Chapter Twenty-Six
William Sutherland has absolutely no recollection of the toilet facilities at Café Amarillo on the week he first encountered the great cathedral city of Seville.
Hardly surprising as he barely remembers the great cathedral.
But he is gratified to find that, like that holy edifice, at least they haven’t changed location.
He knows this because the first thing he sees as he enters the chamber is Will, standing thoughtfully at the urinal, glass of Rioja in his free hand, making room for further intake.
“Like me to hold it for you?” offers William.
William receives a look in return that would chill the blood on a dark Glasgow night, as the young man turns slowly to take in his pervy offeree. But then Will Sutherland instantly softens, surprised yet immediately contrite.
“Oh – er – Gordon, isn’t it? Sorry about – I thought for a wee moment you were – say, how’s it going?”
William is relieved to assume, from the level of Will’s response, that the chamber is free of other pre-millennials invisibly urinating in the vicinity.
So he gently takes the full glass from Will’s hand.
Of course, it immediately turns old and dusty, a few pathetic pink granules above a fragile stem.
The younger man is, as William had hoped, too preoccupied to notice.
(William is rather gratified, in fact, by how generally unobservant humanity can be.)
“Going as well as can be expected,” says William.
“Glaswegian for fantastic. Were you sitting out there? You should have come over.”
Will appears quite genuine in his hospitality, but William just shakes his head, struggling to keep the now vintage Rioja out of the light.
“Och, you don’t want an old fart around. You’re with your friend.” He stares at Will as hard as he dares, without it seeming creepy. “At least I think he’s your friend.”
The young Scot may be an ardent student of English literature but William remains unimpressed by his appreciation of subtext. “Not just a friend, Gordon. You wouldn’t believe it – the guy was my best man!”
“Away ye go! Well, you know what they say about best men, Will.” This time he stares even harder.
“They always win in the end.” William can’t help feeling he is employing the sort of dialogue that would have them both walking out of a cinema, but desperate times…
“He’s a seriously good-looking guy,” he adds, without considering that maybe he shouldn’t.
William is so involved in his dialogue of the deaf that he fails to become aware that a new patron has entered.
A man from his own era who has observed this balding, middle-aged Brit hold an intense conversation with an empty urinal.
But William does hear the sound of a lock firmly turning, as the visitor sensibly puts a solid door between them.
“Aye, okay,” says Will, who also stares at William a bit oddly, now that his best pal’s movie-star looks have come into play.
“Well, I think mister gorgeous out there just offered me a job. Probably via his old man, who’s loaded.
Writing bollocks for fun and profit.” He shrugs, thoughtfully, or as thoughtfully as he can, given the Rioja.
“‘The rich are different from you and me’, Gordon—”
“‘—they’ve got more money’. My Hemingway to your Fitzgerald.
Highly appropriate, considering where we are.
Spain, I mean, not the gents’. Well, here’s another good one for you, pal.
‘Never look a gift-horse in the mouth.’” William moves pointedly closer.
“Unless of course he’s snuffling in the wrong place for his oats.
” Which even he thinks is quite pithy, as well as on the nose.
Yet he’s just beginning to wonder whether Will would still miss the bloody point if it was tattooed on his inside leg.
“Yeah. Well, I need money, Gordon, that’s for sure. But listen, me and Lu have got it all worked out. At least in the short term. She works while I write.” William just shakes his head. “And, in the even shorter term – I need fags!”
He retrieves his glass, liquefied once more, and moves off, leaving William bitterly frustrated.
Until Will suddenly stops at the door.
He turns round slowly, as if finally absorbing what was just said. And looks straight into William’s eyes.
Without a word, he walks out of the bathroom.
“Well, that took its own sweet time,” mutters William, as the man emerges gingerly from the cubicle.