Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi by Geoff Dyer Read Free Book Online Page A

call me on my cellphone;
or
No, don't
phone
me at my hotel
(with the possible implication
Come visit me there instead);
or even – though this seemed a remote possibility –
Don't contact me in any way, ever.
    ‘Would you like to meet somewhere?’ he said. ‘Or perhaps I could call for you at your hotel? Where are you staying?’ These three questions came tumbling out one after another, but really they were all the same question. He hoped he didn't sound desperate, but such a possibility was not out of – in fact, was probably implicit in – the question.
    ‘None of the above.’
    ‘Really?’ So he'd got it completely wrong. There'd been no energy passing between them. It had all been coming from him, in such abundance that it bounced back and was now running down his face, like egg, or ego.
    ‘But I hope we do see each other again.’
    ‘OK, I admit it. I'm baffled.’
    ‘I hope we see each other again this week. In Venice. But it's nice, don't you think, to introduce an element of chance into things?’
    ‘That depends on whether I run into you again or not.’
    ‘Well, I think you will. There are lots of parties.’
    ‘So many that we might be going to different ones. Which ones are you thinking of going to? Just out of interest.’ She didn't say anything, but the way she looked at him meant that it was Jeff's turn to speak again. ‘I hope I do see you again.’
    ‘Me too,’ she said. Unsure what else to do, he just stood there. ‘You see,’ she continued, ‘if there's no chance, then there's no … Well, let's put it like this, if we meet again it will seem nice, romantic, even. Don't you think?’
    ‘Yes. But, you see, I'm English so I go into this with a different mindset. I assume that we'll miss each other – bollocks! – and I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if we hadn't.’
    ‘That's even more romantic’
    ‘But a lot less fun. And at a certain point romance turns to tragedy’
    ‘How's your memory?’
    ‘Not that great, to be honest. Why?’
    ‘Because, earlier on, I did actually mention where I was staying.’
    ‘Did you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did I say “tragedy”? I meant farce.’ He racked his brains. ‘You know I've got absolutely no recollection of that.’ Had she really mentioned it? ‘Why don't you just whisper it again now, in passing? I'm almost certain to forget.’
    ‘If I tell you where I'm staying, you'll be hanging round there all the time.’
    ‘No, I won't.’
    ‘You will. I'll step out of reception and there you'll be: “What a coincidence, just passing by …” It's just that you'll have been passing by for the last two hours.’
    ‘You really think I'm that interested?’
    ‘I really think you're that kind of person.’
    ‘You're right. That's exactly the kind of person I am.’
    ‘Cunning?’
    ‘Desperate.’ A particularly clever remark that one; by saying the word he cleared himself of the charge.
    She leaned forward, kissed him on the mouth. He could not remember the last time a simple kiss, in public, fully clothed, had been so saturated with longing. But whose? And for what? Impossible to say. He thought, for a moment, that she might change her mind and invite him back to her room after all, but the purpose of the kiss was to confirm that she was leaving.
    ‘And you're really not going to tell me where you're staying?’
    She shrugged. There was nothing to do except watch her leave. Dark hair falling to her shoulders. Bare arms. Her back, her ass, her legs, her ankles, her cute white sandals.
    The vacuum left by the vast, unrealised promise of this encounter meant that his gathering excitement turned immediately to anxiety. He replayed bits of their meeting – odd words, moments, glimpses – but lacked the concentration to turn them into anything other than a source of torment. A single word started beating like a tattoo in his head: shit, shit, shit. But – shit! – he shouldn't have been thinking like that.