Hemingway and the Holy Communion; or, a week in the life of an English student
All of this week happened, more or less.
Monday. The weekend left no trace of its existence, save for the headache and a vague dread that I wake up next to. The morning Sun doesn’t take my condition into consideration and storms in. My bed is low on the floor, and the beams hit my eyes from the slits between the stacks of books that surround me. Every now and then when I sleep one falls on my face, and I wake up screaming. Some of the books are for courses, most for just my pleasure and interest. All of them have a bookmark on around page fifty, no more. It is now half past ten. Nothing to be done about the morning lecture. I make coffee and eat a banana and get ready to go to the library.
After an arduous half an hour of studying I call it quits and message a friend: “drinks tonight?” An affirmative reply soon comes. The day feels better already. I go to my afternoon lecture with something to look forward to in the evening. The entire lecture I spend on sudoku.
At home after the lecture, I lay in bed and wait for the appointed hour. The books around me wait to be read but there is no time now. Tomorrow perhaps. I scroll on my phone and see nothing.
Finally the evening arrives, and I head out. My friend is waiting for me at a booth in the bar. I look around to see if there is anyone interesting there. I look if Hemingway is there. But he is not, not yet. I get drinks for my friend and myself and sit down. We go over the weekend. I tell him it was not as good as I had expected it to be. There is always next weekend, my friend puts it out.
“Do you ever feel like there is a great something to be found when you go out drinking and partying?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Hmm. I often feel like I am chasing something spectacular, a perfect conversation with someone, the perfect night with the perfect level of inebriation. To grow wings, even if for the night. Realise it all and afterwards move through life with a knowledge that was crucial to be had from that specific moment. Something like that.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Alright. Do you want another round?”
We drink more and talk about a book I have not finished reading. I think about how amazing literature actually is and how much I now look forward to reading in the morning.
Tuesday. The previous night went on longer than expected. After every drink I ordered, I gained new confidence that I would find him. Maybe today. There is a board meeting in the evening, followed, of course, by drinks. Can’t ever tell where just one drink might lead. I want to read some before the evening, and so I lay in bed and scroll until it is time to go. When I get up the books around my apartment seem to grin, the bookmarks in each like a malevolent tongue stuck out. Head hurts again.
The meeting goes as usual. My foot taps under the desk anxiously. When the meeting is closed, I ask immediately: “where for drinks?” We go to the bar downstairs, the one with great lighting and quotes by authors under their portraits on the walls. It makes me feel like I am able to someday, perhaps, be a part of something great. I am sure Hemingway had similar thoughts as he sat in some dim bar in Paris. We get a round, then another. I start to fall in love with life again. Tomorrow, I promise to myself, tomorrow I will read more. How good it feels now. Everyone is having a great time. I go buy another drink, and on my way to the counter it crosses my mind that he might be here. That’s it! Hemingway might be here! Just then I see a greying, bearded man in a thick, woollen turtleneck, sitting at the counter. He is facing the other way, but there is no question about it now. I almost run to him and stop only a step away. ”Excuse me,” I say, ”what is your name?” The man turns to me slowly and gives some boring and unprofound name like Mike. Alright, not to worry, it’s early yet. I go back to the table and sit down, while still craning my neck in search of him.
“I think I ought to head home,” a friend says. The others agree and start to get up. I don’t notice this because I’m still looking around. Only when I’m alone do I fully realise that they left. I down my drink and get another.
Cutting through a patch of woods later on my way home, I come across a great chestnut tree that seems to have been split in half by lightning (although I later find out it was only rotten in a weird way). Above it the sky clears just enough to reveal a moon that looks almost red at this hour. My mind immediately races to all sorts of ominous and off-putting predictions and forebodings that a sight such as this must entail. I begin shivering and hurry out of the woods. Back on the sidewalk a minute later, I come across a giant advertisement that warns against the dangers of alcohol. I shrug and continue on my way.
Wednesday. How odd, I didn’t even stay out that long, but now my head seems to be splitting like that tree. A great cosmos coming to its untimely end is all sloshing around in there. I walk to the kitchen, slowly, and down two glasses of water. It is Wednesday. It is Wednesday! The bar crawl is today! I feel rejuvenated by the thought of all that is to come in the evening, though not rejuvenated enough to go to my lecture. I lay in bed all day and manage to read some five pages among the scrolling.
Four in the afternoon comes. I have the pass in one hand, the first drink of the night in the other. All my friends are there, all are laughing. No time to linger in one place, the pass needs filling, as does my heart! We go from bar to bar, stop for smokes, meet some friends that were lost earlier, lose them again. If ever I could be filled with the Holy, I think this is getting close to it. The only thing missing now, the only thing to raise me from the darkness for good, is if I found Hemingway. I look for him in all the bars and on the walks between them. I only find more drinks.
Thursday. Jesus, I want to believe in you now. As if the drinks I had yesterday were not enough, it feels like the drinks of all the revellers of the world are now all accumulated in my head, searching for an escape. No worries if I skip the lecture again.
I remember that I agreed to go to a karaoke night yesterday; I never break a promise made drunk, especially if that promise involves drinking. Tiredness has certainly been taking root this past week, but still, can’t ever tell what might go down, who I might meet if I go out. And you know what they say, it is a truth universally acknowledged (at least in the case the universe resides solely within the confines of my aching head), that a student with a hangover must be in want of another drink.
Turns out I can sing quite well. Or maybe it is the fourth gin and tonic that has made me bold for the night. No matter! From the little stage the world looks beautiful. The drink in my hand reflects light in a way that I can hardly believe something so beautiful exists at the same time as me. It emanates such light it is almost like a beacon. Maybe he will see this light and come for me. But he doesn’t, and the search continues. On my search I happen to stop by the bar counter some ten times.
Friday. Nothing worthy of note takes place. I have a hangover and an anxiety that fuel each other so that I shiver in bed all day. Why the fuck would I ever read anything? The books smile maliciously. I order pizza and watch a documentary about Mount Athos, a mountain on the Aegean where Orthodox monks have been praying continuously for a thousand years. To have such devotion is something I yearn for, especially in this state.
In the early hours of morning, I finally fall asleep from all my shivering.
Saturday. Today is the anniversary dinner. I get up at one in the afternoon and don’t feel all that terrible anymore. It’s not actually that bad! I put on my tuxedo and admire the timeless look in the mirror, never mind the colour of obsidian under my eyes. It matches the suit, now that I think about it. The stacks of books look at me from behind my reflection. They are not so mischievous now but inviting. Tomorrow I will read all of you, I think. Tomorrow, I will immerse myself in all of the knowledge in the world, all of human experience written down! Not today though, not yet.
In the hall everything is spectacular. The people, all my friends, all look gorgeous. The cocktail soothes the last remaining pain of the past days. This is where it all begins.
“Today!” I say to my friend, “today I shall find Hemingway!” She laughs and hands me a cigarette.
Finally we are seated, and it begins. Speech. Applause. Sing. Toast. Could almost ask for nothing more. Great white columns rise along the walls, dark vines grow on them and sing of the past. We are among ghosts, among all the great minds of history, everyone is here, and I am everyone. More songs! More drinks! Let’s keep this thing going. We leave the corporeal behind, we rise towards Heaven, almost there now. It is midnight but light from a thousand suns comes in through the windows. Let’s keep this thing going, I am bound to find him soon! I look for him in the crowd, he has to be there.
Then it’s five in the morning. They are cleaning up. I ask around for afters, but everywhere is closed at this hour, everyone is going home. I didn’t really even talk to anyone tonight, only kept looking for him.
At home, seven in the morning. The Sun is up already, that saucy pedantic wretch, ridiculing me for staying up this late. Slumped on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet and looking at my reflection at the bottom of it, I try to find a glimpse of him. He must be in there somewhere. I only see His decaying work that is my face.
Sunday. I wake up late in the afternoon, shivering all over again. A hundred arrows fall on my head. I realise I missed Sillis and the fear of missing out hits me hard. What if he was there? What if today would have been the perfect day, the day when I find him, find it all. I shiver so violently a book falls on my head and I scream.
In the evening, I eventually manage to get up and go for a walk. I make my way to the city centre and observe the things around me. There are people going somewhere, perhaps to parties. For me, there are no parties tonight. There are no parties tonight. My head hurts but it is nice to just walk around, in the open, feel the hurt finally. The spring air bites into me but it is nice too. Maybe, maybe I should take it easy now, wake up early and read in the candlelight, have nice walks and go to all my lectures. Yes, I will read, at last. Maybe I will never find him and that’s the point. I’ve never even read the man, what do I care! Alright, it’s settled. No more witty and insubstantial remarks and references. Starting from tomorrow, new schedule, I will take care of myself, think for myself, live for myself and not for him. Doesn’t sound too bad!
Except it is April 30th next week. Everyone will be there. Hemingway would be there.
