“What?”
He repeated what he had said, more slowly, but it was still a jumble of sounds.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
He reappeared from behind the counter, put his arms, which were as thick as tree trunks, down by the sink and stared at me. Then he looked around, picked up a pint glass, moved it closer to the mouth of one of the taps and mimed pulling it.
“Beer,” he said, slowly. “Know how to pull pints?”
“Yes, of course.”
Sometimes, at the fair in San Filippo, I had spent hours in the evening filling glass after glass from the demijohns of wine and the beer kegs.
“Good,” he said, putting down the glass and going back behind the bar. “You’re hired. Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, from six till closing time. Four pounds an hour. When you go down, take the notice off the door. See you Thursday.”
I stood there looking at his thick hand as it appeared every now and again from behind the bar to grab a bottle.
“See you then,” I said at last as I turned.
“Hey,” I heard him say behind me. He’d reappeared from behind the bar and was holding out his hand. “I’m Leonard.”
I turned back and gave his hand a good shake. “Jacopo.”
He looked at me and smiled. “Italian?”
“Yes, Italian.”
He nodded. “Fingers crossed, then. Welcome to Leonard’s Lodge, Italian.”
From the start, working at Leonard’s was a real life saver. Not that the scholarship left me wanting for much, but it was useful to have a bit of extra money in my pocket, and at least I got out of the house and saw people—if standing behind a bar and pulling pints for drunken students could really be called seeing people.
The previous year I had moved into a hall of residence on the other side of Kelvingrove Park, near Argyle Street, in that section of the city over which the main complex of the university towered like a mediaeval castle. Not that I was exceptionally sociable, but at least I had ended up in a mixed apartment and for some reason Mathías, a Brazilian guy in his final year who lived with us, had decided I was interesting. He would come into my room from time to time and ask me what I was studying. He seemed quite fascinated by the fact that I or anyone else could find a meaning in all those numbers and letters, and always said that he really envied me. He also very much enjoyed my stories about San Filippo and my friends down there. He was about to graduate in sociology and was working on a thesis about microcredit. Sometimes he’d simply appear in the doorway and ask me if I wanted to go out for a drink.
“I have to finish studying.”
“Don’t piss me off. Let’s go.”
Then, on the way out, he’d knock at the other doors and yell at the others to follow us.
Living with us were a well-built Danish girl named Krista and Ricardo, a weird Spanish guy who never left his room. Krista wasn’t studying at the university. She’d found the room in that hall of residence through a friend who was engaged to a guy and now spent all her time at his place. Apparently they had agreed to a sublet that was little more than symbolic, which suited both of them just fine. Krista had found work in a clothes shop in the centre of town. How she had come to be in Glasgow in the first place remained a mystery.
Ricardo didn’t understand why on earth we could never respect the shelves of the refrigerator. In fact, almost all my fellow students spent most of their free time complaining about the difficulties of living with other people, and how other people never seemed to respect their space. They often mentioned dividing the bathroom into different areas or assigning the various shelves of the refrigerator, or complained about this or that flatmate’s passion for fish or mature cheese. All of these things were unknown to me. As early as the second day, Mathías had come in without knocking, as usual, and told me that he and Krista were going shopping and asked me if I needed anything.
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Come on, drop those books and come with us. We can keep each other company for a while.”
We returned home with six bags of stuff and put it wherever we could in the fridge and in the cabinets. Whenever any of us was hungry, we’d simply start cooking and call the others. Mathías did a lot of the cooking, but Krista did even more. Among other things, she was a dab hand at Oriental cuisine. In a quarter of an hour she could make a dish of noodles, rice, chicken and vegetables that was a real masterpiece. I usually just did the washing up. I found I could rustle up a decent sauce—a pomarola or a carbonara—and everyone was very happy with the jars of ragù that Mum occasionally sent me from Italy. Ricardo wasn’t keen on such promiscuity, and after a few complaints we discovered he’d made himself a little pantry in his room: the Scottish cold made the windowsill an excellent refrigerator. And yet, every time we went out, Mathías continued knocking on his door to let him know. One evening, when the three of us were in the kitchen cooking a few pieces of meat and washing the dishes that had been left in the sink, Ricardo appeared with his hands down at his side and his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Mathías, I’d appreciate it if you stopped constantly knocking at my door.”
Mathías looked at him for a few moments without saying anything, then got up and went into his room. He immediately came out again holding a magazine, which he placed against Ricardo’s chest, and sat down.
“Ricardo, go and have a wank please.”
On the cover was a big blonde with her legs open and a sticker over the spot. Ricardo moved the magazine away from his chest and looked to see what it was, then without saying another word, took it with him into his room and closed the door behind him. We looked at each other and laughed. I held out my hand to Mathías.
About the middle of December, Mathías decided to organize a party. As Christmas was coming, we found our apartment invaded by Santas and reindeer. Two guys even showed up in a plastic sleigh with holes in it for their bodies. About two in the morning, Mathías saw me sitting on the kitchen counter with a glass in my hand and came and joined me. We clinked glasses and toasted the party.
“You’re a good guy,” Mathías said, looking at me for a moment.
I laughed. “You too.”
We clinked glasses again.
“Hey, what happened to Ricardo?” Mathías asked.
“No idea. He must be in his room, contemplating suicide or a massacre.”
Mathías smiled and looked at me for a moment, deep in thought, then raised his head and looked around, as if searching for someone. For a while, he continued looking among the guests, then put his hands around his mouth and called, “Charlotte!”
He laughed and grabbed the sleeve of a guy with reindeer antlers full of little lights on his head.
“Hey, can you call Charlotte for me, please?” he said, motioning with his chin behind the guy’s back.
The guy with the antlers turned, reached out a hand and pulled the arm of a big red-haired girl, who now also turned and looked at him impatiently. The guy simply pointed at Mathías and went away. The redhead smiled and came towards us. Her face was covered in freckles, she had a big gap between her front teeth and a long Father Christmas hat was falling halfway down her back. She was wearing a red blouse with a low neckline, and her huge breasts were supported by a push-up bra with lace trimmings.
“Hi, darling,” Charlotte said, coming closer.
“Hi, Charlotte. Let me introduce my friend Jacopo. He lives here with me.”
“Jocopo?” Charlotte said, mispronouncing my name. “Where are you from?”
“I’m Italian.”
“Oh, Italian,” she said with a smile, coming closer and leaning against my leg. “Hi, Italian. Nice party.”
She was holding a big plastic cup, from which beer was overflowing slightly, and she looked quite drunk.
“Listen, Charlotte, we need a favour. Or rather, not us, a friend of ours. The other guy who lives here.”
“Where is he?”
�
��Well, he’s had a bit of a hard day, and he’s alone in his room.”
“In his room? Alone? Why?”
“I don’t know. He’s a bit down. He’s quite shy, and finds it hard to meet people. Between you and me, I think he’s also a virgin.”
“A virgin?” she asked, moving her head forward.
“Yes, I think so. In my opinion he needs someone to console him.”
“I’ll console your friend!” Charlotte said, raising her arms and spilling some of the beer.
“Good old Charlotte,” Mathías said, laughing. He got down off the kitchen counter, took her by the arm, led her to Ricardo’s door, opened it abruptly and pushed Charlotte inside. Mathías and I gave each other a high five and then forgot all about it.
Late the next morning, we were in the kitchen, having breakfast. There was me, Krista and Jane, a girl who had spent the night with Mathías. After a few minutes, Mathías also appeared. His hair stood on end and his eyes were puffed up like rolls. He came up behind Krista and gave her a kiss on the cheek, then kissed Jane on the head and sat down. Krista was making scrambled eggs and toast.
“We all love you,” Mathías said to Krista.
We were already sinking our forks into the eggs when Charlotte emerged from Ricardo’s room, taking care not to make too much noise. Her curly red hair was like an explosion around her head and with her red blouse and miniskirt and those big breasts and thick swollen legs she looked like a whore from a low-class brothel. We had completely forgotten about Charlotte and when we saw her come out of Ricardo’s room we sat there and stared at her, our forks in mid-air.
“Virgin my arse, Mathías,” Charlotte said. “Your friend wrecked me.”
Mathías and I looked at each other for a moment with our forks at half-mast, then burst out laughing, spitting out a few pieces of egg as we did so.
From that day on, Ricardo was nicknamed the Oracle. Our curiosity aroused by the fact that he appeared to accept whatever was offered to him, we started leaving dishes or bowls for him in front of his door, and half an hour later we’d find them picked clean.
One day a few weeks later, I tried approaching him in his room to make conversation, but he simply told me he had no time for chitchat. We became convinced that he was a superior but alien being, whom we couldn’t help venerating and occasionally propitiating with an offering of some kind.
Almost every week we went to a basement club called Nice & Sleazy in Sauchiehall Street near the centre of town. Monday was open-mike night: you could get up on stage and sing whatever you liked, covers or songs of your own. In return you got a free beer. The ones who weren’t so good had the sense to sing something amusing or sing in a funny voice, and we always had a bit of a laugh. Usually they were the ones who got the most applause. All the times I went there in my four years in Glasgow, most of them in that first year with Mathías, I never heard anyone being booed. There were a couple of really good guys who sang their own songs and we often saw them in other clubs. One was called Liam. He wore thick glasses and had a mass of frizzy hair plastered down in an improbable way on one side. He looked like a caricature of a student from my department. And yet, every time his turn came, he’d pick up his guitar, sit down on the high stool in the middle of the stage and launch into these terrific songs, a bit country in style, in a moving, light-toned voice. Another guy with long smooth dark hair falling over his face, whose name I can’t remember, always surprised us with his choice of songs. We would wait for Liam with the same kind of excitement you feel waiting for a song from an album you know by heart, and for the other guy full of curiosity to see what he would come up with. During covers, Mathías would start to clap his hands even before the musicians opened their mouths and tell me the name of the song, recognizing it just from the opening chords. From time to time he’d tell me a few backstage stories: the tragedy of Syd Barrett and how the rest of the group had once left him at home, the morning Paul McCartney woke up with only a vague memory of having written “Yesterday” during the night, or how Brian Wilson, convinced he had written the best album in the history of modern music, went crazy after hearing Sergeant Pepper.
One young guy was like a vocal photocopy of Mark Knopfler.
“He’s from here,” Mathías said one evening, applauding the start of an arpeggio.
“Who’s from here?”
“Mark Knopfler.”
“Here where?”
“Glasgow. He lived here until he was seven.”
Since then, every time I’ve happened to hear Dire Straits, I’ve always been surprised: I’ve never quite managed to digest the fact that those very American rhythms, that very American voice, which seemed to be talking about the desolate prairies of the Midwest and country fairs in fields of corn, actually came from that cold, grey, working-class Scottish city.
The little I know about music I owe to Mathías. For Christmas he gave me a Sony Walkman, black and full of buttons, and was always giving me cassettes to listen to. I would put on my headphones as I went back up Kelvingrove Park towards the university, with the facade of the main building seeming to look me straight in the eyes and tell me to behave. That was how I learnt to love Black Sabbath, the lesser-known songs of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, Miles Davis, Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground, Tracy Chapman, Nirvana, Iron Butterfly and Creedence. It was there, sitting on a bench with my headphones on, that the music and lyrics of Pink Floyd started to shine an obsessive searchlight on the the darkest, sharpest side of me. On cold, snowy days I also liked to listen to Joni Mitchell, or the guitar breaks of J.J. Cale. But if it was sunny, nobody could beat the Grateful Dead, especially “Bertha”.
When Mathías graduated at the end of the year and we said goodbye—he already had his simple knapsack on his back—he threw his three black boxes of cassettes on my bed. I stared at him with a mixture of fear and emotion I would not have expected.
“They’re yours. Treat them well.”
I looked at him, stunned. “Are you mad? All of them? What about you?”
“I have the originals at home. I can tape them again.”
I got out of my chair, walked slowly to the bed and opened one of the boxes. I knew them well, and yet the idea that this row of cassettes was suddenly mine—transparent TDKs with the names of the bands and the songs written neatly on them by hand—was astonishing.
“Are you sure?” I asked again as I lifted L.A. Woman and turned it over in my hands.
“Yes,” Mathías said, “I’m sure. And don’t spend too much time in your room next year.”
I promised him I wouldn’t, and we hugged and said we’d see each other soon.
And it was music that always kept us connected. From time to time, a cassette or a CD by this or that new band Mathías had got to know on his travels around the world would arrive wherever I was living at the time. As early as my second year, he was the one who sent me my first Pearl Jam cassette, with the words “Listen to these people” written on it. That was how I also got to know Nine Inch Nails and Faith No More, and later Radiohead, Beck and Elliott Smith. One day Mathías called me from some remote place in Brazil or Peru to tell me he’d seen a funny-looking monkey that had reminded him of me.
“Fuck off,” I said with a laugh.
There was a great din in the background, but we still somehow managed to have a bit of chat. I asked him if he’d heard Wilco yet.
“Look at him now, he can walk on his own two feet,” he said, and you could tell from his voice that he was smiling.
Then he yelled that he had a helicopter to catch and hung up.
Only months later would I discover that at the time Mathías was on the border between Peru and Brazil, shooting a documentary on an Amazon tribe that had only just been discovered and was seriously threatened by the mining industry in the Brazilian state of Acre. There had always been something about Mathías I’d never quite understood while we were living together. There were signs during the year we shared the apartment in Glasgow, b
ut I just took them as eccentricities: a certain carelessness about his appearance, the fact that he was spending his final year in a bleak hall of residence, even the choice, for a Brazilian, of a Scottish university. Only years later, when I got to know both his story and the world better did I realize what Mathías was trying with all his might to run away from: his fortune.
Yes, along the way Mathías had been bitten by the bug of authenticity. He was the son of a banker in São Paolo, and being the son of a banker in São Paolo meant living in villas with armed guards and barbed wire on the walls and going around with bodyguards in armour-plated cars. Mathías could have had anything he wanted from life, or at least from life in Brazil. And yet, from a certain moment on, he had become convinced that nothing he ever obtained would really be his. That was why he had chosen a Scottish university: was there anything farther from the beaches of Brazil with their skimpy bikinis? And there was also that affected scruffiness of his, the need he seemed to feel to always be sloppy, that simple backpack, those improbable haircuts, and then, after a while, that almost completely shaved head.
But life is clever, and the net result of all this was to turn him into an even more attractive character, which made him feel as if he were a walking cliché. Wherever he escaped, Mathías was haunted by the knowledge that he would always somehow manage to be fascinating, and for reasons independent of his will. He was fascinating despite himself, and those two words had blighted his life.
That was why he started making documentaries. After university he had worked for various humanitarian organizations around the world, always looking to make peace with his past. He had been in African villages and the outskirts of South American cities and in earthquake zones of India and Indonesia, until, in Sudan, he found an old 16mm Arriflex and some reels of film left behind by a young surgeon from Médecins sans Frontières, and he amused himself filming the building of a well. When the project was finished, he went to see a friend in London and decided to develop the reels, convinced it would all probably have to be thrown away. The laboratory put at his disposal a room and a projector to view the films. A thin man with greyish skin explained to him how to put the film through the projector and left him alone in that small dark room. Apart from a few scenes, the lighting and focus of most of the images were fine and Mathías was as excited as a little boy to see the silent black and white images of those young Africans and those volunteers working hard and smiling and sometimes play-acting for the camera. There was no sound, but for almost every scene Mathías imagined a musical background: the Prelude to Charpentier’s Te Deum, “Money” by Pink Floyd, a long extract from “Jessica” by the Allman Brothers. As he went from one reel to the next and that trembling beam of light projected its grainy, silent images on the screen, Mathías realized that he was starting to see the broader picture. When he left the little projection room, the thin man with the grey skin asked him how the films were.
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