The Calligrapher by Edward Docx

Author:Edward Docx
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780007404810
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2003-10-10T07:00:00+00:00

Of the many centres of self-delusion around the world, the ludicrous area of Notting Hill can confidently assert its position as number one. Not only is there an impressive depth to the claim – in the very core of their souls, the inhabitants firmly believe that they are in some way chosen – but there is also real breadth insofar as the curious self-satisfaction which goes with residency affects all types of person, from banker to artisan. Of course there are notorious and well-attested districts of self-deception all over Europe – Paris, Rome, Barcelona, Berlin, even my beloved Heidelberg – and it is true these are well stocked with a significant range of pomposity and pretension. But nowhere else is there quite such a formidable discrepancy between the opinion that the residents have of themselves and that which the visitor must inevitably form.

In the normal run of things, a low-slung evening sun will wash even the bleakest of cityscapes with a lush ochre light, which will lend a building, however dismal, a softening and sympathetic splendour of sorts. Not so Notting Hill. Even in the very best atmospheric conditions, as you approach the epicentre of the farce – a miserable, traffic-vexed little junction – you become increasingly aware that you are walking along one of the shabbiest, least inspiring and most consistently unappealing thoroughfares in the modern world. Distended with estate agents and bloated with burger bars, architecturally tedious and commercially humdrum, Notting Hill, you soon discover, is just one more tiresome trunk road that has come into money.

I say farce but perhaps I mean burlesque. In a farce, the emphasis falls on the preposterousness of plot rather than the ridiculousness of the characters. Whereas, in a burlesque, the audience is invited to laugh and cry at the fakery and self-deceit of the people themselves … the white guys trying to be black, the black guys pretending to be white, the rich pretending to be poor, the poor pretending to be rich, the old pretending to be young, and the young pretending to be old. Notting Hill. Don’t even go there.

William and I had agreed to share a pre-party drink in one of the pubs on Campden Hill Road – a dark, autumnal place, full of awkward wooden cubicles and undercover fund managers eating gourmet sausages.

He turned just as I came up to the bar: ‘Jasper – at last. My God, you look awful. Have you just been sick? Are you OK?’

‘Mutiny,’ I croaked, melodramatically.

‘Here, I’ve got you some sherry. It’s bleak stuff but the best they had. You’d better drink it down in one – you need to regain your equilibrium. Then we can get you a drink.’

‘Thanks.’ I eyed the chalice suspiciously for a moment and then drank deeply.

William ordered himself a vodka straight (one ice cube) followed by two vodka tonics. When the bar tender had turned his back, he leaned over and whispered in confidential tones: ‘I’m afraid the party may turn out to be a

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