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 By the fountain, a woman sits with a man who could have been her son. She is wearing a pair of white pants matching the colour of her hair and her legs are telescopic. As I am thinking about taking a picture, she gets up and walks towards me, then past me, then past the human statue of Nefertiti and disappears into the Basilica of Santa Maria in Trastevere. As I regret the passing of a media scoop, my cell phone buzzes and there is a message from Graham saying that he is in the Piazza. Graham has this languid walk which I recognise and in the twelve years since I had last seen him, he has mellowed. The conclusion to the book 'The Sense of an Ending' is quite shocking so we tend to forget that all the events leading up to the scandal were perfectly natural in the realm of possibilities, especially in the illusory spirit of the 1970's when the sense of a changing world was palpable even at a traditional English style boarding school in Adelaide. I have always underestimated the dramatic nature of my imposition into Australian society. The fact that people teased me for my looks was an annoyance but understandable in its context and with my unlimited self reserve, I fell into my own measure of grace. The heat doesn't suit the style of building, yet when winter comes, Adelaide does seem like Europe; being a continent, less like Britain, much more like Europe. There is no class system, only the usual rich and poor but everyone is fair. Nobody boasts, not even Robert Scott who floats his bulk over a horizontal bar two metres above the ground. I observe how human potential seems somewhat enhanced in the Australian body and psyche. One or two blatantly share their sexual exploits substituting 'kissing' with ‘pashing-off’. He who is the most dispassionate is the House Captain. He has the look of an English sea captain with a clear, heroic yet warm face. He keeps the curly flaxen locks trim and he maintains Victorian sideburns at the age of 15. I understand he became an airline pilot. He looked fifty when he was fifteen so I presume that he would still be the same. Forever mature. He is friendly yet firm with everyone. He seems to have an intuition that people around him are parts of a passing phase. This objectivity makes him a natural leader. Without ever having said or done anything particularly inspiring, he becomes our house captain. He breezes through his matriculation exams and at some later point gains his flying colours. It is not a coincidence that he is still a Captain.
Sitting outside the bar, the evening has been full of delight shooting the breeze as the beautiful people walk by. Graham says, after we had talked our way through four large glasses of beer, that he will pay because if I pay, I’ll end up paying double for not being a local: rules of the 'quartiere'. The last twelve years of his life has been quite normal, settled into another pattern. He married, had kids and then divorced, fell in love, married again and became a father for the third time. He says he started learning the guitar a couple of years ago. I look at his fingers. The guitar looks laid back but it is a confounding instrument to master. The guitarists I admire the most are the exponents of the flamenco style. They can make the guitar sound like nails shooting into a wooden floor. They are tense and relaxed at the same time. The music dances on a wire. Rather than bowing to time, they seem to be pushing it back. ---- 8 5 2013
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