Mr Lush S4E3T2 - Vici, veni, vidi

In a word: ‘surreal’. That is how Lush would describe this taxi ride. As soon as he sits down and puts his seatbelt on, the taxi bolts off at record speed. Mafalda, ever unflappable, barely seems to notice, lightly conversing with the taxi driver, as if he was an old friend. Having already lit a cigarette, she casually asks if she’s allowed to smoke in the taxi. ‘Of course’, beams the driver. As she puffs and converses and Lush holds on for dear life, gently muttering what he remembers of the Lord’s prayer, they race past a pair of vomiting aardvarks, two rival gangs of female geckos, cackling penguin prostitutes, and preaching homeless hermit crabs.

‘Life is so simple’, muses Lush to himself. ‘But what’s the point? Promises made at night are soon forgotten (or ignored). We always have excuses. There doesn’t seem to be any safety net of human connection in this city. It’s like Sodom and Gomorrah but everyone is a part-time DJ.’

With a screech of brakes, they arrive at their destination. Mafalda winks at the driver and indicates that she has already sent him a tip through the app. Lush surreptitiously crosses himself as he steps out into the Berliner night air, thanking whatever baseball bat is up there for keeping him safe. After bowing to the mallard (and her famously withering look) at the door, Lush and Mafalda finally step into the hottest spot in town, the Vici, Veni, Vidi. And it is a sight to behold: A shimmer of hummingbird waiters buzzes around the room. The guests are practically piled one on top of the other, aping marathon runners in their manner of chucking back drinks. The multicoloured artworks on the walls seemingly demand a raised eyebrow. The music is so loud that it reminds Lush of the time when he was at school and he crashed into a box of cymbals.

‘Mafalda, there are images in life which one never forgets.’

Lush finds himself so taken in by the goings-on in the room that he does not immediately notice that Mafalda is no longer by his side. He just catches the sight of her leaping, gazelle-like, through the writhing mass of human and animal flesh towards a far-off corner of the bar. A hummingbird obligingly steers an apologetic Lush through the crowd to the table that Mafalda presumably reserved hours prior. When Lush arrives, he can see the satisfaction in her eyes.

‘You do like to put on a show.’

‘Just for you, Thomas.’

Although Lush, in contrast to most English alcoholics, does not drink to forget but rather to extend the good nights, it is slowly dawning on him that he might be playing a dangerous game this evening. As he looks around the room, he makes a disturbing discovery. Between the works of art, there are mirrors placed strategically throughout the bar which make it difficult for Lush to ignore that his vision is growing increasingly blurred. He briefly turns over the idea of making the age-old excuse to himself that he’s been an orphan since the age of 14. He abandons that idea when he remembers how many years have passed since he was 14. Ultimately, he finds solace in knowing that everyone else in the establishment is just as drunk and unhappy as he is. Recalling the immortal words of Billy Joel, he mutters to himself:

‘But it’s better than drinking alone.’

The head hummingbird waiter arrives with two glasses of champagne and two espressi, just as Mafalda is excusing herself to go to the ladies’ room. Lush takes a moment to collect himself, study his surroundings, and consider his next move. The first thing that he notices is the undeniable aroma of gasoline and despair wafting over from the next table. However, the old nameless dread only descends on him when he realises that the subject of conversation at every single table in the establishment is individuality. Lush feels like he has somehow stumbled into an individuality pageant, all of the patrons drunkenly competing to express their uniqueness in identical ways.

‘A world of caterpillars and not a butterfly in sight…’

He absently wonders if they all will have to rush to the bathroom at the same time or if, in that small way at least, they possess some sort of individual distinction. A statue of the Virgin Mary (whom must actually, as Lush well knows, be a lathe) seems to nod in confirmation. He is roused from his sad ponderings by the sight of the infinitely elegant Mafalda gliding back to their table. Inexplicably, she never seems to slow down despite being stopped every few steps by another old (and seemingly close) friend.

‘Her address book must be made up of multiple tomes…’

As she tipsily takes her seat, she plays the dirtiest trick of all on Lush: she smiles at him. What else is there left for our intrepid hero to do but swoon?

‘Alright, enough stalling. Pop it.’

‘P-p-p-p-op what?’, stutters Lush, raising his hands expectantly.

‘Whatever question it is that you have been dying to pop all night.’

She tips back her glass of champagne in a flash, quickly followed by her espresso, maintaining eye contact with Lush the entire time. She finishes this demonstration with a flourish to indicate her impatience. Lush would do anything to respond, to make her happy. Unfortunately, at the moment, his thoughts are a jumble of incoherent flashing images. Thankfully, a knight in shining armour is at hand: Sir Lack of Inhibition, son of the legendary Drunken (K)night, rides in on a steed of ill-advised confidence to suggest to Lush that now is likely the right time to reveal his deepest darkest desires. Thomas Lush, esq., that old romantic hero, thinks to himself that this is wonderful advice.

‘Mafalda, you recall that night at the Catoy. Well, I’ve been wondering if you… had a nice time… With me, that is…’

Lush, having just let the cat out of the bag for possibly the first time in his entire life, finds himself immediately consumed by a series of images. The first is of a man whose eyes have been scratched out and all of the evidence suggests that a cat must be the culprit. The next image is of Lush himself in handcuffs. Of course, it must be illegal to ask such a question. The criminal does not even bother to plead his innocence, giving the obviousness and severity of his crimes. Everyone already knows that he has done the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the Unenglish.

‘Why are you like this?’, he thinks to himself. ‘You always have to ruin everything. You’re on a mission. And then you go and balls it up right in the middle of the evening.’

As he looks up from his shame, the bar seems to have emptied out. All the World is torture. He finally dares to look in Mafalda’s direction. She is, inexplicably, impossibly, divinely, smiling at him.

‘I’ve had worse nights, Thomas.’

Lush rediscovers the joy of breathing. The other patrons, no longer intolerable, pop  back into existence. Lush awkwardly smiles back.

‘I’m happy to hear it’, he sputters.

By this point, Lush is treading on unfamiliar ground. He thinks it wise to lower the temperature again and unleashes the first platitude that comes to mind.

‘You come here often, then?’

‘Yes, it’s my favourite place in the whole wide world. As a Londoner, this might be difficult for you to imagine but, in Berlin, the only life is the nightlife. It’s really the only place for a Duracell bunny like me. Now, drink up! We’re going dancing. The only thing missing in the state we’re in, is the burn of some outrageous sin.’