Free Alva and Irva by Edward Carey

rules, we had to hurt each time a little more or they would tire of us, or they would walk away.The teachers separated us, pulled us apart, took little crumbs of gravel from our cuts, and as they bandaged us, ripping up cloths and winding them around bloody knees and elbows, they would ask us why, why did we hurt each other. And we, smiling at each other now, and perhaps even holding hands again, would shrug and demand that we receive the same amount of first aid.
    ‘Please, please, oh please stop,’ Mother begged us. ‘You must stop this,’ Grandfather ordered. ‘You will stop,’ the teachers announced. They could no longer bear the sight of us in our bandages. Always with a wound here or there. They began to watch us in the playground, it became harder for us to fight, the moment we started, we would be stopped. And then the headmaster threatened us, that if we were caught fighting each other ever again, if only once more, we would be separated for good. We would be put in different classes.
    With that threat of disconnection, Irva refused to fight me anymore and I had to understand that she wanted us to be forever omitted from the lives of everyone else.
    A FTER THE FIGHTS had been stopped, one Saturday afternoon in Grandfather’s house on Pult Street (by then we had learnt how to navigate ourselves into Grandfather’s district of the city, such explorers we had become), when Grandfather was showing us his matchstick collection yet again, dressed only in his pants and vest and socks and medals, as always, and as he was carving the head off matchsticks with his scalpel, Irva had an exceptionally brilliant idea which I loved her for. And when he gave us a little pocket money (which I always looked after) we went on a journey to the Misons’ toy shop on Pilias Street. Mr Misons was there: bad news. He was red-headed, fat and sweaty and smelt of piss a little, which wasn’t an encouraging smell, and we were slightly afraid of him and his high pitched voice. So when he asked us what we wanted we were unable to get it out of us, no matter how hard we tried. ‘So tall and so shy,’ he muttered, ‘unfortunate combination.’ But then Mrs Misons came in and that was good news, because she had a way with us. Mrs Misons was on the fat side too, but much less sweatyand she always smelt of talcum, which was an encouraging smell. (And whenever we saw Mrs Misons we were always unable to stop remembering Miss Stott’s story of her, we were unable to stop ourselves imagining a pair of male hands upon her breasts, but never were these hands spotted with ginger freckles.) That afternoon Mrs Misons asked us what it was that we wanted, so gently that we wanted to cry with gratitude. (And how guilty we felt afterwards for our thoughts concerning the location of those unfreckled hands.) We pointed at the multicoloured stack of plasticine blocks. Then she whispered to us, ‘Which colour?’ And we both mouthed, simultaneously, ‘Grey.’ And then with Irva holding the block of grey plasticine, and me clutching the change, and our other free hands holding each other, we ran not home but to Littsen Street, even though it was a Saturday afternoon.

    ON THE USEFULNESS OF PLASTICINE BUILDINGS 1: THE REDUCTION OF TROUBLES. The Art Museum of Entralla—an essential for all tourists—is a magnificent glass, granite and concrete edifice. Situated on Arsenal Street, it is open from ten o’clock in the morning until six o’clock in the evening. Closed on Mondays and public holidays. Its various highlights include much ancient religious art, especially gold, frescoes and stained glass; an exceptional collection of tapestries, of jewellery and of ceramics from the fifteenth century and numerous oil paintings representing the history of the changing tastes of Entrallans depicted in landscapes, still lives and portraiture. In a guide to world art tourism the author might head various chapters: Michelangelo of Vatican City, Giotto of Assisi,