Peaces by Helen Oyeyemi (best books to read for self improvement .txt) 📕

say that Tolay kept me on nervous-breakdown watch for about a month after that discovery, to say these things understate what was going on in my head. But eventually, after disentangling myself from contracts I’d signed for the harpsichord book, I was able to return to ghostwriting with absolutely no illusions about having any other path. And the second time I was the one who told Tolay I couldn’t see him anymore. I sent him an e-mail very similar to the one Raúl had sent me. Slightly more apologetic, but equally unexplanatory. I could hardly write that I didn’t even feel as if I deserved to drink water, let alone receive his affection. I would probably have sounded like I was accusing him of making it difficult to do anything other than receive—and that accusation was in fact lurking in me. But anyway. Tolay wrote back in just under sixty seconds, saying he understood. He had one last favour to ask.

He wanted me to attend the opening of a photography exhibition at a gallery in Shoreditch. The artist, Esperanza Kendeffy, was known for never selling any of her work as a single unit. She’d stated in interviews that isolating a single image for display disrupted unities between her works. From a buyer’s perspective this basically meant paying for four or more images you didn’t want because the artist insisted that they were in some way part and parcel of the one image you did want. Tolay asked me to steal a photo from the exhibition. He said it was only a tiny one, and described it in detail.

Don’t worry if you can’t manage it. I’m counting on you to make an effort, though.

If I did get the photo, I was to drop it off at his flat in Dulwich. More intriguingly—and perhaps this was my real reason for doing as he said—he told me that I might run into someone named Otto Montague, and that I should steer clear of that person. “Because that person is mine.”

I asked Tolay what made him say that. I suppose my real question was something along the lines of: How come you’ve never said I’m yours? It’s not that I wanted him to. But you’re always curious when you’re bypassed and someone else is chosen.

Tolay’s answer: “He’s truthful. Not with words, mind. His abuse of linguistic function is almost demonic. But when I watch what he does … I’m not happy with all I’ve seen, but yeah, it’s truthful. You can’t really take that away from him.”

I soon learned that Tolay has a point there. You’d be stupid to take anything Otto Shin says at face value. My life partner lies. A lot. I confront him over it as often as I can. Does he do it for fun? He shakes his head. Is he playing some sort of game of informational one-upmanship? Another shake of the head: “Look, it’s an unfortunate thing, the lying. A lot of the time it would be easier to just state the facts. But on the bright side, Xavier … lying is probably the most human gesture anyone can make.”

“What? Explain.”

“Well … they all say one thing and do another. Every one of them.”

“‘They’?” I said. “‘Them’?”

“Humans. Obviously.”

“I see. So, just to be perfectly clear, in this context, you’re deliberately going with ‘they’ and ‘them’ rather than ‘we’ and ‘us’?”

“Do those word choices bother you?” Otto asked.

“Strangely, no.”

“That’s a relief.”

I’ve also noticed that lying to Otto, just a bit, at random intervals, tends to bring out the best in him. But that’s another story.

Back to Tolay Gul.

The photograph he wanted me to steal was a close-up of a bloodshot eye with a black pupil. A splintered black, like a fly holding still with its wings folded over its body. Everything that led up to the theft was difficult—this tall, slim blond guy kept following me around the gallery with a glass of wine in his hand and a coat over his arm. I checked him out a couple of times, and I probably would have said hi or something, but you’ve seen Otto, so you know he has that spiritual bard–like look about him, as if he’s more suited to doublet and hose than jeans and a shirt, and he’s about to start playing a lute and singing of a rose that no man may dare pluck. I thought he somehow knew that I’d come there to steal, and he was going to tell me not to live like that. I spent about twenty minutes standing near the photo Tolay wanted me to steal, mainly checking its attachment to the wall. And Otto approached me. He said, “For the past half hour I’ve been trying to think of a witty way to tell you I’m not the coat person, but I can’t think of anything. I’m just … not the coat person.”

I said: “What?”

“I’m not here to look after people’s coats.” He handed me the coat he’d been carrying around. It was my coat. Then I recalled handing him the coat as I entered the gallery. I’d been flustered by my secret mission, he was the nearest person to the door, and it’s possible he seemed slightly more officious than the other partygoers.

Tolay had made a very simple request that I steer clear of this person, and the very first thing I did was draw his attention. Which made it even more necessary to prove that I wasn’t altogether incompetent. I had to steal this photo. I asked Otto all about his day … Oh, Esperanza Kendeffy was a close friend of his? And he was part of a gang of joyful minions who’d been spending the day making sure her launch went well? I thought (all right—hoped) he hadn’t noticed when I held my coat close to the wall and pulled the painting in underneath the wool—he seemed unconcerned, and even moved away after a few minutes to welcome some newcomers. (“Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest