a short story
Tafalgar Square is a heaving mass, an undulating sea of bodies in the late afternoon sun. Above them, around them, at their feet, like flotsam, peck a dirty multitude of pigeons, feckless now that no one can swing a fistful of cheap corn their way. It´s hot—stifling—and the lethargic crowds sway in the lion-clad sleepiness. The roaring breath from the mouth of the subway is hotter still, but at least it´s alive; sustaining, if not reviving. I am glad to have it against my face, laden as it is with grime and hostility, and frenzied Mind the Gap-Doors Closing. Like strange, sweaty fingers, it rakes the dampening hair from my face, and teases the ruffles on my cotton blouse.
I am escaping from the National Gallery, from its cultured confines, from its confining culture. Have you ever been there? A beautiful building. Infinite halls, galleries, collections, convenient phrasings of the old masters, each one rising phoenix-like thwarting relief. Philistine! What else is there? A few paintings, but more people. A feckless, drab multitude that flits from one brass plate to another, eyes skimming cursorily if the ridged canvas doesn´t extrude Rembrandt, Renoir, Renault from its fabric.
The real prize: this labyrinth, the progression of chambers, each one decadently clad in pure colour behind the framed distractions, each one drawing you to the next so that you might suddenly expect to find yourself alone, and scared witless, in Poe´s ebony vault, a scarlet masked figure suddenly hard by your shoulder.