The Wet and the Dry by Lawrence Osborne Read Free Book Online Page B

light we both looked like ghosts, almost transparent, and I knew at oncewhat was up; I had met this loser in the bar last night and had no recollection of him, but he had easily recognized me. John, that was me. I must have called myself “John” all evening. But who was John?
    “Oi, John, I knew it was you. I see you’re up and about.”
    “I’m sorry—”
    “James. From the bar.”
    “Yeah, James.”
    “John, good to see you. I thought you were dead.”
    Laughter.
    “No, just out cold for the morning.”
    “My wife said you should have been dead. Eleven mai tais. Blimey. We both thought you was dead.”
    “Was it eleven?”
    “More than that, cock. You’re a right fish.”
    “Am I?”
    “Dead right you are, mate. You passed out.”
    “I did? Where?”
    “In the pool. Don’t you remember passing out in the pool?”
    A playful arm-punch and a wink. The hideous dyed hair glistened in the sun, and the oyster eyes contracted.
    “Wait,” I said. “I don’t remember anything about a pool.”
    “Come on, mate. You remember the pool . That was the funniest thing I saw all year.”
    I was now sweating copiously, and we were walking.
    “The pool? What did I do in the pool?”
    “You don’t remember doing the jackknife?”
    “The jackknife?”
    “Yeah, you did a jackknife into the pool. The missus said it was the funniest thing she’s seen all year.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “No, mate. You’re kidding. We all pissed ourselves.”
    Who are you? I wanted to ask.
    “So I did a jackknife?” I said.
    “Yeah, it was a good one. You didn’t come up for five minutes.”
    Underwater, then. A memory of drowning bubbles, panic, and now it was coming back in little pieces. The wobbling diving plank, the sudden elevation toward the stars.
    “Yeah,” I muttered. “I always do a jackknife on rum.”
    “I believe it.”
    He seemed very pleased with me.
    “Are you coming to the Ally Pally tonight?” he asked. “All the lads will be there. After your jackknife, I would say you have honorary admission to the Ally Pally.”
    “What is the Ally Pally?”
    “The best bar in Abu Dhabi. You’ve been to the Ally Pally, surely?”
    We had now entered the high-design glass cage of the hotel and were standing by Marco Pierre White’s restaurant. He told me all about John, a contractor for hotel construction all over the Middle East. Married, three kids, ten years younger than me, and a decent shot at snooker. John was a sweet talker, mild mannered, and full of anecdotes about the construction business, but when he got drinking, he chased every lady in the bar. He went berserk in his quiet gentlemanly way, and there was no constraining him. He told me all this as if I needed to hear itfrom a third person, as if this real me were totally unknown to the person standing in front of him right then.
    “And did I say anything untoward to the ladies?” I asked as we took the escalator up to the dazzling Barbarella lobby, where a few sheikhs in ghutrahs and rope agal sat on the sofas with their overdecorated wives.
    “Not at all, John. You was politeness itself. But the staff had a hard time getting you out of the pool.”
    I must have been on a roll , I thought grimly. It happens sometimes, some switch is thrown inside me and all the controls cease to function. My Jewish male friends in New York say it never happens to them.
    By now I was curious as to why he had walked up with me into the lobby, and I supposed it was because I was now an interesting specimen. The English are very indulgent to episodes of alcoholic insanity. They strike them as sympathetic, understandable, and a sign of being a real human being, however inconsequential such episodes might be.
    “You come down to the Ally Pally at eight,” he said in comradely fashion. “It’s not as bad as they say. The Chinese hookers don’t arrive till ten at the earliest. We’ll have shots with the lads.”
    “All right,” I said. “It can’t be any worse