Laura wasn't around to hear it. There was something too London – maybe it was that word ‘shag’ – about it.
‘Well, I can repay the favour now,’ he said. ‘Who would like another drink? On
my
expenses.’ Silly question.
Everyone
wanted a drink.
In the bar, waiting to get served, Jeff decided that, following the example of Tracey Emin's
Everyone she'd ever slept with
tent, if he were an artist he would build a one-to-one scalemodel of all the booze he'd ever poured down his gullet. Beer, wine, champagne, cider, the lot. Christ, he'd need a gallery the size of an aircraft hangar just for the beer: the pints, the tins, the bottles. It would be a portrait not simply of his life but of his era. Some of the brands he'd started out with had since disappeared: Tartan, Double Diamond, Trophy, the inaptly named Long Life. And it would be international too; not just the domestic beers, but the ones you swilled when abroad – Peroni, for example, five of which he ordered from the busy barman. The bottles, when they were handed over, were cool rather than chilled. Jeff asked if there were any colder ones to be had.
‘Even the magnificent fridges of Venice are struggling to cope with the heat and the insatiable demand for cold drinks that it generates,’ the barman replied, in epic English. Jeff took the coolish drinks outside to the waiting, thirsty Londoners.
Jane's new boyfriend, Mark, had joined them. One of the people who'd asked for a beer had disappeared so he gave the spare one to Mark. He was one of those guys, not particularly good-looking, not particularly anything, but as soon as you saw him you liked him. Jeff took a slug of his lukecold beer. When Mark got drawn into conversation with another group of people, Jane said, ‘You know what I love about him?’
‘What?’
‘He's so easy-going.’
‘I know what you mean. I love easy-going people. Even though I know I'm not one myself. Perhaps that's why I like them so much.’
‘There's something so manly about it.’
‘I used that very word only a short while ago, in a different context, but I know what you mean. The corollary of that is there's something so
un
manly about being uptight.’
‘You're lovely, though.’ She kissed him on the cheek.
‘Thank you, Jane. You too.’ And that was it. She went off to join Mark, but what a pleasant little exchange it had been! So much so that he decided to head for home. There were still four days to go; it would be wise to make it back to the hotel on this, the first night, without getting totally fucked up. And tomorrow he had a lot to do, all of which had to be done while keeping an eye out for Laura. He said goodbye to various people, waved to others and began walking.
Within minutes he was lost. Confronted with sudden deadends and bridgeless canals, he kept coming across other lost souls, squinting into maps beneath dim lamps. At one point a sign indicated that if he turned left he would come to San Marco and that if he turned right he would come to … San Marco. We rely on signs to make choices for us – or at least to enable us to make choices. This sign made a nonsense of itself. It might as well not have been there. Where it was meant to clarify, it succeeded only in confusing. Or did it? Perhaps it announced some larger truth about Venice: whichever way you went, even if you tried to avoid it, you would end up in San Marco. Whatever you did, whichever way you turned, the result would be the same.
In certain states – if you were exhausted, desperate for bed, on your last legs – the city's impossible geography could have driven you insane, but tonight it was fine, it was fun, part of being in Venice, having the Venice experience, the same experience everyone else was having. Still, Jeff was relieved when, without warning, miles from where he'd left it earlier in the evening, his hotel obligingly appeared. The night porter was asleep – always difficult to tell whether this was a job best
‘Well, I can repay the favour now,’ he said. ‘Who would like another drink? On
my
expenses.’ Silly question.
Everyone
wanted a drink.
In the bar, waiting to get served, Jeff decided that, following the example of Tracey Emin's
Everyone she'd ever slept with
tent, if he were an artist he would build a one-to-one scalemodel of all the booze he'd ever poured down his gullet. Beer, wine, champagne, cider, the lot. Christ, he'd need a gallery the size of an aircraft hangar just for the beer: the pints, the tins, the bottles. It would be a portrait not simply of his life but of his era. Some of the brands he'd started out with had since disappeared: Tartan, Double Diamond, Trophy, the inaptly named Long Life. And it would be international too; not just the domestic beers, but the ones you swilled when abroad – Peroni, for example, five of which he ordered from the busy barman. The bottles, when they were handed over, were cool rather than chilled. Jeff asked if there were any colder ones to be had.
‘Even the magnificent fridges of Venice are struggling to cope with the heat and the insatiable demand for cold drinks that it generates,’ the barman replied, in epic English. Jeff took the coolish drinks outside to the waiting, thirsty Londoners.
Jane's new boyfriend, Mark, had joined them. One of the people who'd asked for a beer had disappeared so he gave the spare one to Mark. He was one of those guys, not particularly good-looking, not particularly anything, but as soon as you saw him you liked him. Jeff took a slug of his lukecold beer. When Mark got drawn into conversation with another group of people, Jane said, ‘You know what I love about him?’
‘What?’
‘He's so easy-going.’
‘I know what you mean. I love easy-going people. Even though I know I'm not one myself. Perhaps that's why I like them so much.’
‘There's something so manly about it.’
‘I used that very word only a short while ago, in a different context, but I know what you mean. The corollary of that is there's something so
un
manly about being uptight.’
‘You're lovely, though.’ She kissed him on the cheek.
‘Thank you, Jane. You too.’ And that was it. She went off to join Mark, but what a pleasant little exchange it had been! So much so that he decided to head for home. There were still four days to go; it would be wise to make it back to the hotel on this, the first night, without getting totally fucked up. And tomorrow he had a lot to do, all of which had to be done while keeping an eye out for Laura. He said goodbye to various people, waved to others and began walking.
Within minutes he was lost. Confronted with sudden deadends and bridgeless canals, he kept coming across other lost souls, squinting into maps beneath dim lamps. At one point a sign indicated that if he turned left he would come to San Marco and that if he turned right he would come to … San Marco. We rely on signs to make choices for us – or at least to enable us to make choices. This sign made a nonsense of itself. It might as well not have been there. Where it was meant to clarify, it succeeded only in confusing. Or did it? Perhaps it announced some larger truth about Venice: whichever way you went, even if you tried to avoid it, you would end up in San Marco. Whatever you did, whichever way you turned, the result would be the same.
In certain states – if you were exhausted, desperate for bed, on your last legs – the city's impossible geography could have driven you insane, but tonight it was fine, it was fun, part of being in Venice, having the Venice experience, the same experience everyone else was having. Still, Jeff was relieved when, without warning, miles from where he'd left it earlier in the evening, his hotel obligingly appeared. The night porter was asleep – always difficult to tell whether this was a job best
Similar Books
