Blue is like blue, the poet had written, and he put it down on a bit of paper so he would remember it. The stars when they first break out into the dusk are blue as they get and he likes to look at them. He crushes tobacco and rolls himself cigarettes for the evening. He will go up to the terrace and smoke and think about the essay he is translating about untouchability in India in the present century…
The shadows of untouchables are impure. The blood of untouchables is contaminated. The blood of brahmans is blue. The color of blood is transmitted down the generations.
When a boy is born they get blue ribbons, blue balloons. Blue if it’s a boy! In the first world.
He believed there was a cheese called Blue: you took milk and let it go sour and worked a kind of fungus in. Penicillium. In French novels they sliced the cheese and served it with figs and apricots and cubed pears on china painted with pale periwinkles.
He isn’t interested in the food, only in the description. He is teaching himself to write better sentences. He’d taught himself about colors and tints and shades, this way. When he was a boy, he always colored within the lines. His skies were sky blue.