The smoke of chatter drifts over their heads, a blanket of
white noise guaranteeing privacy for those desiring intimacy, offering comfort to
the lonely. The level, curated to
perfection, never peaks into the red, nor fades to abrupt silence.
This is not the haunt of businessmen, they have no
compunction about patronising the chains. Nor are there any amorous couples,
they are still at work, plotting strategies for encounters in pubs after hasty
dinners. Young mothers are deterred by stairs; the immobile, at either end of
the age spectrum, are missing.
It is the territory of friends. Young women sit on opposite
sides of wooden desks, as they might have done five years ago at school. They
lean towards one another, sharing photos on their phones. Men prefer an oblique
configuration, it feels less exposed.
Four women are discussing a play. Their four open laptops imprison
four coffee cups. In a corner, a tousled student glares at a screen. He has not
moved for an hour. His main accomplishment after three years of higher
education is making a single cup of coffee last the morning.
An older couple hesitates at the top of the stairs. It’s not
what they were expecting, the sea of battered furniture. Untenanted, it would
resemble the auction room previews they patronise on Tuesday mornings. Emboldened
by the lack of music and indifference of the occupants, they enter, pause, scan
for a vacant table and place their shopping gingerly on mismatched chairs.
Viewed from above, the scatter of people around tables is
like a chess board in mid-play. Bags and coats are littered freely; their happy
owners have gone to fetch tea and cakes suffused with latent guilt, and trust
the aura of community for protection. Tall windows suck in setting sunlight and
frost the edges of black T-shirts: Vermeer was here.
High ceilings and Corinthian columns attest to an august
past. In 1850, the Bankruptcy Court held its first session. Reporters wrote
that the room was too large and it was difficult to hear the proceedings due to
the echo.
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