Click! And Posy looks at the digital camera display.
Camden. Sunday morning. Three teenagers.
Why did Posy click just then? Why did she choose precisely those three, in that whirling melting pot? What struck her?
For Raven it was a question of pitch. He had thought about it for an entire year, he had accepted that nauseating job at the fish ‘n’ chips place. That fried smell would stick on his clothes and in his hair, all the way to his home in the suburbs. He would lie for hours in his bed every evening, listening to the sound produced by the strings. He would imagine chords, and would fuse them together till they would make a song. All he had to do was stare at the poster on the wall… and his hands would be playing that imaginary instrument.
Whenever he was free he would pass his time transfixed to the shop window. Looking at that creature. She was his muse, as she had been for Kurt.
Then that Friday, at the end of May, arrived. He had gone home howling with joy, holding his pay in his hand… counting again and again the money he had saved, and controlling prices on the Internet once more. He had gotten up early, at dawn, that Sunday. He had worn his favorite jeans, his vintage sweater, the blue All Star, and the Manchester Utd cap.
It seemed to him that the tube sounded its horn for him, while he ran through the tunnels.
He was only a few steps away from his dream, when Posy shot the picture.
For Rhonda, it was a question of taste.
A fusion of oriental perfumes and extravaganza of colors. A cathartic moment for her. It wasn’t just food, but truly a philosophy of life. The same that she expressed through her clothes… With that large ethnic scarf over broad cotton pants, and the patchwork on her purse that somehow went well with her leather sandals.
Those clothes seemed a cascade of fabrics undulating on her body, as she walked toward the Indian food stand.
Among the stacks in Rhonda’s library reigned darkness, the accomplice of women intimate chats, in the Nair train car.
She had passed a sleepless night, losing herself in the Bombay of the ‘70’s, in the revolution of Armaiti, Laleh, Kavita and Nishta. She had allowed their lives and their decisions to invade her. Thrity had become the friend that would take her to distant lands, with whom she would forget the boredom of the long hours on the phone, trying to sell discounted tariffs.
Rhonda was undecided that Sunday morning, in front of the large blackboard and that menu with its almost infinite choices. And it had been in that moment of pensiveness that Posy’s click caught her. An instant before her friend’s arrival.
Choice. Yes, for Rod it had been a choice. It wasn’t just a chainlet. It was to become the symbol of a person and of a life. You could see it from far off that the upper-class youngster, who seemed just out of a Fleet Street office, was about to give his tall, blond and blue-eyed girlfriend a necklace.
Rod’s had had a “business class” life. Fine schools, fine family, and now was thinking about marriage, kids, career.
Perhaps he should have indulged in some “sentimental journey” once in a while. So Posy thought. Perhaps that boy left scarce room to imagination and seemed out of context in Camden. Too “square”, too “perfect”, too “bourgeois”.
Still, when he looked at things, he seemed to go “beyond”, reaching out to the intimate essence of any object he handled.