Open waters Goop

Our May goop Book Club pick is a lyrical debut novel by Caleb Azumah Nelson. Open water explores the depths of romantic love through a bond between two best friends and young blacks who meet in a London pub. You will fall on them quickly.

From Open water

The first night you meet, the night you both deny as a brief encounter, you pull your friend Samuel aside. There are many of you in the basement of this bar in south-east London. Birthday celebration. Most are on their way to being drunk or happy, whichever they prefer.

‘What’s up?’

‘I don’t normally do that.’

‘It usually means this is something you’ve done before.’

‘No, promise. Pinky, you promise, ‘you say. “But you need to introduce me to your friend.”

You’d like to say that at this point the older gentleman spinning the plates faded a bit quickly, something like Curis Mayfield’s ‘Move On Up’, into something just like that. You’d like to say it was the Isley brothers, ‘Fight the Power’, who played when you expressed a wish that you didn’t fully understand, but you knew by which you had to act. You’d like to say, a dance floor rose up behind you and young people moved as if it were the eighties, where movement in this way was just one of the few freedoms provided by those who came before. And since you remember that, freedom is yours. But you promised to be honest. In reality you were so taken aback by the presence of this woman that you first reached out to squeeze her hand, before opening yourself up to the usual wide hug, which resulted in awkward waving of your hands.

‘Hello,’ you say.

‘Hello.’

She smiled a little. You don’t know what to say. You want to fill the gap, but nothing comes. You stand, watching yourself, in a silence that feels no discomfort. You imagine that the expression on her face reflects yours, curious.

“You’re both artists,” Samuel says, helpfully interrupting you. ‘She’s a very talented dancer.’ The woman shakes her head.

‘You too?’ she says. ‘What are you doing?’

“He’s a photographer.”

“Photographer?” the woman repeats.

‘Sometimes I take photos.’

‘Sounds like you’re a photographer.’

“Sometimes, sometimes.”

“Coy.” Shy, you think. You skip the conversation and watch her shoot after you. A red light tilts over her face, and you see something, something like kindness in her open facial features, as her eyes watch your hands talk. You know the language, definitely south of the river. Definitely somewhere where you would more likely call home. That way there are things you both know and say with your being, but here they remain unsaid.

‘Would you like a drink? Can I get you a drink? ‘You turn around, noticing Samuel for the first time since the conversation started. He withdrew, fainting a little; he smiles, but his body betrays that he feels excluded. Feeling a sting of guilt, you try to welcome him.

‘Would you like a drink?’

A woman’s face unfolds with true, kind fun and, as she does so, your hand is on your elbow. They distract you; you are needed. The dance floor has cleared up a bit and there is a silence filled with everything that is yet to come. There are cake and candles and an attempt at harmony during ‘Happy Birthday’. You slide your camera away from where it sways on your shoulder, training the lens on the birthday girl, Nina, as she wishes, a lone candle on her cake like a tiny sun. When the crowd starts to disperse, you are pulled in all directions. As a solo cameraman, it is your duty to document.

The music restarts. People stand in small clusters and pause as you focus on the kind faces looming in the darkness. The older record revolves around rhythm. Idris Muhammad ‘Can the sky ever be like this’ responds.

Coming out of the crowd, you stand behind the bar and lift your long neck in several directions. Here, when you look for a woman once more, that night in question, a night you both deny as too short an encounter, you realize she’s gone.

Separated from Open water © 2021 Caleb Azumah Nelson. Reprinted courtesy of Black Cat, printed by Grove Atlantic, Inc. All rights reserved.

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