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At the "Tiger Tiger," there's the customary smile. I order a couple, and I let myself be accepted.
At the "Tiger Tiger," they play something like disco-pop, and there's the customary cocktail. I pull out 5 pounds for the beautiful cashier, and everyone looks at me with respect. A gesture too material for such a pretty face, and I feel like making amends. I talk to her about how beautiful life is, how great this sadness of mine is, that I feel I might die from it. I tell her who I am, what I do, where I come from, and - most importantly - that I don't know where I'm going.
But nothing, the beautiful cashier is already on her third customer after me, she's forgotten everything, except the tip.
Sadness seizes me again, I pull out another 5 pounds and get drunk.
A girl as ugly as a queen looks at me intensely. It's done, just move the pawn I find between my legs to D4. Then, a guy approaches her; they start talking about silly things, she laughs, and then they leave, probably to hook up.
I breathe a sigh of relief, go back to the beautiful cashier whom I imagine full of torment, and I finally tell her where I'm going.
At Seven Dials is my best friend Dy, half Cambodian, half French, and half heaven knows what, I don't understand anything. Dy is always at Seven Dials; sometimes I like to imagine he's there waiting for me to come and flood him with my sadness. That's why I like to imagine him as my best friend.
Dy gives me the Afternoons and talks to me about them. He tells me the delightful cover is a painting by a certain Donovan, which he saw in Cardiff and fell in love with. He tells me the beginning of "A Change In Season" reminds him a lot of the Divine Comedy, that the Beatles seem to be playing in full in "Calico," that the choirs of "Falling Is Easy" remind him of the Kinks, with that sweet arpeggio. He tells me "Saturday Afternoon" is the Housemartins marrying Belle & Sebastian. He tells me "If You Can Charm The Ticket Booth Girl" is the most beautiful song the Smiths could write in an unlikely reunion. The voice even seems similar, and the guitar sounds the same. "Talk Me About Tomorrow," however, makes it impossible to distinguish the two bands: a truly beautiful song, but it must do justice to the following "Saturn," which starts slow like a Velvet lullaby and soon opens to a lysergic organ closing with a choir of voices beyond the clouds.
Dy looks at me, waits - as always - for me to tell him how damn sad I feel. But I say nothing.
"That's why I'm giving you this album, man."
Stephanie has left. Elisabeth has left. Pavel, who hugged me so tight it hurt, has left. Dy will leave soon, heading for Paris or Phnom Penh or who knows where, in search of another Seven Dials.
I take the bundle of days I've found in the sun, which I always carry with me, and walk away, in the rain.
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