‘You need a man bag’, says W., and shows me his. ‘You see? You can fit everything into it. Everything and anything.’ His bag sits on his hip, and hangs from a leather strap round his shoulders. He decides we should spend the day before the conference looking for a man bag for me. ‘You need to smarten up. Rucksacks won’t do. Man bags are the thing.’
‘What have you got in your man bag, then?’ I ask W. We’re on the train now, travelling North. ‘I’ll show you. A notebook.’ He places a large notebook on the desk. In the front, I write in black ink, and take notes from presentations.’ He shows me. – ‘Impressive.’ – ‘And in the back, I write in red ink, and develop my own thoughts.’ – ‘Doubly impressive.’ We both think back to our friend P. who taught us this trick. – ‘Of course P.’s intelligent. We’re not.’ I ask W. to see his notes. ‘What’s this drawing of a cock supposed to mean?’
Next, W. takes out his current reading. ‘Logique du sens. I don’t understand a word. Not – a – word. I don’t suppose you can help me, either.’ Next, he sets down a packet of moisturising wipes. ‘Very good for the skin. Calms you down. See, this is what going out with a woman teaches you.’ What else? ‘Nothing else. But I’ve got room for everything in my man bag.’ I tell W. his man bag is very continental. ‘Oh yes, I’ll bet Nancy has got one. And Agamben.’
The countryside is passing by. We’re in Scotland now. ‘Don’t you feel lighter? Isn’t the air fresher?’, says W. – ‘I feel freer somehow.’ – ‘So. What have you got in your rucksack? Go on, show me, I could do with a laugh.’ I take out a gossip magazine, and then another. I picked them up from our last train journey, without W. seeing. He gasps in horror. ‘My God, there’s no hope for you.’
Then some snacks. Nuts, first of all. ‘What kind of nuts are those? Can I have some?’ Then popcorn. ‘Popcorn? No wonder you’re getting fat.’ Then pretzels. ‘Where do you think you’re going? Up Everest?’ Then a book. ‘Load of shit. You read too much secondary stuff.’ Then my notebook. W. very pleased with this. ‘Let’s have a look.’ He flips through the pages. He’d taken it from me at another conference in order to write down his Hebrew question before he asked it. ‘See, that’s real Hebrew, that’, he says. ‘Ah, my Hebrew question! My finest hour!’ He’s quoted from the book of Genesis from memory, in Hebrew – we both remember that. ‘Ah! My genius!’
Then he tosses the notebook aside. ‘You should write from the front in black ink, and from the back in red ink,’ he says. ‘P. taught us that. Remember?’ – ‘He’s cleverer than us.’ Yes, W. concedes, he is. ‘So, what thoughts have you had? What would you write in red ink? Tell me. I need entertaining.’
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