Fool's Love

2. A Secret Unturned

London is still rebuilding after the second world war, though more than a decade has passed. Some areas are still sealed off, but beyond the plastic barricade were new buildings; some nothing more than metal scaffolding, others a mixture of brick, concrete, wood and glass, reaching for the clouds. Construction workers flutter around in their reflective vests, trying to clean up clutter or gathering in small groups to discuss further developments.

A giant stone tablet in the heart of the city holds the names of everyone who had died in the war, soldier and civilian. Clouds of smoke from nearby factories roll over the top of the towering brick buildings; soot darkens the windows that face the streets. Clothing racks filled with drying garments wait on outdoor balconies; occasionally, the breeze will tug something free, usually a sock, and send it spiralling to the street below.

Here, in the lower-class dwellings, everyone is packed closely together. There are so many sounds, honking cars, screaming children, double-decked buses squeaking to a halt, policemen blowing their whistles, and street performers playing their instruments over empty cases, it leaves you feeling dizzy.

But, it is one of the few places I feel like one of the crowd, less of an oddity. The upper sphere would always spit on me, but no one here cared who my father was as long as I could work or spend money in their stores.

Colourful photographs wait on the sides of buildings, advertising chilled glass bottles of Coca-Cola, fresh haircuts for men, and dresses for women.

I walk into the barber shop near Dove Street, where Blake lives and works. It's a neat place. Red tile covers the floor and half the wall— the rest was a dirty white, which hadn't been cleaned in years. The studio had been in their family for a few generations.

Blake's British grandpa had travelled to Canada long ago and fell in love with a young lady from the Iroquois tribe. He brought her here, opened this hair studio, and purchased the apartment above it, where they lived relatively in peace for the rest of their lives.

Despite his rich heritage, Blake knows nothing of his grandmother's tongue or past and wears his bluish-black hair long, almost shoulder length. The white light falls on his golden skin. His dark eyes watch the floor as he pushes crescents of hair across the chipped tiles with his broom. The air is thick with the scent of greasy bodies covered in cologne and the faintest stink of sewage coming from the back where they keep the bathrooms.

Blake's father, a tall, muscular man who had served in the last great war, tosses scrunched-up paper at Blake's head, and Blake, turning around, notices me and smiles. He almost glides across the floor to get to me and wraps his arms around my shoulders. "So, you're interested in my proposal after all?"

"Not exactly. I thought you might want to play tennis."

"If you're paying," he says, spinning me around and pushing me toward the door. "Well, Father, I'm off. Call Davie if you need help because I know he's not doing homework." Near my ear, Blake whispers, "The asshat locked himself in his room to," he points to his groin and finishes, "Elizabeth. Thanks to that fucker, I'm stuck looking after this mess." Blake nods to a bald man with a thick mustache that looks remarkably better after Blake's sister, Tiffany, places a wig on his head.

"And some of these customers," Blake murmurs, shoving me out the door, "expect you to be at their beck and call. 'Boy, get me a glass of beer—boy, this beer is too cold. Can you hold it till it gets warm?' Now, honestly, the name 'Blake' ain't too hard to learn, is it?"

I shrug.

Blake studies the side of my face. "So... what did you want to talk about?"

"I think my mother has been lying to me about my father."