn. 
We stood at the top of the steps, looking 
out over the swimming-pool. That’s 
the last thing I build here, he said.