Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi by Geoff Dyer

it was mayhem. Jeff had got it into his head that risotto had been promised. He assumed he'd got this idea from the invite, but there was no mention of it there and, at present, no risotto was in evidence. In view of the numbers, producing risotto was an absurdly ambitious and labour-intensive undertaking, but it seemed that Jeff was not alone in expecting risotto. The risotto and its potential non-appearance was, in fact, the chief topic of conversation in the garden. People were counting on risotto to line their stomachs; a lack of risotto would have a significant impact on their ability to belt back bellinis. From the balcony of the gallery itself a bearded American ambassador or cultural attaché was pleading for calm, or at least trying to get everyone to quieten down for a few minutes so he could give a speech. When the hubbub subsided, the bearded dignitary welcomed Ed Ruscha, praising him to the skies, explaining what an honour it was to have him here and what an important artist he was. At the end he asked everyone to raise a glass to EdRuscha, which, though fair enough, was pretty superfluous since the only time during his speech people had stopped raising their glasses was while getting them refilled by the much put-upon bar staff. And then the doors to the gallery itself opened. This was it! The risotto, obviously, was now being served. There was an amazing stampede as people seized on the idea that the risotto moment was imminent. Jeff was perfectly placed. He surged up the steps and found himself in the galleries, confronted not by vats of creamy risotto but art, paintings and sculptures from the glorious heyday of modernism – Duchamp, Max Ernst, Picasso, Brancusi – when it was impossible to believe that there would come a time when all people cared about was free risotto to mop up all the free bellinis they'd been swilling in the garden. Like a flood, the crowd of people kept finding new levels within the building. Suddenly Jeff was out on the terrace, faced with the back of Marino Marini's statue of a guy on a horse – or some kind of creature anyway – with a kind of turd-tail sticking out of its bronze bottom. The rider's arms were stretched out horizontally, crucified by air or, perhaps, by the splendour of the view of the Grand Canal. As Jeff squeezed past he saw that, just as his mount had this stiff little tail at the back, so the rider had a stiff little dick sticking out at the front. He had no opportunity to ponder the significance of these details. Such was the intensity of the search for risotto that, within minutes, the terrace was jammed solid. Drinks were being served out here too, and so were some appalling bits of pastry, dried up old things, like samosas but not as spicy. Jeff manoeuvred his way to the drinks table, where he spotted Ben.
    ‘Any sign of the risotto?’ he asked.
    ‘You know, I don't think there's going to be any risotto,’ said Ben. He looked really cast down. Jeff could empathize with that. He was pretty devastated himself, even though hehad taken the precaution of eating several slices of pizza on the way over.
    ‘They lure you here with the promise of risotto,’ he said, ‘and there's no fucking risotto.’
    ‘It's not even like there's a limited quantity, available on a first-come, first-served basis.’
    ‘There's absolutely none.’
    ‘All there is are a few miserable bellinis.’
    ‘Rather a lot of bellinis, in fairness. In fact, you've got two in your hands.’
    ‘They go down a treat, don't they?’
    ‘They slip down,’ said Jeff, finishing his. Since they were pressed right up against the drinks table, he scooped up a couple more.
    A glass in each hand, Ben and Jeff made their way to the edge of the terrace, taking in the commanding view of the Grand Canal. The sun was sinking Turnerishly, about to disappear behind the buildings on the other side of the Canal. The vapour trails of planes converged there too. Almost directly across from them was the