I met an old friend the other day in London. He’s Swiss, a rising star in the newspaper world over there. I first met him in Havana around the turn of the millennium, and he’s still, remarkably, in his twenties. He’s maintained our friendship, from afar, with the sort of insistence that twenty-somethings do: at that age you know that your sexual relationships are bound to be short-lived, so you place a lot of emphasis on building non-sexual ones.
He was in the country for one night. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of years. I had to travel up after work, and return on the midnight train. I didn’t really want to go. I was busy at work, and I wondered if it was worth making such a trip to spend such a short time in the capital.
We meet in the French House, in Soho. We hug one of those slightly awkward male hugs. He hasn’t changed much: perhaps a little rounder in the face. The conversation comes easily. At first I do most of the talking, and realise, suddenly, that I’ve got quite a lot to say.
We spend over three hours together in four different establishments, including the Chinese restaurant Won Kei. We talk about our lives, our hopes, our fears, our aspirations. Afterwards, as I rush for the last train, I realise that I haven’t talked so much, so honestly, for some time. That my life rarely encompasses earnest three-hour conversation sessions with a single person who wants to know. And I wonder why this is. Is it something to do with provincial life, with seeing the same few people every day? Is it about middle age? Is it a bloke thing?
On the train I realise I’m sitting diagonally opposite a slight acquaintance. We exchange a few words and make an unspoken pact to leave it there. I get into my book. Alone, again. AL