the fountain

Now since this was raised.

I remember the fountain. I did not run through it in 1994. I ran through it in 1996.

It had been over a year since the last time I was in Montevideo. A year of living in various parts of South London. Drug dealers, painting and decorating, black market labour, the usual insipid poverty. RSC rejection. Other rejections. Superwoman and the Nigerian runaways. Stashing notes in a shoebox every week to pay for H to come over for two weeks in June – Hector paid in the end so it may have paid for my ticket, I can’t remember. Letters and letters and letters.

So many times Montevideo had slipped into the status of a dreamland. And then finally, 1996 came, and I was allowed to go back.

My flight took forever. At Stanstead, the plane taking us to Amsterdam was delayed. A dull wet Friday night. When the plane finally took off the pilot said there were three of us making the Buenos Aires connection, and he was sorry to say it looked like we wouldn’t make it. There’s nothing you can do, but I didn’t know how I’d be able to tell H I’d be delayed. We only had so much time, and we’d waited so long. Then, as we came to land in Schipol, the pilot announced the BA flight had been held back, just for us.

The Stanstead Three were rushed through the airport on an electric trolley with our baggage. A pretty Argentine, a portly Englishman, and me. The other passengers glared as we were ushered into the plane. They’d been waiting half an hour. Eva Castro (for indeed this was her name) was an architecture student at the Bartlett, going to visit her family in Mar Del Plata. We drank red wine and chatted till late. The plane was half empty. A rare civilised flight. I stretched out and failed to sleep. I can never sleep on planes. In the morning I got talking to the portly man. He was going to work for an Argentine gas company. Some kind of consultant. His ticket cost six times mine. I mentioned the fact my father worked in the oil business. He knew my father. He thought my father was a great guy. He’d had drinks with my father.

We landed at Buenos Aires, early morning. Eva Castro told me to visit her, or look her up in London. I never did. The man who knew my father gave me a lift in his cab to the port. I was in Latin America again. The air smelt different. The light was different.

I bought a ticket at the port. It was eight thirty in the morning. The next buquebus didn’t go until four in the afternoon. There wasn’t much to do in the terminal. I sat, hugged my rucksack. Tried to stay awake. Felt more and more delirious. Wrote notes which I’ve since lost. The hours were like glue. Wonderwall played on the tannoy. It seemed appropriate. I heard Spanish all around me. I hadn’t slept in nearly 35 hours.

I can’t remember boarding the jetfoil. I can’t remember how long it took. Maybe two hours. I remember seeing Uruguay come into view. Tracing the coast for an age. Spotting the Cerro. I remember the boat pulling into the harbour. There were the clocktowers. The post office. The Palacio Salvo. My landmarks. The boat pulled in sideways to the dock. On the dockside a small crowd was gathered. I saw Anibal. I saw Helena. She was wearing a dress in the evening warmth. Was she smiling or laughing. I pressed myself against the glass. I wasn’t’ sure if what I was seeing was real.

The rest was easy. They didn’t check me at customs. I was no hick tourist. Straight out the side door. Arms legs and lips. Anibal grinning like a benevolent brother. A short drive in his old VW. Puttering along.

I dropped my bag at Anibal’s. Then H and I went to Lobizon. For old time’s sake. It was still early. The minute we walked in you could feel it wasn’t like before, but it didn’t matter. We were there. Did we share a beer? I can’t remember. There was no-one else there. English time. We didn’t stay long. Walked back down Dies y Ocho. Holding hands. I was, I would say, euphoric. Warmth and evening and people a strolling and talking and H beside me. Just about perfect. Once in a lifetime.

We got to the square, where I later saw Martin Amis looking blurry and Tabare Vasquez celebrating. The fountain was low and flat, a kind of giant raised hubcap, with jets all over. The water beckoned. I told H I wanted to dive in. I asked what she thought. She told me if I wanted to I should do it. I ran across. As I ran I felt my jeans tear on a water jet, and realised I could have impaled my foot. I scampered off. Did a whistle blow? We ran and we laughed. I was drenched. I was back. We ran down the street and we laughed.

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