suited to people suffering from insomnia or prone to narcolepsy – but attained consciousness for long enough to hand Jeff his key.
The a.c. had made his room as chilly as a fridge. He flicked it off and the silence thickened by several degrees.
He dreamt he was asleep, not in his room but by the side of a canal, a wide, fast-flowing Venetian canal. The city looked even older than it really was, more decayed and dirty, rubbish-strewn. He was woken by something pulling at his arm, tugging at him. Then the tugging grew painful, sharp. He opened his eyes to see a dog, with ancient eyes, chewing his arm. He tried to fend it off with the other arm but there was no other arm, only the one that was in the dog's bloody teeth. In the dream he was awake but he could not wake from the dream in which the dog was biting his arm, threatening to sever it. Or perhaps he was being unfair. He was soaking wet. Had the dog dragged him out of the canal, saved his life? Impossible to say. He woke up from the dream, bathed in sweat. He was in his room and there was no dog, just the canal-damp sheets.
The sun was roasting the roof of the hotel (which was also the ceiling of his room). Sharp light peered in through the shutters. It felt like the afternoon but, looking at the clock, he saw that it was only 7:45. He was hungover, dazed from the dream, far from rested and far too excited about the various things the day held in store to stand any chance of getting back to sleep.
He flicked on the a.c. again, opened the curtains and shutters. In a flash, the room was filled with enough sunlight to power a small town. He directed a yellow rope of piss into the toilet, catching a glimpse, as he did so, of his new, dark-haired self in the mirror. Shit, with his hair like this he looked five years younger than he had a week ago. Hangover and lack of sleep made him feel five years older so, once everything was factored in, he had come out quits. He showered,shaved, brushed his teeth, put on shorts and a favourite T-shirt – infinitely faded, blue, with a discreet Element skateboard logo – and headed out for breakfast.
It was already desert-hot outside, but what did it matter? He was in Venice, happy to be alive, happy to be on the lookout for Laura, glad to be in Venice – which was already up and running and probably had been for hours. Fruit and veg were being sold from barges, or whatever they were called, a few gondoliers were punting for business along the canals. People were looking out of windows, shouting and waving. Barrows of produce were being wheeled through the narrow streets. It was like being in
The Truman Show.
Every day, for hundreds of years, Venice had woken up and put on this guise of being a real place even though everyone knew it existed only for tourists. The difference, the novelty, of Venice was that the gondoliers and fruit-sellers and bakers were all tourists too, enjoying an infinitely extended city-break. The gondoliers enjoyed the fruit-sellers, the fruit-sellers enjoyed the gondoliers and bakers, and all of them together enjoyed the real residents: the hordes of camera-toting Japanese, the honeymooning Americans, the euro-pinching backpackers and hungover Biennale-goers.
One of whom was walking aimlessly but with great purpose, looking for a café where he could get exactly the breakfast he wanted and to which he could return every day.
It
needed to have fresh orange juice, good coffee (easy enough in Italy), half-decent croissant or cornetti (almost impossible), and he needed to be able to consume all of this while seated in the shade with a view of some kind of piazza (but not one of the really big ones, where the price of a coffee could leave you clutching the bill and saying two words –
‘How
much?’ – to yourself over and over, in a state of uncomprehending shock).
He found such a place quickly, on a tiny square, with aview, at the end of a long, tree-ornamented street, of the Giudecca Canal. The coffee was
The a.c. had made his room as chilly as a fridge. He flicked it off and the silence thickened by several degrees.
He dreamt he was asleep, not in his room but by the side of a canal, a wide, fast-flowing Venetian canal. The city looked even older than it really was, more decayed and dirty, rubbish-strewn. He was woken by something pulling at his arm, tugging at him. Then the tugging grew painful, sharp. He opened his eyes to see a dog, with ancient eyes, chewing his arm. He tried to fend it off with the other arm but there was no other arm, only the one that was in the dog's bloody teeth. In the dream he was awake but he could not wake from the dream in which the dog was biting his arm, threatening to sever it. Or perhaps he was being unfair. He was soaking wet. Had the dog dragged him out of the canal, saved his life? Impossible to say. He woke up from the dream, bathed in sweat. He was in his room and there was no dog, just the canal-damp sheets.
The sun was roasting the roof of the hotel (which was also the ceiling of his room). Sharp light peered in through the shutters. It felt like the afternoon but, looking at the clock, he saw that it was only 7:45. He was hungover, dazed from the dream, far from rested and far too excited about the various things the day held in store to stand any chance of getting back to sleep.
He flicked on the a.c. again, opened the curtains and shutters. In a flash, the room was filled with enough sunlight to power a small town. He directed a yellow rope of piss into the toilet, catching a glimpse, as he did so, of his new, dark-haired self in the mirror. Shit, with his hair like this he looked five years younger than he had a week ago. Hangover and lack of sleep made him feel five years older so, once everything was factored in, he had come out quits. He showered,shaved, brushed his teeth, put on shorts and a favourite T-shirt – infinitely faded, blue, with a discreet Element skateboard logo – and headed out for breakfast.
It was already desert-hot outside, but what did it matter? He was in Venice, happy to be alive, happy to be on the lookout for Laura, glad to be in Venice – which was already up and running and probably had been for hours. Fruit and veg were being sold from barges, or whatever they were called, a few gondoliers were punting for business along the canals. People were looking out of windows, shouting and waving. Barrows of produce were being wheeled through the narrow streets. It was like being in
The Truman Show.
Every day, for hundreds of years, Venice had woken up and put on this guise of being a real place even though everyone knew it existed only for tourists. The difference, the novelty, of Venice was that the gondoliers and fruit-sellers and bakers were all tourists too, enjoying an infinitely extended city-break. The gondoliers enjoyed the fruit-sellers, the fruit-sellers enjoyed the gondoliers and bakers, and all of them together enjoyed the real residents: the hordes of camera-toting Japanese, the honeymooning Americans, the euro-pinching backpackers and hungover Biennale-goers.
One of whom was walking aimlessly but with great purpose, looking for a café where he could get exactly the breakfast he wanted and to which he could return every day.
It
needed to have fresh orange juice, good coffee (easy enough in Italy), half-decent croissant or cornetti (almost impossible), and he needed to be able to consume all of this while seated in the shade with a view of some kind of piazza (but not one of the really big ones, where the price of a coffee could leave you clutching the bill and saying two words –
‘How
much?’ – to yourself over and over, in a state of uncomprehending shock).
He found such a place quickly, on a tiny square, with aview, at the end of a long, tree-ornamented street, of the Giudecca Canal. The coffee was
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