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

He was happy, he had that animating – i.e., anxiety-inducing – sense that it was occasions like this that made life worth living. The immediate solution was to walk to the bar and grab another bellini. One of the very last on offer, it turned out. A few moments later the waiters stopped serving. He saw Dave Glanding, went across and laid his hand on his shoulder. He'd known Dave for almost twenty years. Technically, this made him one of Jeff's oldest friends. And he was, at least in the sense that Cyril Connolly had in mind when he said that old friends are all but indistinguishable from enemies. Dave was part of another loose group of people going to Haig's Bar. Phil Spender, still in the trademark cream suit he'd been wearing at Stansted, was coming. So was the Kaiser. Melanie too, with other people from the ICA. There was an interval of milling around while everyone waited foreveryone else, then they all trooped out of the party, drunk, full of the excitement of the first night of the Biennale.
    Because of the heat and the mass of people, everyone at Haig's Bar had spilled out onto the piazza, as far as the Gritti and the Grand Canal at one end and, at the other, the gleaming white façade of Santa Maria del Giglio. The Kaiser went inside and bought a round of drinks, beer mainly. Jeff was surrounded, now, entirely by people from London, many of whom he saw at art openings and book launches: home from home, Soho in a Renaissance setting with a heatwave thrown in. Lots of women in nice dresses too, but without this one woman in her yellow dress the night was abruptly devoid of promise. How quickly the world got narrowed down to one person, to one woman. Even the most inveterate womanizer must have succumbed to periodic pangs of monogamy. He was happy here, he was having fun, but, having met Laura, he also had a gnawing sense of lack, had to keep reminding himself to tune back into the conversations that were bubbling all around.
    Jane Felling came over and joined the group. She and Jeff had slept together a couple of times, years ago. They'd never officially gone out together, which meant that they had never split up either. She was here with her new boyfriend so Jeff had to suppress his tendency, when drunk, to flirt somewhat crudely with her. Or maybe not, since she started flirting with him.
    ‘You're looking extremely handsome tonight, Jeff,’ she said, kissing him on the lips.
    ‘So are you, Jane. Pretty, I mean.’
    ‘Your hair looks different.’
    ‘I'll be honest. I had it dyed.’
    ‘It suits you and it's very subtle. I knew something had happened, but couldn't work out what.’
    It was surprising how little impact having sex with someone could have on your relationship with them. Or at least it was surprising how something that usually defines a relationship can sometimes make so little impact, leave almost no trace, become just another part of the rough and tumble of metropolitan life. Jane was reminiscing, too, with Phil and the Kaiser, about the circumstances of her first ‘date’ with Jeff.
    ‘If you could dignify it with that word,’ she said, putting her arm through his. ‘We went to … Actually where did we go? I can't remember.’
    ‘The French House.’
    ‘That's right. Anyway, we had this lovely dinner. He was charming and witty and I thought he was definitely worth a shag. And when the bill comes, what did he say? What did you say?’
    ‘“Can you claim this back on expenses?”’ This supposedly showed Jeff in a poor light, but it was one of those occasions when he felt rather proud of himself.
    ‘Classic Atman,’ said the Kaiser, slapping him on the back.
    ‘And the great thing was,’ said Jeff, ‘(a), she could, and (b) …’
    ‘I shagged him anyway!’ They clinked glasses amid much laughter all round. To be honest, it was not the first time they had showcased this anecdote together. After a certain number of drinks, it was always favourably received. Still, he was glad