On the back was an old grainy photo of Byron. She’ll probably wear a wig, said the notes. And glasses. And maybe prosthetics. And different clothes. And she’ll be older. If she comes at all. If she isn’t working by proxies. Other than that: she’ll be easy to spot, right?
I kept it to remind me of my purpose, and went about my business.
Three test passes at the hotel, in the four days leading up to the party.
Pass 1: as a potential guest, decked out in all the finery I can steal, adorned with the personal information of Awele Magalhaes, swiped from her mobile phone. Awele used to work in marketing, but she married a rich coal magnate three years ago and quit her job for a life of parties, very time-consuming; got Perfection two and a half years ago, got perfect four months back, loves the treatments, loves how they make her feel, they feel like… Oh, they just make me feel like me.
My identity passed without a hitch, and I explored the hotel, bustling in my white not-quite-fur coat, head held high, shoes impractical for running in. An ornate metal staircase in the main foyer, that divided a few steps up to curve out then in like the petals of a tulip. A landing above, decked out with an imitation of something famous of St Sebastian killed by arrows. Below: a bank of authentic 1600s elevators, lined with silver- and black-backed mirrors, at once inviting and discouraging reflection and self-contemplation. The top floor accessible only with a security key (stolen from the head of housekeeping), the basement leading directly out onto a private quay where punters could board their taxis.
I rode the lift to the top, and was not one step out of the elevator before I was confronted by security men, not here, ma’am, this floor is reserved.
I made an educated punt, exclaimed, “I’m here to see Mr Pereyra-Conroy,” and sure enough, this was the floor privately reserved for Rafe and his entourage but how did I even get access to it without a key?
“He’s not here, ma’am,” began one and I huffed and puffed and pressed the button for the floor below and as the lift doors closed, they barely had time to be confused before they began to forget.
The floor below was decked out in more black carpets, silver doors, the soft breeze of heating against the humid cold outside, cables along the ceilings and floors, newly put in. I looked through every open door with imperious confidence, noted TV cameras and men in black, women with tripods and notebooks, suites of rooms being set up with lightning-bright white lights for the interviews with the great, the famous, the fabulous and the rich. How much do you love being perfect? Oh, so much, it’s just the greatest feeling in the world!
A ballroom, being prepped. A low ceiling that rose rapidly away from the front door towards a dome of glass and steel, a Victorian extension to an older building, arches of black steel all around embedded in the walls as if someone had wanted to build a greenhouse, then given up halfway through and gone for a church instead. Hard to see the glamour in people gaffer-taping velvet drapes and hammering in steel platforms for the band. Tools across the floor, cables along the ceiling, but a few days and it would all be suitably
perfect
for its guests
Perfect: without blemish.
A security man spotted me, and this time he had the presence of mind to reach into his pocket where a little laminated photo lay, and so I turned, and fled, down the tulip steps and past the waiting guests, through the streets of Venice in my silly shoes, a snowball in a stolen dress.
Pass 2: as technician. Much easier costume. Black jeans, black T-shirt, leather belt, multitool, roll of gaffer tape. Access: universal. Security: utterly uninterested. I explored from the very top to the very bottom of the hotel, through the service corridors and behind the stairs. I photographed main power inlets, server hubs, stole a few more keys, lifted a couple of mobile phones, swanned around uninterrupted for nearly two hours until at last, sated on information, I packed up my goodies into a plastic bag, and let myself out by the service door.
A thought: if it’s this easy for me, I wonder how easy it is for Byron?
Pass 3: one day left, and I thought as I entered in my housekeeper’s blue that I saw… but no, easy to imagine these things, Byron couldn’t stay hidden from sight, not from all of Gauguin’s men, not from me, she’s good but not that good. The mind is a fallible, dodgy contraption to have to rely on, and yet not, complexity, complexity in the simple words that cascade meaning, that focus
made it forty minutes as a housekeeper before someone who should be in the know saw me, and didn’t know me at all and said, “Hey! Who the hell are you?”
Good thing about the housekeeper’s costume: excellent soft shoes. He was a senior management type, all hard leather and tight black laces. I outran him without breaking a sweat.
Chapter 91
So here it is.
The end of the line.
Or the beginning, depending how you look at it.
Hin und zerück — there and back.
The train reaches the end of the tracks, and I get off, and one day I may get on again, and return home, and the journey will be different and the same, just like me.
Night-time in Venice. I settle for a middle-ground costume, smart but unflashy black cocktail dress. Slip sleeping pills into the drink of a photographer with a friendly face, steal her cameras and ID, and catch the river bus to a party.
Things that are ridiculous about even the least ridiculous of events:
• Selective blindness. A guest at a big party must choose not to perceive the service staff around them. Waiters and waitresses, security men, duty managers, cooks, musicians, technicians, all melt into the background. This night is yours, it is about you and your friends, and the intrusion of strange, prying eyes, of eyes that are not of your world — best ignored, not a living thing at all.
• Canapés. Ridiculous. Mango from Sri Lanka, caviar from Russia, stripes of banana leaf flown in from Kerala, Thai rice, Norwegian salmon, Australian wine, Chinese squid. A small empire has risen and will fall in the name of a piece of food no bigger than the circle formed between my pinched thumb and index finger, cost: $17 a bite.
• Music. Not too good, not too bad. Mozart is fiddly, Beethoven a little too passionate. The Russians have good tunes, but sometimes stir too many emotions, the British tend to pathos. Something middle ground. Something we can all admire, but which no one bothers to listen to, because the beauty is in the listening, in the growing complexity, the unfolding of a story, and no one at a party has time for that.
• Speeches. Welcome everyone, we are honoured you can come to [x]. I was talking to [name] about what was expected of me tonight and he said [insert joke]. No, but seriously, tonight is all about [subject] and of course about you, and in honour of this we have some amazing events lined up, including [x] and [y] and not to forget [z].
Would that I could forget speeches as fast as they forget me.
• Champagne fountains: a waste of good booze.
• Ice sculptures, gently melting into stone bowls.
• Headpieces: in the 1700s, how many women died when their great wigs and beehive heads got caught in the flaming wax of the chandeliers? These days the only threats to some of the hair on display were low doors, the insides of cars, and the inability of anyone with that hairdo to nod.
Snap, snap, take the photo, are you looking at me? And freeze and smile, teeth bright, smile aches, you are your smile and click beautiful photo, thank you, thank you so much…