in, although we bit off more than we could chew we might get another crack at the whip, however mixed my metaphors are and however real my shame, although even now Iâm rearranging the whole thing as a story in my head, as Sonia says despondently, gazing at the unwashed dishes and apparently unaware I am still there: âTo think that Cyrilâs still after me, after all these years.â
Finals are over and Cambridge is fading, even though the summer light on the ancient courts is so mellow, the celebrations last through the night and the morningâs promise arrives undimmed. We are torn between nostalgia at leaving such a gilded haven and the world beckoning beyond, but all of us in our tightly knit little group realize that we are leaving for good.
Real life, whatever that is, wonât start quite yet, however. For some months we have been planning to make a major trip together, driving the length of France and down to Barcelona, then the length of Spain to Algeciras, where we will board the ferry to Tangier. Our choice of destination hasnât been picked out of a hat. From my tales of Soho and its master magician (the âmagician of the nightâ, as I often think of him), Bacon is now part of our group myth, and some time ago I reported back that he would be in Tangier, where I know heâs been going for years. So thatâs where weâre headed, since it seems as good a reason as any, though we are also going to make the most of the journey taking us there.
France is pleasant and mild but unremarkable, a series of long roads bordered by plane trees, picnics in fields and efficiently run camping sites. Then Barcelona hits us between the eyes. There had been the odd, mainly chaste encounter on the way down, but what we hadnât expected, once some ancient male instinct had guided us to the red-light district on the lower Ramblas, is the profusion of brightly dressed, amiably chatty whores. Far from the threatening, sleazy atmosphere of the doorwaytrade in Soho, the women here seem light-hearted and friendly, as ready to share a drink, a dance and a chat as to proceed to more earnest business between bidet and bed in a dark cubicle. We are entranced, as if we had stumbled on a local fiesta where the girls, while clearly not just out of the convent, nevertheless have a certain natural poise and charm. We are also daunted by the very availability of so much sex, since our experience hasnât gone much beyond unfulfilled gropings with girls of our own background or the very occasional and usually depressing paid transaction. Here we seem to be in an entirely new realm where what is usually furtive and shameful resembles a celebration, with drinks and laughter. We practise our fledgling Spanish and in the badinage that ensues pick up a few memorable phrases, notably one girlâs clear demarcation of services rendered â â
¡Fuckee fuckee sÃ, suckee suckee no!
â â that thenceforth becomes a war-cry regularly roared out of the windows of our trusty red Mini as we speed southwards to Grenada and get the first real impact of Arab culture. When we come to Seville, we make a beeline like pilgrims to a shrine for Baconâs favourite hotel there, the Alfonso XIII (or âAlfontho Tretheâ, as he calls it, just as in perfectly camp Castilian he calls his favourite painter âBelathquethâ), before beating a hasty retreat to an inexpensive hostel. Both the cities and the landscapes of Andalusia enchant us and we no longer see ourselves as tourists but as intrepid explorers as we continue barrelling across the sierra in search of the gateway to Africa.
From the moment we get off the ferry in Tangier, things speed up even more. A couple of friendly bystanders in striped djellabahs who speak French and are about our age show us the way to the medina and actually take us to a run-down little hotel where they seem to know the owner. The rooms are on the
Finals are over and Cambridge is fading, even though the summer light on the ancient courts is so mellow, the celebrations last through the night and the morningâs promise arrives undimmed. We are torn between nostalgia at leaving such a gilded haven and the world beckoning beyond, but all of us in our tightly knit little group realize that we are leaving for good.
Real life, whatever that is, wonât start quite yet, however. For some months we have been planning to make a major trip together, driving the length of France and down to Barcelona, then the length of Spain to Algeciras, where we will board the ferry to Tangier. Our choice of destination hasnât been picked out of a hat. From my tales of Soho and its master magician (the âmagician of the nightâ, as I often think of him), Bacon is now part of our group myth, and some time ago I reported back that he would be in Tangier, where I know heâs been going for years. So thatâs where weâre headed, since it seems as good a reason as any, though we are also going to make the most of the journey taking us there.
France is pleasant and mild but unremarkable, a series of long roads bordered by plane trees, picnics in fields and efficiently run camping sites. Then Barcelona hits us between the eyes. There had been the odd, mainly chaste encounter on the way down, but what we hadnât expected, once some ancient male instinct had guided us to the red-light district on the lower Ramblas, is the profusion of brightly dressed, amiably chatty whores. Far from the threatening, sleazy atmosphere of the doorwaytrade in Soho, the women here seem light-hearted and friendly, as ready to share a drink, a dance and a chat as to proceed to more earnest business between bidet and bed in a dark cubicle. We are entranced, as if we had stumbled on a local fiesta where the girls, while clearly not just out of the convent, nevertheless have a certain natural poise and charm. We are also daunted by the very availability of so much sex, since our experience hasnât gone much beyond unfulfilled gropings with girls of our own background or the very occasional and usually depressing paid transaction. Here we seem to be in an entirely new realm where what is usually furtive and shameful resembles a celebration, with drinks and laughter. We practise our fledgling Spanish and in the badinage that ensues pick up a few memorable phrases, notably one girlâs clear demarcation of services rendered â â
¡Fuckee fuckee sÃ, suckee suckee no!
â â that thenceforth becomes a war-cry regularly roared out of the windows of our trusty red Mini as we speed southwards to Grenada and get the first real impact of Arab culture. When we come to Seville, we make a beeline like pilgrims to a shrine for Baconâs favourite hotel there, the Alfonso XIII (or âAlfontho Tretheâ, as he calls it, just as in perfectly camp Castilian he calls his favourite painter âBelathquethâ), before beating a hasty retreat to an inexpensive hostel. Both the cities and the landscapes of Andalusia enchant us and we no longer see ourselves as tourists but as intrepid explorers as we continue barrelling across the sierra in search of the gateway to Africa.
From the moment we get off the ferry in Tangier, things speed up even more. A couple of friendly bystanders in striped djellabahs who speak French and are about our age show us the way to the medina and actually take us to a run-down little hotel where they seem to know the owner. The rooms are on the
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