sensational and by hooking out the honey – which he hated – he was able to turn the cornetto into a tolerable croissant. Someone had left a copy of
La Repubblica
, which he sort of read. The big news, understandably, was the eat.
Che caldissimo!
Only nine-thirty and already it was as hot as noon.
It was a mistake ordering coffee
and
orange juice. Returning to the hotel to pick up everything he needed for the day, he had to trot the last hundred yards and sprint up the stairs to make extravagant use of his en suite bathroom. Considerable though it was, the relief at having made it – just! – was shortlived. The phone began ringing while he was still sitting on the toilet.
‘Pronto.’
‘What is this “pronto” shit?’
‘Oh, hi, Max. I was trying to go native.’
‘Well, I've been trying to ring you for ages.’
‘I've been out. For breakfast. What time is it there? I didn't think you got into the office so early’
‘I'm on my mobile. Why don't
you
get a mobile? You're the only person in the world who doesn't have a mobile. And you're supposed to be a journalist.’
‘I don't know. I find the prospect of choosing one rather daunting. The phrase “call plan” makes me anxious.’
‘I'll tell you what's making me anxious. This interview. Have you spoken with her yet?’
‘I only got here last night.’
‘So you
haven't
spoken to her yet?’
‘I left a message,’ Jeff lied.
‘And how is she meant to respond to that message, if you don't have a phone?’
‘I do have a phone. In fact, unless I'm very much mistaken,I'm talking on one now. Let's see. It's got a mouthpiece you speak into and—’
‘Very funny.’
‘Yes, yes. I'm even hearing a voice in my ear, the voice of someone from another country who I'd rather not be speaking to. That clinches it. It's definitely a phone.’
‘We've got to get this interview. Understood?’
‘Roger that.’
‘And the picture.’
‘Affirmative.’
‘You really are a wanker,’ said Max. Then he hung up. How pleasant it was, dealing with someone with whom you had a working relationship going back almost fifteen years. Such a relief to be able to dispense with distracting pleasantries and irrelevant chit-chat. As a belated but symbolic riposte, Jeff flushed the toilet.
It was too early to go to the Giardini – but the perfect time to walk to the Accademia and see Giorgione's
Tempest
ahead of the crowds. Like everywhere else in Venice the museum was undergoing renovation but it was open – and there was no queue. A sign at the ticket desk announced SORRY WE HAVE NO AIR CONDITIONED. Another sign, smaller, in Italian, said something about Giorgione's
La Tempesta.
Bollocks … There was a simple rule of museum-going: if you had only one day free in a city, that would be the day the museum was closed. And if it
was
open, then the one piece you wanted to see would be out on loan or removed for restoration. But no, the sign simply explained that, due to renovation,
La Tempesta
had been moved, temporarily, to Room XIII. Jeff headed straight there.
No one else was around. He had the room and the painting to himself.
To one side of the picture a young mother is breast-feedingan infant, gazing out of the painting, meeting the eye of whoever is looking at it. Presumably she has just bathed in the river separating her from the elegantly dressed young man wedged into the bottom left-hand corner, leaning on a staff, gazing at her. He looks at her; she looks at us, looking at them. Whatever is going on, we are implicated in it. Behind them, in the background – though it isn't really background – a bridge spans the aquamarine river. Beyond the bridge a landscape-city crouches under the gathered clouds. A white bird, perhaps a stork, perches on the roof of one of the buildings. The sky is a wash of billowing, inky blue. A single line of white lightning crackles through the storm.
‘The stoppage of time in Giorgione has a partly idyllic character. But
La Repubblica
, which he sort of read. The big news, understandably, was the eat.
Che caldissimo!
Only nine-thirty and already it was as hot as noon.
It was a mistake ordering coffee
and
orange juice. Returning to the hotel to pick up everything he needed for the day, he had to trot the last hundred yards and sprint up the stairs to make extravagant use of his en suite bathroom. Considerable though it was, the relief at having made it – just! – was shortlived. The phone began ringing while he was still sitting on the toilet.
‘Pronto.’
‘What is this “pronto” shit?’
‘Oh, hi, Max. I was trying to go native.’
‘Well, I've been trying to ring you for ages.’
‘I've been out. For breakfast. What time is it there? I didn't think you got into the office so early’
‘I'm on my mobile. Why don't
you
get a mobile? You're the only person in the world who doesn't have a mobile. And you're supposed to be a journalist.’
‘I don't know. I find the prospect of choosing one rather daunting. The phrase “call plan” makes me anxious.’
‘I'll tell you what's making me anxious. This interview. Have you spoken with her yet?’
‘I only got here last night.’
‘So you
haven't
spoken to her yet?’
‘I left a message,’ Jeff lied.
‘And how is she meant to respond to that message, if you don't have a phone?’
‘I do have a phone. In fact, unless I'm very much mistaken,I'm talking on one now. Let's see. It's got a mouthpiece you speak into and—’
‘Very funny.’
‘Yes, yes. I'm even hearing a voice in my ear, the voice of someone from another country who I'd rather not be speaking to. That clinches it. It's definitely a phone.’
‘We've got to get this interview. Understood?’
‘Roger that.’
‘And the picture.’
‘Affirmative.’
‘You really are a wanker,’ said Max. Then he hung up. How pleasant it was, dealing with someone with whom you had a working relationship going back almost fifteen years. Such a relief to be able to dispense with distracting pleasantries and irrelevant chit-chat. As a belated but symbolic riposte, Jeff flushed the toilet.
It was too early to go to the Giardini – but the perfect time to walk to the Accademia and see Giorgione's
Tempest
ahead of the crowds. Like everywhere else in Venice the museum was undergoing renovation but it was open – and there was no queue. A sign at the ticket desk announced SORRY WE HAVE NO AIR CONDITIONED. Another sign, smaller, in Italian, said something about Giorgione's
La Tempesta.
Bollocks … There was a simple rule of museum-going: if you had only one day free in a city, that would be the day the museum was closed. And if it
was
open, then the one piece you wanted to see would be out on loan or removed for restoration. But no, the sign simply explained that, due to renovation,
La Tempesta
had been moved, temporarily, to Room XIII. Jeff headed straight there.
No one else was around. He had the room and the painting to himself.
To one side of the picture a young mother is breast-feedingan infant, gazing out of the painting, meeting the eye of whoever is looking at it. Presumably she has just bathed in the river separating her from the elegantly dressed young man wedged into the bottom left-hand corner, leaning on a staff, gazing at her. He looks at her; she looks at us, looking at them. Whatever is going on, we are implicated in it. Behind them, in the background – though it isn't really background – a bridge spans the aquamarine river. Beyond the bridge a landscape-city crouches under the gathered clouds. A white bird, perhaps a stork, perches on the roof of one of the buildings. The sky is a wash of billowing, inky blue. A single line of white lightning crackles through the storm.
‘The stoppage of time in Giorgione has a partly idyllic character. But
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