6 x mr p

Last night on my way to the pizzeria, surprisingly called Enzo e Scifo, the following images from the dim distant past sprang to mind.

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Sedley, seated upstairs in the Taj Majal. H is on one side of him, Bjorn on the other. Patricia might be there, and others. I am leaving early. He will disfructar the Uruguayan night, never knowing quite when it will end.

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Walking through the square in Bari Vecchia. As we move through the late-Summer throng, all kinds of freaks, beautiful women, and other sundry Italians come up to him and greet the professor. Somehow he glides through the square and we escape to the other side.

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A night in Bournemouth. Sitting on the probably freezing floor in the as yet unconverted upstairs flat. Drinking whisky. Listening to Sticky Fingers. Talking til the cows came home.

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In the Plaza Independencia, sitting on top of Artigas’ mausoleum. The sun’s setting. He’s trying to tell me something that’s very difficult to say. About Frieda. And other things besides.

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In York. This one is unspecific. He seemed to spend more time in York than he did in Nottingham. Sometimes he’d stay for months. Come to our lectures and write our essays. Have his whole social life mapped out, completely independently. I guess the first year he must have used my room whilst I stayed with N. We never quite understood why he visited with such enthusiasm. (It was only this week he sort of told me.) But we didn’t mind. He enjoyed our company and we enjoyed his. Which was all that mattered, back then.

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In the flat in Wells Street. Richard, of course he does, offers us a gin and tonic and a smoked salmon sandwich. Richard rabbits on about copper and China. He has great schemes. Sedley chomps with impatience. He’s too big for the flat. Richard says ‘you see’ yet again. He says ‘Yeeessss.’ Richard says: ‘Absolutely.’ There’s a pause. He offers to fix us another G&T and goes into the kitchen. We grin at one another.

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Written during an exaggerated wait at the very fine Bari airport…