|
Everyone knows what Pizza Express is like, so a review is superfluous. Here's a short story instead.
I died on the nineteenth of June, 2008, the day before they opened Pizza Express. I wasn't that old, but my demise was as inevitable as it was untimely. I thought I'd be off to the promised land without too much trouble. I mean I'm no saint, but I toed the line on most things. I'm sure I never did anything bad enough to consign me to the other place. But no, that wasn't the way it worked out. I didn't go upstairs and I didn't go downstairs. I fetched up in Pizza Express.
You probably visit from time to time; I'm here every day. I never taste the pizza, never drink the wine, but I remember it so well. The almost scorched mozzarella, the briny olives, the dough balls and the soft red wine... I've been here quite a long time now. Waiting, existing, being and not being. Obviously I'm not meant to be here, but I suppose there are a lot worse places. No, it's not a bad place at all, nice people, nice room, nice food, and not too expensive. Not that I care about that any more.
There would have been a mistake, a clerical error, an administrative miscarriage. My outbound soul coupled in error to the new-born restaurant. Do buildings have souls, too? I don't think about it so much any more. They can't leave me here for ever. Something's bound to come along.
In the meantime I just kind of drift around the place. Mostly I rest, settle somewhere out of the way and watch. The space above the false ceiling over the entrance is a favourite place, but sometimes I come down and drift amongst the tables, around the kitchen or lean against the narrow counter where the girls pour the drinks and work the Gaggia.
They're what keeps me going. Modest girls from Europe with their pleasing black uniforms. They ask the customers if they're enjoying their meals, and smile when they nod back. It means they care. I like them for that. The guys in the kitchen are stoical. They don't give much away. They take the bases off the stack, flour them and add the toppings. It's not much of a job, not like La Fattoria, where they make them from scratch.
It's a long day. They get tired. I do, and I don't even have to do anything. Just gaze out of the windows. The little etchings like vertical blinds shimmering in the draught. Or seeming to: there is no draught. You get a lot of older folk during the day. Pensioners and tourists. It's better in the evening when the younger ones come in and they turn up the music and you can't see the dark street outside.
Anyway, today this woman walks in - young, with a bloke - and she's got one of those pet carriers with her. I can't see what's inside, but you can tell by the way she holds it that it isn't empty. They sit in the corner - not the one by the toilets, the other one - with the carrier on the floor beside her chair. While they eat, she pushes a piece from her American Hot through the grille of the basket. They laugh and take sips from their glasses. They're drinking the Sicilian Shiraz, a really excellent wine and the cheapest on the list. Another morsel drops through the wicker grille. I'm up close now, curious. It's a little westie. It's in trouble. A piece of jalapeno has tickled its throat and a backfiring cough has lodged the dough firmly in its windpipe. Its struggle is pathetic but short. The chatter and the jazz drown out its already muted scuffling.
I can see its tag: Boris.
My name.
My name.
With uncharacteristic decisiveness I embrace the limp remains in my cool insubstantiality. We fuse. I am the dog. The dog is me. The strength of our united breath combines for one last push. The blockage shifts. The passage clears. The heart already still beats strong again. And now our future is so thrillingly alive. Take me home. And bring me back. But next time no hot peppers.
Woof!
|
