"...And so when you divide the pressure by
h, that gives the wall stress per unit length," I say, sketching out a representative diagram on my notebook as I speak. We're in the Pavilion, a small building which is common property for the residents, and I'm explaining a Physics problem to my companion. "Got it?"
He throws down his pen. "That was easy!" he blurts.
Easy? I frown, wondering if he truly understood it all. While the concept was a simple one, it was difficult to teach him anything, ever. He was too accustomed to editing out what he didn't comprehend, relying on a flimsy structure of partial truths.
"I understood it perfectly," he continues, and I am reassured, a little. "Why couldn't the lecturer explain it like you? You draw a few diagrams and I understand, perfectly." The tone is not complementary, but as if stating some fact.
You explain things better than the lecturer.
"Well, everyone learns differently," I downplay, reaching for my cup. I swallow the ginger beer, now tepid from standing too long.
"I guess I do better with diagrams sometimes," he accepts, picking up his empty cup and takes it away to the dustbin. I notice that the bottle still has some ginger beer left, so I pour it all into my cup and chug it down, one long draught. Meanwhile he arranges the books along the far shelf, books which are there for common use, with an attentive hand. I understand the affection. We cleaned this place up. I survey the chairs, the pool table, the long bar-counter with the sink at one end, the sofas, the numerous stools. They are all in their proper places, now.
A bare three hours earlier, it had not been the case. I had come in through the glass-fronted door with my dog-tag, which opened any common property on the residence, and found him fiddling with the noticeboard. I barely noticed at the time, my attention was caught by the chaos in the room. Chairs were in random order, occasionally overturned. The tables were arranged as if someone had been trying to make a maze out of them. One dustbin, usually at the opposite end of the bar-counter, had ended up at the far end of the room. The bar-counter itself was littered with playing cards and empty beer bottles, along with a generous flood of what was probably Coca-Cola. Papers and more bottles were scattered across the room. I observed a pair of cubic objects on the pool table and picked one up unthinkingly. The blue chalk slid onto my finger, smooth and oily.
It was a disaster zone. Whoever was responsible for cleaning this all up would have quite a job.
"What happened in here?" He hadn't answered, still occupied with the noticeboard. "Were they all drunk?"
"Probably." He opened the refrigerator, reached for the orange juice bottle, balked at the layer of precipitate at the bottom of it and took out the apple juice instead. I gathered together the cards on the counter half-heartedly as he poured the juice into a plastic cup. He lifted it and then realised his error. "Oh, s…stuff." The cup had a small puncture in its base, and was now dripping apple juice over the counter and the floor.
I went behind the counter and winced at the sight of more playing cards, this time all over the floor. I bent to pick them up and immediately withdrew. "Oh, yuck. They're sticky!"
"Uh, yeah. I dripped apple juice all over them."
Mentally cursing I picked an easier target, the crushed balls of paper decorating the floor. I had no intention of cleaning the common room, of course. Just to clear it up a little, then go on to the study group which was the real reason I was here.
But as I dropped the last beer bottle into the recycling bin and washed my hands at the tap, I thought – I can clean my hands anytime.
I still felt disgust at the sticky cards, but picked them up anyway. Once they were stacked properly on the counter, I took a rag and cleaned away the fluid. The rag felt oily in my hands, but there was no soap to be seen.
On a thought, I raced into the toilet and pushed at the soap dispenser, the door banging behind me. It was empty.
Defeated, I decided that water had to do. I crawled all over the floor, clearing bottle caps, paper balls, paper aeroplanes and… orange seeds? Goodness knows where those had been. I shuddered, but picked them up anyway. Meanwhile he dragged the chairs back in order, pushed the stools into a single line against the wall, arranged the tables into a straight line.
"Come and look at this," he said. I crouched to join him, beside the table-tennis table. Something seemed off about it, perhaps the wooden beam slanting crookedly to the floor. Experimentally I lifted it; one leg of the table twisted to the side in response.
"Better leave it." I let go, aware that the table was not in the correct place, but not wanting to risk moving it.
A few more wipe-downs, a few more items thrown away, and suddenly the room seemed habitable again. I had looked around then, realising how little work it had been to return everything back to normal. And then I had an epiphany.
The Pavilion had surely been dirty before. But every time, someone – not a professional cleaner, but one of us – had put everything back in order.
Because it was ours.
I stand up to wind down the louvers. They are high up, so there is a pulley system for closing them. The crank handle moves with surprising fluidity. Meanwhile he hits a button on the wall. The automated shades, flapping like yellow sails outside the porch, wind up slowly.
I toss away the empty ginger beer bottle, gather up my things, cast a look around before I go. "Heh. It’s all nice and clean. Thanks to us."
"Mm," he says noncommittally, putting his hand on a door-handle. It is at that point that I realise there is a door there. In fact, there are four, spread out across two sides of the building. I hadn’t noticed.
He opens it partway, then lets it fall back. "Better not," he says, showing an odd – respect? – for tradition as he takes hold of the front door and lets us out. I glance back as I leave. "The fans are off."
"I turned them off earlier, remember? It was getting too cold."
Outside on the porch, the wind slams into me. "Who needs fans?" I stand in the wind, the air circling me and tossing my hair, while he walks around to check that all the doors are closed from outside. All four doors.
And then, as I stand on that porch, looking at the transparent walls, the four doors which could surely be all thrown open at once although they never are, standing with the wind around me - the building feels alive. Like a machine, thrumming with life and eagerness and those automated shades and those pulley louvers all waiting to come online, a pulse running through the stained metal pillars, those knowing glass windows watching, and understanding.
All of a sudden I don't want to leave.
Instead I stare out, at the lake right beside the small building, the trees all cast in evening sunshine, the grassy hillock in front. An army of ducklings are climbing the hillock, bills scanning the grass.
"They've moulted."
"What?"
"The ducklings. They've moulted."
"How do you know?"
"Look at them. They have feathers now."
He pauses, considering. "They don't look as fat as they used to," he concedes.
Naturally.
He walks off in the direction of his apartment. The wind gusts at my back, pushing me off the porch and towards home.
I obey, the chill buffeting my legs as I walk.
