My Darling V,
Well hang on to your safety belts cos this one's going to rock you baby!
Doesn't it seem like only yesterday we were in Treptower Park in Berlin, playing that game of rummy through the billows of barbecue smoke. I can't recall who won since the time was occupied ogling the teutonic minions in our midst. I'm rotten at staying in touch, and your silence is I suppose my penance. But since I must have pen in hand at least once on holiday to stave off boredom, I'm writing you this from the sunny Isle of Ibiza. La Viva Eivissa!
I've kicked back on the sand in languorous heat and I'm deep in ratiocination. I discovered this secluded beach yesterday. It's called Los Molinos, down a dirt track near the hotel and at the foot of Puig des Molins (Hill of the Windmills). Above where I lay are gnarled olive trees across the arid slopes, shaded by the high 16th Century Renaissance walls of the medieval fortress D'Alt Vila (the original colony for the Phoenicians who were the early settlers of Ibosim back in the VII century - its high imposing walls protecting them from those pesky Greeks and Romans).
Down here its quiet save for the lapping of pellucid waters against rocks. Two elderly Spanish men in linen shirts and straw hats sit beneath a palm tree on the path and play a board game in stoney silence. They have two glasses filled with a blood red liquid, which could be a fiery sangrita. My gaze keeps returning to two caramel coloured lovers in the surf who embrace with athetic zeal, unaware of, or perhaps ambivalent to, the few people watching on. A transistor blasts out a few towels along and my feet move with soporific vigour. I arrived at this spot alone, tired of waiting for H who I'm out here with. He'll arrive later with an armful of books, and his turquoise itsu. I'd clocked it back in the room and fell about with laughter; "I'm long past caring what people think of me" he snarled at me.
I'm in recovery so to speak. Earlier in the week I ventured out alone and headed to the Carrer de la Verge. This is the alfresco cobbled catwalk of bars where blooming geraniums and bougainvillea decorate the length of its white-washed labarynthine walls. It's also the main social scene for late night visitors to the city. My last memory was of candles and holding court in a dark bistro bar with a group of backpackers. Reluctant to say I was on a package holiday, I declared I too was travelling Europe like an ancient nomad, or better still Rimbaud, merely collecting pots, doing arms deals and quoting Samuel Johnson. When asked what the greatest pleasure in life was, the infamous writer declared "fucking" closely followed by "drinking." Eight hours later I'd woken in a cave on a beach with a shaved head and one flip-flop missing. The sign of a good night perhaps? I'm still undecided. I keep getting visions of jugs of champagne sangria, shots of neat tequila, lime chasers, and downing them so fast that the stomach was singing the Spanish national anthem. Since then I've hardly recognised myself. I caught sight of my reflection in the mirrored glass of the adjuntament d'Eivissa and thought I was being approached by someone of a pugilistic ilk.
When I'd first mooted the suggestion of Ibiza, H wasn't at all enamoured, quoting Thomas Fuller in his response; "A fool's paradise is a wise man's hell". After I extolled its virtues by regaling him with tales of its Bohemium side, the beat-niks in the 60s, Dylan and his windmill abode, and the sheer beauty of the first city of the Balearic archipelago, he was easily persuaded. Fuller's words however returned to take on a prothetic quality on the plane over. Enjoyment of his book was marred by the "vacuous chad" sitting to his right. One of which had proclaimed while taking off "it's a shame but I've never taken off in daylight before" which spoke volumes about our fellow passengers. The 'heat magazine' generation proceeded to whoop throughout the flight, then applaud on landing.
In the taxi rank queue 4 brash twenty-something year olds were puffing away like good 'uns and bragging about arriving for the start of the season as 'reps'. "Repping is nothing to boast about" H announced, "in the old days it would be the equivalent of cleaning the lavs. Its not something either parents strived for". (He changed his tune later in the week when he became smitten with a 21 year old hawker from Fulham). As the taxi carrying the 'reps' pulled off at the roundabout following signs to San Antonia, ours made its way into the sleepy Sunday night ghost town of Figuretas: "That's why the gay quarters are often in the quieter areas" he said happily, "the gays love their sleep." This will be fun, I thought.
Yesterday we ventured to La Salinas on the Southern tip of the Island and the popular Es Cavallet beach. The afternoon's sunbaking session was punctuated with H's disapproving tones from under his straw parasol apropos the nudists who frequent this stretch of sand: "The sights you see when you haven't got a gun" was as much as I heard from him all afternoon behind his political tome. He had a point. Corpulent men, just off the rotisserie at Sainsburies, with the half-hard, and disappearing into the bushes for the barclays. There were also leather skinned women, smoking on sunloungers, with breasts like spaniel's ears and stomachs so saggy their own flesh was hiding their modesty. A very bovine experience; tits and dicks like udders. There were a few diamonds in the dust mind. H's personal trainer for instance, all the way from Fitness First in Bloomsbury.
In an outdoor cafe one night in the Vara De Rey we were chatting when a large brown cock suddenly emerged through a nearby bush mere yards from us before proceeding to urinate. H's face was a picture, I didn't know if he was going to call for management or go bathe under its golden perpendicular descent. He's a contradiction that way; the very embodiment of sensible, moulded by puritanism where the very concept of spontaneity is anathema to him. Yet next minute declaring his lascivious intentions and cruising with the mischievous expression of someone who is on a promise.
Last night we ate at a restaurant in D'Alt Vila. H was explaining the concept of diminishing marginal utility when this peacock couple joined the table adjacent to ours. We'd seen them at various points and locations throughout the week and now H was personally affronted by their lack of acknowledgment. Despite this they happily 'performed' by throwing nuts in the air and catching them in the gob knowing they were being watched. I'd suggested they may, perhaps, feel the same towards as us, given only our nudges and stolen glances. I question why that 'deluxe type' would wish to interact with us anyway. "Fuck that shit" came his derisory retort, "They probably have a job in marketing or PR, which we all know is status over substance. Their job is probably more tedious than ours and less paid. They're superficial shit Rob. Though we know that you have a penchant for that."
Throughout the week I've been hearing the minutaie of AF's adventures in India via sporadic texts; the wedding in Mumbai, and latterly his experiences in Goa. Apparently he's a big hit with the ladies over there on account of the Irish charm aka blarney shite. He's enlisted 3 ladies from the beach kiosk to appear in his film and its all set to be completed in time. When I'd ruminated aloud if, perhaps, he would visit the Taj Mahal, H came back with: "Yes, the one on the Streatham High Road for a lamb biryani" which made me laugh. Our H can be quite sharp. When I'd complained of his lack of patience in taking a good photo of me (You need to take a few - Testino doesn't get his money shot in the first take) he said without a pause "Darling, you can't polish a turd!"
It's difficult to maintain conversation with one person for a whole week. So at breakfast this morning, with a table full of newspapers, the talk turned to television and the coverage of Britain's Got Talent finals. "What's the world coming to when a bunch of ugly nonentities trying to sing is making front page news?" he said clocking the headline of the Sun (cheaper than the qualities over here.) "It's preposterous! And why should I care if Posh Spice has got new knockers?"
By the end of the week the melancholic air had returned with news of A's funeral. He was H's friend, and merely an acquaintance of mine, yet news of his sudden death still shocked everyone. I'd known him for 5 years but we finally bonded one night last year when he drunkenly waltzed up and said: "Nothing is worth making yourself this unhappy over." Then, noticing the impertinence of the statement and taking a stab at depth confided: "I'm a relationship person too, Rob. I've had so many, yet I still don't know what love is" before adding "but I'm determined to find it." It wasn't long after that he'd met someone special. On the last night I saw him at a party he held in his flat, they were entwined on the floor as I watched on with a mixture of happiness and envy. Apparently they'd spoken earlier about moving in together. Three days later he was dead.
"I'm going to count the people at his funeral" said H, "so I can tell him one day", echoing the sentiments of one of Lyndon Johnson's advisors after the death of the 36th President of the USA . I've been at a loss what to say. What can you say? Death shall have no dominion. Sometimes you do wonder whether life is simply a series of random circumstances, governed by chance and luck with no reason at all. I'm reminded of when Ibsen wrote: "What if life is all without point or purpose... what if it is all a joke", and Shaw's response came back: "If it is, let's make it a good one." And so it shall be. That night in the gothic courtyard of this medieval open-top fortress and in the shadow of the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Snows we raised our glass of Sangria to someone who had lived a life full of vivacity and promise.
I'll sign off here. I've just risen from my towel to find somewhere to empty the bladder. I made my way across rocks and phosphene pools, until I found myself around the cala out of sight where I could let gush. I noticed the flat blue of the horizon was flat-lining, and tucking myself in I saw sea birds circle above before swooping down and disappearing into the hush that summons the night. In the stillness there, and in the soft wind of the sea I heard a voice whisper in my ear.. "I still don't know what love is."
When are you coming home madam? I'm missing you...
Forever Yours,
R