Promised Land Luncheon
He sat at the table chewing. ‘So what’s with this move to Berlin? I know you enjoyed the clubs, the music etc., so on and so on… but why Berlin? What do you think you’re going to find there, that’s not here already?’ he said.
‘Well, it is a place where people are doing work that is similar to ours. That is one reason to go.’ He began. ‘I believe to do work that is of quality you need to be close to people who are also doing work of quality.’ He continued.
The other man, without pausing, took another slice of pizza.
‘And then there is also that people can live there man. I mean — you can eat my friend! You can work a job two or three days a week and still live well. Whereas here, in the UK, in London, you can barely survive on a full-time job. In Berlin, you do some bullshit job for someone two days a week. Make your money. The rest of the time is for your work. And the beer. The beer is cheap also my friend! Ah yes!’ He said.
‘Imagine the city of London, only with a third of the people.’ He continued. ‘It’s amazing. Every road has a cycle lane. The clubs, you can enter several of them because well — one is 5 euro. Beer is 2 euro. In Berlin, I’m telling you, you can eat amico! Do the things you wish to do. For example I have a friend there, whose housemate, Natalie, she is a photographer. Two days a week she does some bullshit technical work for Ebay, retouching photos and such, the rest of the week she does what she wants to do.’ He said.
‘I’m starting to get the picture’, said the other man, the words coming out slowly.
They sat in silence for a moment. The dark-haired Italian carefully gathering marscaponi on the fingers of his fork.
‘This one girl I went to the RCA with. She lives there. Beautiful. Very, very attractive. In that kind of way that you know — she is very positive — positively alive with energy.’ He paused, ‘But somehow not so…’
‘Sexy.’ said the other.
‘Yes. Well… I mean she can be. But she is kind of like a kid you know. I mean, she’s very developed in her career as a designer and so on, but… I don’t know. There is something childish about her.’
‘What you say about her reminds me of Marina.’ He said
‘Oh yes? How so?’ said the Italian.
‘In the sense that, as you say, developed. Successful so far in her career. Mature in this sense. Yet in an emotional way, not very mature. Lacking openness. Unable to relax… Even though there was yearning and passion, it was always a strange disappointment when we made love.’
‘Well, I don’t about any of that. But I can see what you say about her maturity. Marina has this childlike energy and positivity at times. She is not like my friend in Berlin, however. Marina can be very…’
‘Sexy.’
‘Yes.’
A silence came over them. The older man took another slice of pizza. This time copying the Italian, adding a full brigade of marscapone to the crisp dough. He ate it greedily.
‘I still think about her at times.’ he said, the dough and soft melting cheese not quite dispatched.
The other man’s eyebrows raised as they narrowed, he shifted slightly on his folded legs and raised his arm with a casual air.
‘She wrote to us recently. There’s a project that she wants to do with us. Potentially… Did she ever get back to you?’
‘No.’
‘Ah well. Let her go, aye mate?’ He said this through a pinched smile and his eyebrows raised expectedly.
‘Yes.’ Came the reply. The S long and gallic. He began staring into the distance as if attempting to pierce through the map of the city on the wall before him. ‘I have.’ He paused again.
Then he spoke quickly.
‘You have to let them all go, you see.’ He slowed again. ’It’s the only way you get to keep them…’ His voice ached. It was the voice of a man who knows he has lost for himself what everyone saw as his.
He stood then, slowly — grinning oddly — and walked with a measured step towards the bathroom.
