‘I know. It’s all very sumptuous.’
‘I hope you’re not drinking from the mini-bar, Dad.’
‘Albie, I’m not mad. Anyway, the point is there’s a spare room that might be more comfortable. A fold-out sofa-bed. While you decide where you want to go next.’
He paused to concentrate on wiping the sugar from his stubble beard. ‘Are you not eating your churros?’
I pushed the plate towards him. ‘How do you eat so much and stay so skinny?’
He rolled his bony shoulders and posted another doughnut into his mouth. ‘Nervous energy, I s’pose.’
‘Yes, I know something about that.’
We fetched his things and returned to the hotel late in the afternoon, and I lay on the bed while Albie showered for an absurdly long time. I had not checked my phone for twenty-four hours, and with some dread I turned it on to find a selection of texts from Connie, the impatience spiralling into irritation.
When are you home? Can’t wait to see you.
Information please. Are you alive?
Are you back today, tomorrow, ever?
Frantic here. Douglas, please just call.
There was a voicemail, too, from my sister, and I played it back with the phone some distance from my ear.
‘Why aren’t you answering your phone? You always answer your phone. Douglas, it’s Karen. What the hell is going on? Connie’s frantic. She says you’re wandering round Europe looking for Albie. She made me swear I wouldn’t tell you this but she thinks you’ve had some sort of nervous breakdown. Or a mid-life crisis. Or both!’ Karen sighed and I smiled. ‘Give it up, Douglas. Albie will come home when he wants to. Anyway, call me. Do it, D. That’s an order!’
Albie was standing in the doorway, wrapped in the hotel dressing gown, demonstrating that unique ability he has to shower for twenty minutes and still look dirty.
‘Can I borrow your razor to shave?’
‘Please do.’
‘Who was on the phone?’
‘Your Auntie Karen.’
‘I thought I heard shouting.’
‘I’m going to call your mother, Albie. Will you speak to her?’
‘’Course.’
‘Now?’
He hesitated a moment. ‘Okay.’
I dialled immediately and waited. ‘Hello?’ said Connie.
‘Hello, darling.’
‘Douglas, you’re meant to be home! I was expecting you this morning. Are you at the airport?’
‘No, no, I didn’t catch the plane.’
‘You’re still in Italy?’
‘Actually, I’m in Madrid.’
‘What are you doing in …?’ She paused, gathered herself and continued in the kind of voice used to persuade people down off ledges. ‘Douglas, we agreed it was time to come home …’ I tried not to laugh.
‘Connie? Connie, can you hold on for one moment? I’ve got someone here who wants to speak to you.’
I held the phone out. Albie hesitated then took it from my hand. ‘Hola,’ he said, and closed the door.
I picked up a Spanish magazine with that exact same title, and stared at pictures of unfamiliar celebrities. I looked through the magazine once, twice. Connie and Albie spoke for so long that my sense of triumph was tempered by a growing anxiety about the cost of the call, and I thought about interrupting the conversation and asking Connie to call us back. But as I looked through the gap in the door to the other room, I noticed that Albie was somewhat red-eyed, which would mean that Connie was crying too and so not in the mood to discuss international call rates. I also noted that, true to form, Albie had managed to use all eight of the hotel towels, large and small, and to distribute them around the room, including one on a lampshade where it might easily burst into flames. Deep breath. Let it pass. Let the burning towels pass. I looked through the magazine a third time, and then a hand poked through the bedroom door and waggled the phone at me.
‘Pick up the towels, please, Egg,’ I said, taking the phone.
‘“You treat this place like a hotel!”’ said Albie, and closed the door.
I waited a moment then put the phone to my ear. ‘Hello?’
Silence.
‘Hello, Connie?’
I could hear her breathing.
…
…
‘Connie, are you there?’
‘Clever man,’ she said, and hung up the phone.
I do not know what Connie said to Albie in that call, but later, much later, as we ordered more drinks in a taberna in Madrid’s gay district at some ungodly hour in the morning, I tentatively raised the subject of future plans. The bar was dark, wood-panelled, packed with noisy and attractive madrileños drinking — was it sherry? vermouth? — with Serrano ham and anchovies and oily chorizo.
‘This is delicious!’ I shouted, wiping grease off my chin. ‘But I’m worried that they don’t eat enough vegetables. As a nation, I mean.’
‘I’m leaving tomorrow!’ Albie shouted back. ‘For Barcelona! First thing!’
I tried to hide my disappointment. In truth, I had not entirely abandoned the idea of Connie joining us and us all returning to the Grand Tour, perhaps retracing our steps to Florence. Our hotel reservations were still in place, and those tickets for the Uffizi …
‘Oh. Okay. That’s a shame. I thought we’d go back to—’
‘You could come with me!’
The room really was very noisy and I asked him to repeat himself. He put his mouth to my ear:
‘D’you want to come with me?’
‘Where?’
‘To Barcelona. Just for a night or two.’
‘I’ve never been to Barcelona.’
‘No, that’s why I asked.’
‘Barcelona?’
‘It’s on the sea.’
‘I know where Barcelona is, Egg.’
‘I thought it would be good to swim in the sea.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘You can even-up your tan. Colour in your left side.’
‘Does that still show?’
‘A little.’
I laughed.
‘Okay. Okay! We’ll go. We’ll swim in the sea.’
part eight
BARCELONA
‘It’s nothing to come to Europe,’ she said to Isabel; ‘it doesn’t seem to me one needs so many reasons for that. It is something to stay at home; this is much more important.’
It was with some relief that I discovered Barcelona had almost no art galleries at all.
That wasn’t quite true, of course. There was a Picasso Museum and a Miró Museum and perhaps I should dip a toe into the world of abstract, non-representational art after so many Old Masters. But there was no single monolithic institution like the Louvre or Prado and so no pressure. Instead Barcelona offered us an opportunity to ‘hang out’. For a day or so. We’d hang out. Just … hang out.
This was the extent of Albie’s itinerary, and he had already showed admirable organisational ability in getting us to Madrid’s Atocha station in time for the nine thirty train. Quite a sight, the Atocha station, more like a botanical garden hothouse than a conventional transport hub, with a vast jungle of tropical plants filling the central atrium, and I would have appreciated it more had I not been suffering from the most appalling hangover of my life.