A Hotel In Milan (A &; M 2)

The hotel bar was always cool, with its marble floors and leather
sofas. Everything about the place seemed a touch fake though, with its
reproduced frescos peering through peeled wallpaper effect paint
designs, and its attempt at nighttime stars, glowing through a
manufactured hole in the ceiling.

Melissa had said the hotel was nice, "but nothing like as good as the
one's she stayed in while away with work."

Aaron had been annoyed by this comment for reasons he didn't know, but
it was probably because her work hotels were a world he didn't know, a
part of her life he wasn't privy to, and a kind of unreal, not knowing,
jealousy grew in the gaps of his mind.

He had been sat at the bar, sipping Nastro Azzuro, smoking cigarettes,
eating the complimentary olives, green and black, waiting for Melissa
to get ready. Now though he had moved across to sit with the waiter who
was preparing a TV, an old TV, for a football match.

"OK if I watch?" he asked.
"Sure. If I ever get it working."

Minutes later a swearing and giggling waiter took his seat and watched
as the game prepared to kick off.

"You like football?" he asked Aaron.
"Yeah, who's playing tonight?"
"Parma and Roma. It's a&;#8230; ," he stumbled over the word in
English, "qualifying game?"
"Qualifying, right. Which is your team?"
"Not my team. I just love the football." Then he said raising his chin
in a strange nodding gesture, "AC Milan is my team."

The game kicked off and they watched for a few minutes in silence. The
early encounters reminded Aaron of the style of other Italian games he
had seen on Channel 4. Slow and disjointed, and he wondered how they
managed to always make the game look so poor, as if it was going
nowhere, until someone seemed to consciously decide on making a certain
moment incisive, and there it was, a goal from nothing.

The waiter swore at the screen, gesticulating with his hands.

"Who is your team?" he asked turning to Aaron.
"Southampton."
"Southampton? This near London?"
"Well, not too far. It's on the south coast."
"I spent two years working near Oxford. That's where I learned to speak
English."
"Right," Aaron replied, his shyness not allowing him to push the
conversation on.
"I love your football. Very fast. Not as skilful as Italian
though."

Melissa came into the bar, and Aaron managed to get the waiter to leave
the football and serve them both a drink. At the bar Melissa helped
herself to a couple of olives.

"I don't like that you are getting a taste for olives. You're not going
to let me steal yours now," Aaron said.
"I will. I'll still let you have one or two."

"Who's playing?" Melissa asked, sitting down. Aaron explained. Melissa
wasn't particularly interested in football, but she always made an
effort, and he liked the fact that she showed affiliation to
Southampton ever since their relationship had begun.

"Where are they?" she questioned. "They should be here by now." Melissa
was referring to her two friends and housemates, Charlotte and Will,
that they were on holiday with. They were not partners, but they were
sharing the same room, and as yet they had failed to meet on time even
once.

Melissa was wearing a dark green blouse that sort of hung low and light
on her shoulders, the jeans that stayed low on her hips and a scuffed
up pair of Converse trainers. She looked wonderful, even though the
combination tried to pull her height closer to the ground. He
complimented her on how lovely she looked.

In the room, before kicking him out, she had asked him whether she
should wear either the green or blue blouses that she had held before
him. He had pointed to the blue from under the duvet, smoking a
cigarette, and said "that one." The blue held memories for him, but she
would never wear it since that first Saturday, and now she had done
that thing that girls do, asking which one, then wearing the other. But
he didn't mind. He liked that sort of thing about girls, the way they
could be so contrary. And anyway, she had been wearing the green the
day at her parents house when her mother had taken the photo of them by
his Beetle. The one Aaron's would-be mother in law had blown up and
framed. Now that picture was on the wall above the sink in his bed-sit,
but for a long time it had been in Melissa's Pimlico bedroom. It was
the picture that had inspired Charlotte to say that Melissa looked like
she had never left the south coast.

"What did she mean by that? That you looked comfortable in that
surrounding?" Aaron had asked. To begin with Melissa said she agreed
with this definition, but later she had admitted that Charlotte meant
that Melissa liked being a big fish in the little pond of the south
coast, and that she didn't like being a sprat in the expanse of
London.

Twenty minutes or so later Charlotte and Will ambled into the bar. Will
went straight to the bar and ordered drinks, asking Aaron and Melissa
what they wanted. He was wearing his tan leather coat that reached down
to his backside, grey flared trousers and black trainers with a yellow
stripe. He was skinny and pale, with his hair freshly waxed into a mild
quiff. Charlotte, as she had at every other moment on the holiday, held
in her hands a map and tourist guide of the city. Sitting down she
said,

"You made it. Can't believe you are here on time."

She was a strange girl, who could be incredibly unpleasant, and
frequently came out with such staggering comments. She was an English
teacher, an Oxford 1st, and self-professed 'most intelligent person I
know.' She was the kind of person that talked at you, not to you or
with you, seeming to care little if what she was saying was either the
truth, or even if it meant anything. She relied on the belief that if
she talked fast enough, long enough, everyone and anyone would be
beguiled into offering no resistance.

Aaron watched her as she spoke to Melissa about their day, and what she
had in mind for the four of them for that evening.

"Well, we could either go back to that place went to by the canals, or
we&;#8230;.."

It wasn't that Aaron despised her. Rather it was just he wished she
didn't exist. But OK, she existed, so he just didn't want to be around
her. But she was Melissa's housemate and friend, so contact was
inevitable, and even to the extent of holidays it seemed.

Although she had been in her room for an age getting ready with Will,
Charlotte was wearing the same T-shirt as she had on during that day,
when they had visited Lake Como. It was black with a white vinyl print,
showing the outline of an eagle's outstretched wings. Within the design
was the word DENIM, and various numbers and other little captions. It
was truly an appalling shirt, but that was what she did. She wore the
most terrible clothes in some sort of anti-fashion statement. But Aaron
assumed that she had at least showered, as her bottle-red hair was
freshly spiked, and her ever-open mouth, that pointed up from the
sides, towards the middle, had a fresh layer of lipstick. He couldn't
bear to think any lower on her heavy, jelly mould body.

"Bloody hell, that boy is stubborn," Charlotte was saying to Melissa.
"We ended up without time for us both to shower."
"Why?"
"Well, we were arguing over who could repeat the most opening lines
from opening acts of Shakespeare's plays. He knows full well he's out
of his depth, but he will just not give it up."

Will leaned round from the chair in which he was sitting in with his
back to Aaron, watching the football, talking to the waiter.

"English teacher, Oxford 1st. Defeated by Compliance Officer, Oxford
2:1," was all he said before going back to the football.
"You can mock, skinny boy," Charlotte replied, "but my victory will be
completed and you will be my servant for a week. Ha!"

Their taxi came and they climbed in. They were not going to the canals,
they were going to the 'or we&;#8230;&;#8230;.' that Aaron had
never listened to the end of. But in the taxi he learned, as did anyone
else who hadn't been listening, courtesy of the guidebook, that they
were going to one of Milan's premier nightspots, in an area awash with
bars and restaurants, catering to various tastes.

The taxi let them out the address in question. But there was no
nightspot. They were in a suburban area, and at the address in question
stood a squat block of flats. Aaron was amused by this error, and had
to sort of walk away, lighting one of the skinny Italian cigarettes
that he had, to prevent showing off his pleasure. Will suggested that
Charlotte just pressed on one of the doorbells, as it must be here
somewhere, because surly Charlotte wouldn't have got it wrong.

They walked through the streets, vaguely knowing where they were,
vaguely knowing the direction they were headed, but without a notion of
their destination. Charlotte had her faithful street map, but for all
her wit and education, she did not realise, although Aaron had told her
on the first day, that if you turn a map to suit the direction you are
facing, you will lose your bearings and get lost.

Milan seemed quiet and sleeping in this section, as they walked through
the streets in the warmth of the August evening, the girls leading the
way, talking, the boys following, not really talking.

Aaron had grown fond of Will in the months he had known him, but both
were quiet souls, and thus they talked little. Unless that is, they
found themselves on the subject of philosophy or politics, within which
they seemed to be able to open themselves up. The thing that bothered
Aaron about the relationship they had, was that he always felt ashamed
of his silence, whereas Will seemed in comfort with himself, and Aaron
respected his resolve. He thought back to the first weekend they had
met, while waiting in a never-ending queue for a nightclub in the air
of Kings Cross in January. With everyone chatting away the cold Will
had amused him by saying, "I can't wait until we go in, then everyone
can stop talking to each other."

Finally it seemed they had reached somewhere that seemed suitable to
the girls, and with the boys offering no resistance, they entered the
restaurant that was vast and impersonal, lit only with blue neon,
giving an unreal image to the faces of the customers and waiters.

They were seated with Aaron apposite Melissa with Will to his right,
Charlotte to Melissa's left. The conversation, after food and drink was
ordered quickly became political.

"It's all changing now with the EU. People are becoming more protected
because nation states have to answer to the European courts and abide
by European legislation," Will suggested.
"Oh, Europe! You joking aren't you?" Aaron offered. The wine was now
lying on the beers from the hotel bar, and his shyness was becoming
tame. "Every country maintains its veto. Every little bit of
legislation is under-written by something like 'unless it contravenes
the domestic policy and economic well-being of individual nation
states'. Legislation doesn't necessarily change anything."
"Well, possibly," Will said, "but you have to admit that the more
democracy there is the better?"
"Well, yeah. I would if there was. But what is it? The Council of
Ministers? I'm not sure now, but they meet in secret, with no sense of
democratic intervention."
Will did not respond, but something completely unusual and
unprecedented happened. Charlotte agreed with something Aaron said, but
although he was astounded, her approval wasn't something he coveted,
and after her initial words he didn't really listen as she embarked on
one of her long and convoluted discourses.
Melissa entered in the conversation, which in itself was unusual, as
normally she hibernated through anything political.

"You two can help me," she said to Charlotte and Will. "We have been
arguing about that case of the that girl there was all the fuss about,
who didn't get accepted to Oxford."
"That's not true Mel." Aaron responded. "I don't know anything about
that case."
"So, what was your case?" Charlotte questioned.
"He thinks that Oxford discriminates against poorer people, and is
based on privilege," Melissa explained for him.
"Well, that's just stupid. Look at us two. We're both from working
class backgrounds," Charlotte said, meaning her and Will.
"I never said working class people don't go to Oxford. They do. But a
majority of Oxford students went to public schools, whereas only a
minority of people go to public schools. Therefore, going to a public
school makes it more likely that you can go to somewhere like Oxford,"
Aaron said.
"Well, that's because the standard of education is better, and Oxford
only takes the academically brightest people," Charlotte told him. She
was in lesson mode, and was talking unusually slowly, no doubt so the
only non-Oxford graduate around the table could understand her. "If
Oxford lowered its standards it would cease to be one of the best
Universities in the world."
"OK, yeah, I get that. What was the case of this girl then?"
"Well," said Charlotte continuing the lesson. "She wasn't accepted to
Oxford, but she got three A's at A level, and went on to study at
Harvard."
"But she wasn't bright enough to go to Oxford?" he asked.
"It's not as simple as that. Oxford is not only concerned with academic
merit. There is a vigorous interview system, that is designed to
wheedle out people that are not up to the grade."
"But she obviously was, if she got three A's."
"No. They didn't think she would be able to cope with the
pressures."
"What pressures exactly? If she was bright enough academically surely
she could have handled the pressure?"
"Well, it's complicated. You have to be the right sort of person too.
The sort of person they think they can work with," Charlotte
explained.
"So, what you are saying is that it is not simply about academic merit.
It's about modelling the right kind of people?" he asked directly to
Charlotte.
"I guess you are right, in a sense."
"And what type of people are they trying to model?"
"Well, they're not trying to simply model individuals into a certain
type of person. They are trying, through education of the highest
level, with the highest calibre people, to create world leaders in
their fields."
"Right. And you have all three come through this process without
noticing an aura of privilege?"
"It's not at all based on privilege Aaron."
"And your outlook is still maintained? You two still recognise your
working class roots?" he asked.
"Of course I do," Charlotte said. "I'm still a socialist, and my father
is still a painter and decorator."
"So, answer me this. If they are looking for people, through the
process of the interview, in conjunction with academic ability, for a
certain type of person, but it is in no way associated with privilege.
Why do the majority of these people come from a public school
background?"

There came no response, and so Aaron carried on, "because you have to
admit that public schools thrive on and reproduce privilege?" Still
there was no immediate response and Aaron realised that for the first
time in eight months he had managed to silence Charlotte, and make her
wonder what she was actually saying.

"You don't think it could be," Aaron continued, "that Universities such
as Oxford maintain an intake from the poorer sections of society
because, like every other institution that reaches back to antiquity,
they are involved largely in status quo maintenance? And that the way
the British establishment has been so successful, for so long, is that
it is well aware that to persist through time, offerings and
concessions, however piecemeal, have to be made to the lower classes?
And of course, Universities such as Oxford would be stupid not to skim
off the best of the rest. Otherwise the best would go elsewhere, be the
best still, and Oxford would lose its position of excellence."
"No Aaron. No," Charlotte said, without seeming to know where she was
going with her objection. Then after a second, "I went to Oxford and
they knew of my socialist beliefs. They let me in, and never attempted
to sway me off my path!"
"Charlotte! Your path? What are you talking about? You are not
socialist," Aaron implored. "The basic tenant of socialism is that
society cannot be meritocratic. You live by and within a society based
on and governed by meritocracy, perpetuating and legitimating as you
go. Studying at Oxford and taking those beliefs forward to teach at
Westminster boys school. My God!"

"Ah well, I think that's enough of that," Melissa suggested and the
four of them were quiet for a few minutes.

"What are you up to tomorrow? Do you want to come to this gallery with
me?" Charlotte directed at Melissa. "These two are going are going to
the San Siro, aren't they?"
"Well, yes," Melissa replied, "but tomorrow's our last day, and Aaron
is leaving London when we get back." And reaching across and holding
Aaron's arm, "I'm feeling a bit clingy."

Later, back in the hotel room Aaron apologised.

"I'm sorry Mel. It got a bit heated."
"That's alright. I didn't really listen after you two got started, and
anyway, it was me who brought it up."
"Good."
"And anyway, it won't do her any harm to get shut up once in a
while."
"That's true."
"I still can't believe she made that comment about us getting to the
bar on time!"

In the morning, after coffee in the little bar across the road,
Charlotte went off to her gallery and the other three caught a tram in
the direction of the San Siro football stadium. They walked the last
bit of the way under a burning sun, with Will moving his sunglasses
from his eyes, up onto his hair, then back down again, as they
continually changed direction, trying to find their way.

There was a peace about the three of them, as they walked around the
stadium, then eating pasta in a close by restaurant, that although they
didn't know it at the time, they would never again feel together.

Melissa held on to his arm, and he tried his best to keep it and the
rest of himself firm, in an attempt to show her that he would remain
solid and steady in the difficult months ahead, until January, when she
would come and join him, back to swimming in the small pond of the
south coast.

Back at Heathrow they moved out of the airport doors to smoke
cigarettes before getting the tube back into the city.

"Ah!" Will let out, "B &; H taste better in good old England!"
"If you are not going to say anything intellectual, why speak at all?"
Charlotte said.
This was a usual type joke from her, but Will responded out of
character for the part he played in their relationship.
"Why do you always have to be so fucking critical of everything I say?"
he said. But he wasn't asking her, he was telling her.