Edward Docx - The Calligrapher

He smiled. ‘Well, go on then: get on with it. But if the authorities arrest me for false alarms I shall instantly confess that you made me do it. I shall explain that you are dangerously persuasive and the worst sort of unscrupulous libertine –’

‘I’m exceptionally scrupulous.’

‘And I shall tell them that you are incapable of behaving in a decent manner towards friends – or even your own girlfriend – and that you deserve to be taught a serious lesson. See you in fifteen.’

‘Thank you, William.’

‘And don’t forget to check for sisters.’

Now, I don’t want to start blaming Cécile for the first wave of demoralizing set-backs that followed hard on the heels of this, the otherwise inauspicious evening of my twenty-ninth birthday, but as far as immediate causes of disaster go, then she has to shoulder full responsibility: J’accuse Cécile, la fille française. Had she not winked at me, I probably wouldn’t have risked it. But what could be the purpose of such fetching Mediterranean looks as hers, if not to fetch?

All the same, the fire alarm surprised everybody.

Chaos followed fast, rushing through ‘Nude Action Body’ like a messenger from the Front with news of approaching armies. From hidden antechambers and doors marked ‘private’ dozens of orange-clad ushers emerged and began urgently to usher; the lifts stopped; small blue lights flashed from odd places high on the walls; and (as if all this were not encouragement enough) an unnervingly measured female voice interrupted the revels every thirty seconds to spell the situation out in an exciting variety of languages. ‘This is a routine emergency. Please leave the building by the nearest fire exit and follow the advice of the officials. Thank you.’

I had only just returned to the fifth floor and had taken no more than three steps into the gallery proper. But now I doubled back and stood to one side by the wide emergency exit doors at the top of the escalators, waiting for Cécile. Along with everyone else, she was sure to leave this way. There was no longer any need to seek her. And I was rather enjoying all the panic.

Parents issued taut-voiced instructions to their charges. Scandinavians strode calmly towards the emergency stairs. Italian men put their arms around Italian women. A litter of art-college day-outers roused themselves reluctantly from their beanbags. Two children came careering out of ‘Staging Discord’ opposite. And an American woman began to scream ‘oh my God, oh my God’.

Given that Irony and Futility still seemed to be filling in for God and Beauty on the art circuit – the thought occurred to me that had I been filming the whole thing, I could perhaps have submitted the results for exhibition myself; perhaps a showing in ‘History Memory Society’: ‘People from All Over the World Leaving in Uncertainty’ (Jasper Jackson, calligrapher and video artist).

Of course I didn’t actually know that Cécile’s name was Cécile as I fell into place three or four people behind her. (Jostle, jockey, joke and jostle all the way down six flights of unapologetically functional fire stairs.) I didn’t know anything about her at all, except that she had short, choppy, boyish, black hair, a cute denim skirt cut above the knee, thin brown bare legs and unseasonable flip-flops, which flapped on every step as she went. And that she had (quite definitely) winked at me as we circled Rodin’s Kiss.

Outside, safely asquare the paving slabs of the South Bank, I looked hastily around. The light was thickening. St Paul’s across the Thames – a fat bishop boxed in and stranded flat on his back – and two bloated seagulls, making heavy weather of the homeward journey upstream. Crowds continued to eddy from the building but there was as yet no sign of William or Nathalie or Lucy’s adorable light-brown bob. Still, I had to act quickly.

Cécile was standing with her back to me, looking across the river.

‘Hi.’ I said.

She turned and then smiled, an elbow jutting out over the railings. ‘Oh, hello.’

‘That was quite exciting.’ I returned her smile.

‘You think there is a fire?’

I looked doubtful. ‘Probably terrorists or art protestors or rogue vegetarians.’

‘I wonder what they save from the flames?’ She bent an idle knee in my direction and swivelled her toe on the sole of her flip-flops. ‘The paintings or the objets ?’

‘Good question.’

‘Maybe in an emergency they have an order for what to keep – and they begin at the top and then descend until everything is burning too much.’

‘Or maybe,’ I said, ‘they just let the bastard go until it’s finished so that they can open up afterwards as a new sort of gallery: Burnt Modern. A new kind of art.’

‘Perhaps that’s what the protesters want – a new kind of art.’ She was a born flirt.

I met her eye and moved us on. ‘They evacuated the building very quickly.’

‘Yes. But there are some people still coming out, I think.’ She gestured. ‘I like how in an emergency everybody starts to talk. As if because there is a disaster, now we can all be friends happy together.’ She looked past me for a second. ‘Will they let us back in, do you think?’

‘I’m not sure. But I am supposed to be going to a restaurant at eight so I don’t think I will be able to wait. This might take a couple of hours.’ I paused. ‘I should find my friends and see if they are OK.’

‘Me too. I have already lost them once today – when we were on the London Eye.’

‘How long are you in London for?’

‘I live here.’ She frowned slightly – amused disparagement.

I pretended to be embarrassed.

She relented. ‘I am teaching here.’

‘French?’

‘Yes.’ A pout masquerading as a smile.

‘You have an e-mail address?’

‘Yes.’

‘If I write to you, do you think that you’ll reply?’

‘Maybe. It depends what you say.’

I found William sitting on a bench with a diesel-coated pigeon and the man who had earlier been selling the Big Issue outside the main entrance.

‘Jasper – Ryan. Ryan – Jasper. We haven’t thought of a name for this little chap yet.’ He indicated the creature now pecking at a chocolate wrapper.

‘Where’s Lucy?’ I asked, acknowledging Ryan.

‘She’s fetching her bag with Nat. Did you meet anyone nice’ William winked exaggeratedly ‘– in the toilets?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

William did an American accent: ‘I hope you were real gentle with him.’

Ryan snorted and got up. ‘See you Thursday, Will mate,’ he said, ‘and let’s hope this new bloke knows how to deal with those fucking tambourine bastards.’

‘See you later.’ William raised an arm as Ryan left.

I sat down and was about to speak but William motioned me to be quiet.

‘Here they come,’ he said, ‘they’ve seen us.’

Lucy and Nathalie were making their way towards the bench. William addressed the pigeon: ‘You’ll have to piss off now, old chap, but we’ll catch up again soon, I hope. Let me know how the diet works out.’

Before we go much further, I should explain that William is one of my firmest friends from the freezing Fenland days of my tertiary education. (Philosophy, I’m afraid, man’s most defiant folly.) I can still remember the pale afternoon, a week or so after we had all arrived for our first year, when we were walking back from a betting shop together and he came out to me. It was going to be very awkward, he confided, and he was at a bit of a dead end with the whole idea because – apart from his sister, who didn’t count – he hadn’t really met any women before now, but – how could he put this?– he was rather worried that he might not be homosexual and – as I seemed to be rather, well, in the know on the subject, as it were – had I any suggestions as to next steps vis-à-vis the ladies?