Clear: A Transparent Novel

Silence.

‘The porter,’ I stumble on, ‘at the hospital, told me exactly what to do for her.’

Nothing.

I clear my throat, I inspect my watch. ‘I really, really, really must return to work…’ I announce (with just a tinge of regret), then tiptoe over to Aphra and gently place the wodge of tissue across her brow. She immediately tips her head, with a cattish yowl, and tosses it off.

At last the woman finds her voice, ‘You’re scaring me,’ she announces (normal volume).

‘Well you’re scaring me,’ I shoot back.

I take my mobile out of my pocket.

‘This might all seem a little strange,’ I say (a small laugh in my voice – not entirely successful – wish to God I hadn’t tried that…), ‘so I’m going to give you my phone number.’ I hold up the phone (my technological talisman) as I march on past her and into the living room. I find a stray pen and a random pizza delivery service leaflet and scribble my number on to its corner. I tear it off and hand it to the woman, who, after a moment’s delay, has followed me through.

‘Adair,’ I say, and point to myself (as if English is actually her second language). She doesn’t do me the honour of repaying the compliment.

‘Very nice to meet you,’ I add, backing slowly off, ‘I’m actually very relieved you turned up, because I didn’t really want to leave her…’ I pause, still backing. ‘I mean…’ I pause again. ‘I mean…so terribly ill and everything.’

The woman slits her eyes. She utters a single, short, sharp syllable (but it’s certainly a choice one) –

‘Scram!’

Okay. Yes. Good idea.

I do my best to oblige her.

God.

There’s one thing I’m certain of: Solomon Tuesday Kwashi (pronounced Solo-mon, and don’t you dare forget it), my sarcastic Ghanaian flatmate (I call him my flatmate, but we basically share a house – his house – where he pays the mortgage and I effectively squat) is going to love this story. There’s nothing he enjoys more than a tragic tale of chronic, psychosexual trauma with ‘The Young Master’ (yup, that’s what he likes to call me; or ‘Massa’ when he’s in an especially good humour) as its pathetic butt.

We’ve lived together (like two crabby old queens) in his house on Cannon Street Road (just off Cable Street) for eight long years (four-storey – with an attic – Georgian, all original features: those brilliant, butcher-shop-style rectangular white tiles in the utility rooms, the well-worn stone floors, the deep enamel kitchen sink with its thick wooden draining boards, the beautifully irregular handmade sash windows…).

It’s a house deeply imbued with precisely that kind of ‘effortlessly pared-down’, ‘homespun’, ‘artisan-style’ ambience which all those pathetically desperate, head-scarf-wearing, cheesecake-eating, middle-class ponces in Bethnal Green and Whitechapel can only ever aspire to (and slaver over, and throw money at, and still come away wanting).

The bricks outside are stained black from a fire (years ago – possibly when the houses opposite were bombed out during the war, and where now there’s just a tall wire fence, an expanse of municipal lawn and a block of flats), but the front door is immaculate (the palest pale yellow – with an astonishingly large, antique clenched-fist knocker) and the windows inside (curtainless, of course) are pristinely shuttered with a series of wonderfully faded, grey oak panels.

Mwah!

Solomon has an enviable eye (for everything, damn him: art, music, fiction, fashion, furniture). And he’s rich. And he’s handsome. And he’s impossibly successful. But it wasn’t always so.

(Don’t think for a moment that he’s one of your proud African princes who wears colourful dresses and a matching tasselled cap. Oh God no. Not he. Solomon has yanked himself up by the bootstraps from ir-redeemably common stock; his mother – I’ve met her – uses the hem of her skirt to blow her nose on, picks her teeth with a kitchen knife, crosses her arms across her considerable girth, squeezes them – her face set into an expression of exquisite concentration – pushes out a fart, and then sighs her relief.

Solomon knows how to box, is a whizz in the kitchen, falls casually into peerless patois, broad cockney (at a push – although he prefers to flirt with perfect modulation), can fix an old Cortina, owns three killer Dobermans, sneers at ‘ponces’ and ‘cunts’ and affectation, is principled, has ‘standards’, lives by his own ‘ethical guidelines’ – and Christ knows they’re strict ones. This man could’ve roomed with the late Ayatollah Khomeini and have found his morals ‘unedifying’.

Clean? You’re saying clean? Solomon polishes underneath his shoes. His toilet habits make the Japanese look sloppy).

We went to UCL together. I did Media Studies and English. Solomon did Philosophy. In truth, I couldn’t ever have called us ‘the best of mates’ (we’re chalk and cheese – he’s definitely the chalk. And me? I’m generally served up – slightly above room temperature – on a greasy platter).

His attitude towards me has always been one of genial (nay sanguine) toleration (although he could teach Anna Wintour some lessons in haughty. Cutting? Cutting?! Like Jack the Ripper’s razor).

I actually found this house (I did. That’s my single claim to fame, and – I suspect – the only reason I’m still living here). I brought Solomon on board to remove the locks (he’s got himself an O’ Level in Breaking and Entering) and we started off as a couple of squatters hanging loose in the basement.

But Solomon ‘worked out a deal’ (of course he did) with an early bunch of contractors. Rented, invested, ducked and dived. Soon got his hands on the ground floor, the first floor, then the second and then the third. Journeyed from ‘Social Outcast’ to ‘Pillar of the Community’ (sits on the board of governors at a local school, has four children of various hues on a mentoring programme, fought tooth and nail for a new zebra crossing, founded a local ‘living history’ society to encourage racial integration among the bolshy cockney and Asian populations).

Meantime, I’m still quietly lodged in my original basement room, thinking about girls, playing on my XBOX, listening to Funkadelic; a tragic carbunkle hitched (like a bloated tick) on to the smooth heel of Solomon’s relentlessly advancing, righteously ideological, all-conquering life-style.

I mean where’s the guy find the time, huh?

Sometimes (if I’m lucky) he’ll bring me out and parade me around when some of his real friends are visiting (artists, musicians, accountants, decent people) and he’ll make me tell them the story of how I shagged a 55-year-old journalism lecturer for six months (to try and improve my grades at college), and then, when it came down to the crunch, she broke my heart and failed me (The bitch. And I shouldn’t have failed. I was on track for a B. It was my best fucking subject. I just wanted the A so bad I could taste it – although, in retrospect, that was probably just the dusty residue of her lily of the valley talcum powder).

Yes that’s – ‘Ha ha ha. That’s very funny…A splash more Johnny W., Martha?…’

So what does Solomon do, you’re wondering. Good question, but not good enough (Yeah. Maybe you’re getting a little taste of how it is to be me now, huh?). Because the only sensible question to ask in this situation is: ‘What doesn’t Solomon do?’

If you asked him directly he’d probably fob you off with a sarcastic aside about being ‘a jobbing inkhorn’. His main gig (or one of them) is at The Economist, where he writes complicated stuff about Globalisation, world debt and branding.

Imagine how it feels (just for a moment, if you wouldn’t mind) to actually be living with someone who read philosophy at university (the degree of choice for crackpots and losers), then graduates, then ‘reads a lot’, then ‘takes an interest in stuff’, then ‘asserts himself’, then ‘meets a few people’, then ‘kicks around some ideas’, then ‘gets proactive’, then ‘discovers a niche’, then ‘earns some respect’, then ‘makes shitloads of money’, then ‘blows it’, then ‘earns some more’, then ‘has a blast’, then…

How the hell did he do that? I mean I was right here. I stood idly by and watched (half an eye on the Guardian review of the new Coen Brothers project, fantasising about Rose MacGowan, casually mauling a Pop Tart).

How did he do that?

Jealous? Jealous?

Fucking hell! Wouldn’t you be?

Solomon is the guy who the ‘ideas people’ in the advertising industry desperately want on board when they’re sourcing a new product. He’s the man who knows everything about ‘the newest kind of beat’, ‘the nastiest type of drug’, the ‘most beezer vitamin’, the ‘top colour’, the ‘most innovative fabric’. He’s the chap who gets invited to all the best parties but who is too fucking cool to ever turn up.

Solomon is the only man I’ve ever met who can wear those ridiculously poncey Paul Smith shirts (the ones with the paisley and the frills and the photographic flower prints) and still ooze bucket-loads of raw machismo.

Solomon is best pals with Chris Ofili. Bjork thinks he’s ‘a hoot’. He stole (I repeat he stole) Lenny Kravitz’s last-but-one girlfriend. He owns two early Jean-Michel Basquiats. He had a cameo in NYC art wunderkind Matthew Barney’s Cremaster 2 (or 3, or 4), where he appeared as a rampant black goat in a golden fleece and stilettos (coated in Vaseline).

And you know why? Because Solomon is an archetype. Solomon represents something. Solomon is the Über-man.

Solomon grew up – for a year – on the same estate as Goldie, and introduced him to his dentist. Solomon got a blow job he didn’t really want off a female MP in the locker rooms of the House of Commons (‘How could I refuse? It meant so much to her…’). Solomon told Puff Diddy that he should ‘seek redemption through sport’ (then Diddy promptly ran the New York marathon, for ‘Charidy’).

Want me to go on?

Okay. Solomon met Madonna (yes, that’s right) in a NYC bar, and she chatted him up and he turned her down (‘Too muscular,’ he sighs, ‘that bitch really needs to soften up’). He told Robbie Williams to be ‘more like Sinatra’. He predicted ‘a major downturn in MacDonald’s economic fortunes’ – to the actual month, two years before.

Solomon had a feud with Palestinian intellectual Edward Said. Alicia Keys claimed he ‘broke my damn heart’. He calls Mario Testino ‘a sad, little turd’. The people who run The Late Review (BBC2, after Newsnight) consider him Public Enemy Number One after he casually accused them of ‘espousing the worst kind of tokenism’ (they asked him to appear, on-screen, to defend his position – of course they did – but he told them, ‘I’d rather get Meera Syal to lick the cheese off my knob’).

Yup.

Solomon’s a radical. And he’s vicious if he needs to be (‘the world never changed yet,’ he says, ‘through somebody asking nicely’). He has a whole bunch of theories about how The Culture is only really interested in rewarding (and exploiting) black mediocrity. ‘If they’re afraid of UK Garage,’ he says, ‘then they kill UK Garage. Simple as that. Blow the black-on-black violence issues out of all proportion, shit-up the promoters, deny it the radio-play. Stop spinning the discs on Radio One by creating 1-Xtra (Black Music for Black People), aural apartheid, and only available on Digital, remember…?’

(Yeah. So that’s why I catch him listening to it, and with such obvious enjoyment, all the livelong day, eh?)