TC Mangan: A Feast of Tongues

Time seems to dilate while she walks along the Green. Neat clapboard houses line the grid like gravestones, or teeth, and in front of each, where you might find a campaign sign, is a blue university plaque with the road name and building number. There is no description of what’s inside. That is for those who know. Breaking off the pattern midway, a big grey building like a tomb, definitely square but nonetheless resembling the Arc de Triomphe, also bears a small plaque, and then follow more houses, decidedly colonial in bearing. Where the Green ends is a chapel all in red brick and then a long low building of only two or three stories, facing more clapboard and then sandstone college buildings giving off steam and friedfood odours.

     Add to this vista now Aurelia, picking her way up the gentle slope the way a spider climbs a drainpipe: carefully. She is a nondescript sort of woman, who spends her Saturdays on the MTA and padding around Park Slope, eating pastries, taking a look at things. Last week, when she ducked into a little thirdwave coffee place, the menu advertised all the different adaptogens she could get, and she wanted to ask for estradiol, but no one in this country seems to understand when she’s joking. So she got an espresso for walking around with, and a scone, which they called a biscuit. That was then. This is now, headed up Elm Street, the sour taste of milk burned on the steam wand at the place on the corner. She sees Annie coming out of the little union office tucked behind the church, the glass moment cracks and finally breaks.

     As she approaches she raises the hand containing the halfempty cup and, seeing Aurelia for the first time, Annie raises her arm in a parody of a salute. It’s not true that all dolls look the same, but the two do look similar. While they couldn’t quite be siblings, they might have dated the same person, someone with a type. But Annie is a few inches taller, and both of them are insecure about that in different ways.

     Annie says: Working hard, or hardly working?

     And Aurelia says: Hardly working.

     Sensible girl. Take it easy, I say.

     Always do.

     Annie takes out a carton of cigarettes, bright red with a silhouetted Native, and puts one between her teeth. When she holds them out to Aurelia, Aurelia demurs. She has one of those chunky lighters, very satisfying.

     Aurelia has thought before about whether she’s attracted to Annie and decided it would be better not to be. Best case scenario, the thing would have no future, and while former lovers on two continents sounds glamorous, Aurelia has come to think it’s better just to have hot friends. It’s not that she’s been hurt too many times, but she has hurt herself before, more than once. All this flicks through her head while she watches Annie smoke, curling her body towards the cigarette and squinting in the winter sun. For a second, she has a guilty delusion that Annie can hear her thoughts, and then Annie says: Listen, do you want to come to the bar with me tonight?

     What bar?

     It’s called Bar, says Annie. They do pizza.

     Everywhere here does, says Aurelia. But I can’t. She declines to say why.

     Annie does not ask. She’s thinking about this strange girl, apparently dropped on her doorstep (Toto, we’re not in London any more) and obviously deliberately modulating her accent to sound less like, well, a stereotype. To be understood. But evasive, too, Annie finds. Reticent. It’s a combination you sometimes see in girls like her, girls like them, and Annie is content to leave well enough alone. So she exhales the thought and says, Another time, then.

     Sure, says Aurelia, looking restless. I’ll text you.

     Don’t forget, says Annie, but Aurelia is already moving off. She has this odd walk, lurching forwards with one shoulder, the rest of her body trailing. By the time Annie is grinding the butt of her cigarette under her boot, Aurelia is at the crosswalk, nudging Los Camp louder in her earphones. She steps into the road without looking and—is it possible she hasn’t seen?—a huge flatbed, the actual bed of course sparkling and empty, comes to a squeaking stop to avoid her. The flags flying from the back rumple and hide their slogans. The driver adjusts his cap and lets out one long HOOOONK. A small jump is perceptible in Aurelia but she keeps it trucking. On the curb she almost bumps into a woman waiting for the campus shuttle who watched the whole thing.

     From here it’s a straight shot to the archive and she’s done it enough times that she doesn’t have to look at anything. She doesn’t look at the al fresco chairs that nobody sits on, at the charity workers with buckets, shaking them softly to elicit the sound of bills rustling, and especially not at the great grey windowless coffin that squats on the sidewalk like a crow. Like a carrion bird. She’s never seen anyone go in or out of it, probably never will. But even without looking she thinks of it all the way across the plaza, about the rising seniors who may or may not be inside. Then she puts it out of mind as she shucks her jacket and descends into the library.

and who now AAAAAAremembers the quinnipiacsAAAAthe cotton ginAAAAAA the colt revolver     AAAAAAAall those riversAAAAunderground nowAAA replaced by the railroadAAAthe hard clams growing        unassisted        lining the shore      harvested sometimes   for wampum     now sold on the halfshell in chowder        on apizz'           and lining only the pockets        of momandpop storeownersAAAAup and down the grid systemAAAAAAAAAAof new haven CTAAAAAA the red tide AAAAAAsoaking into the land

When she surfaces, she finds it’s rained and the water is sitting undrained all across the plaza. All in, she brushes off a seat and collapses into it. She hates the archive, lowkey. When you get to that second file box it starts to feel more like secretarial work than anything intellectual. But that’s probably a bad binary for her to set up. Sometimes she wants to drop out and do something with her hands.

     She spends probably too long watching shortform videos, mostly from this one girl who makes videos in gas station parking lots. Sometimes the girl smokes cigs and sometimes she does scratchcards. The girl never wins more than a few dollars but she often talks about the importance of maintaining positive mental attitude. America’s amazing, isn’t it. When Aurelia’s fed up of the videos she gives in and checks her messages. No cancellation but no confirmation either. She’ll have to wait and see.

     What Aurelia didn’t want to tell Annie is that she has a date this evening. That whole spiel about lovers in two countries, being hurt, hot friends: she doesn’t believe that. She’s a romantic! Every time she hurts herself it’s because she really believes that this time can be different, which could be inspiring if it weren’t so—silly, really. Nine out of ten friends agree, the situation’s hopeless. She’s incurable. But she has learned enough that pursuing anything with Annie, who is her friend, feels dangerous. A date with a comparative stranger feels like lowering the stakes. So she has two reservations for a gay film on campus, and expects to be joined by Alexis, who she matched with on an app a few weeks ago. Alexis is tall and has a wolf cut. (Aurelia has a type.) Alexis’ profile shows that she went to college here, but she works at a café in town. Aurelia has seen her there, but that was before they matched. Alexis said yes to the date. So that’s… good. Now if Aurelia can only believe that.

     The spots of grass on the main quad where tents were pitched are starting to grow out. In her reluctance to do more work, she finds now that she’s hit the main road again, the one that cuts through campus like a forest fire, or a slashandburn operation, and in her reluctance she finds herself following it northwest again. Coming out of the gate she can see the women’s space, the post office, the turn for the old campus and the trees drying out in the fall, can almost hear the carillon ringing out. There’s a few hours before the undergrads go back to their colleges for dinner and as she walks she passes kitchen staff hauling boxes in and out of side entrances, some full of food and others full of washing. Every dining hall she passes is full, already, of warm light and shining brown wood. Every sticker has been defaced so that where it once said Palestine it now simply says Free.

     When she reaches the crossroads at the head of the street, she remembers that, at the weekend, she passed Alexis here and felt like a stalker. It revealed to her, then, how much she needed this date. Today there’s a huge crowd waiting at the lights and she doesn’t know a single one of them. For a second, regret wells up in her, regret that she ever came. This place is so big and lonely it makes her want to retch.

     She kills the rest of the time in the expensive grocery store, looking at Wisconsin cheese and artisan nut butters. After she’s seen everything there twice she gets a big bag of crisps (chips) and a champagne cola, and when she’s almost done queuing she goes back for a second one, just in case. She’s been to the auditorium before, and when she gets there she messages a description of her position to Alexis and puts her big bag on the seat next to her. All sorts of people are streaming in, students, professors, older white men and women who look like they could be donors. Someone in a black film archive tshirt sits by the door and clicks a counter. The room gets pretty full and people start asking Aurelia whether that seat’s taken. She starts to believe it: she’s been stood up. The feeling is the other half of being able to tell someone, I told you so. At the last possible moment, as the programmer is already speaking, a warm hand settles on her shoulder and a voice says: Aurelia?

     It’s Alexis! She climbs over Aurelia’s knees and falls into the chair. From her bag Aurelia takes the chips and gives them to her date. Then she pulls out the second cola and, raising her eyebrows, offers that too. Alexis takes both and pops the packet open, to a shh from the woman next to her. The house lights are going down now. Alexis eats a handful of chips and, mouth full, says oh, what the fuck. Aurelia does the eyebrow thing again and is given a handful in return. She puts one in her mouth and finds it soft, like eating salty cardboard. She tries not to laugh.

a few years ago now                someone vandalized that statue of christopher columbus

writing kill the colonizer         in large red letters        and the city took it down     for good

in 2020        like coppicing hazel           it grows back stronger every four years         invasive                  yelling about truth, justice     my way or the highway     the statue replaced    with     a family of immigrants         who did not          after all              require a green card

The film turns out to be really good. It’s called Go Fish and it’s about dyke drama. Alexis enjoys it too, and while they’re queuing up to leave she tells Aurelia a story about someone she used to date who, like the women in Go Fish, tried to set all their friends up with one another. It was out of insecurity, she says, because the relationship was never going to last. Aurelia is experiencing this vertiginous feeling, like when you’re at the top of a rollercoaster and your stomach goes before you do. It’s not unpleasant, in fact it’s quite exhilarating. (Hopeless!) When they’re done the crowd spits them out on the sidewalk and they stand there talking until they’re the last people left.

     Are you cold?, Alexis asks suddenly.

     Not really, says Aurelia, and then suddenly worried: Are you? Do you want my jacket?

     The jacket in question is sleeveless, and has patches all over it for bands Alexis doesn’t even recognise. She laughs and says no.

     I just meant, she elaborates, that it’s getting late.

     Yes, it is.

     I should eat something.

     Yeah. Me too.

     Aurelia can see the hints but it’s like she can’t pick up what Alexis is putting down. She’s worried about what happens if the nickel on the floor turns out to be glued down, making her look a fool. The shadow of something crosses Alexis’ face. Then she gives in and announces: I know a great Ethiopian place on Whitney. Do you want to come?

     I would love that, says Aurelia. For a second she thinks Alexis might take her arm but she sails away without a word and Aurelia is pulled as if by a towline. It’s nice to feel the wind is with her for once. Maybe America wasn’t a mistake after all! They take a right on the main road and walk along the cemetery, past the tombs and faculties. Under the Egyptian revival arch they slow down, and smell the winter arriving. A honking and beeping draws both their eyes to the crossroads. A demonstration, chanting, is moving to block the way. They want land back, and the U.S. out of everywhere. Drivers get out of their cars, cyclists dismount.

and over the gate,       the legend:        the dead        shall rise


TC Mangan started writing this piece on occupied Quinnipiac land and finished it at home in north London