One of the benefits of staying in hotels while on the road instead of sharing a flat, as we used to in Edinburgh, is that I no longer have to toss a coin with Brian Patten to see who gets the biggest bedroom and always losing. He swears on his kitten’s life that he never used a double-headed coin or sleight-of-hand, but I have my doubts, for as Salman Rushdie once famously remarked, ‘Never toss a coin with a Liverpool Poet.’
Allow me to explain: in April 1988, Los Tres Poetas di Liverpool were invited to Granada by the British Council to give public readings and run workshops for teachers, and we were quartered very comfortably in one of the university’s halls of residence. For the two other visiting writers, however, the accommodation did not come up to scratch, and on the insistence of Mr Rushdie and his wife, Marianne Wiggins, they were transferred to the Hotel Splendido de Luxe. We enjoyed the sights of this magical city, which included a visit to Lorca’s house, and who better to walk with around the Alhambra than the witty and encyclopaedic Salman Rushdie? One evening we went to listen to Salman addressing a packed audience in the ornate Arabic hall at the university, where he read from the manuscript of his new book to be published later in the year. It was called The Satanic Verses. There was no hint, not a frisson of the impact this book was to make on the world, and particularly on his own life. To be honest, most of the questions taken from the audience after the reading related to his letters from Nicaragua, and at the restaurant later with the vice-rector of the university and various local writers the conversation ranged from a recent spate of murders at Adelaide Zoo, which fascinated Salman, to Tottenham Hotspur, of whom for some reason he was a great fan.
Having given up smoking and trying to cut down on drink, Brian was not in the best of moods and caught the first flight out of Granada on the Monday. Adrian and I, though, were delighted to stay over as guests of the Council and leave with the Rushdies on Wednesday. We were all duly collected at 8.20 a.m. and driven to the airport in good time to catch the plane to Madrid. In good time, it turned out, to wait an hour and a half for the delayed incoming flight. We knew we were in danger of missing our connection at Madrid to London and Marianne was most concerned about their being late for a reception at the Japanese Embassy later in the evening, but José, our Council Rep, assured them that he would ring ahead and pull all the strings that had little Union Jacks on.
Eventually, we arrived at Madrid with only five minutes before departure and rushed to the Iberian desk in the international terminal, to be told that we were too late to board. ‘But this is Salman Rushdie,’ I cried, in an ‘open sesame’ kind of way. But in vain. The man behind the desk was unimpressed and suggested we try British Airways: ‘But you must hurry, their plane will depart pronto, pronto.’ So we ran the 220 metres to the BA check-in desk to be told that the flight was already full.
‘But this is Salman Rushdie,’ I cried half-heartedly, not quite believing it myself. ‘I’ll put you on the waiting list,’ said the lady. ‘Have you any luggage?’ Luggage? Of course, luggage. We put our names down, then rushed back to the Iberian desk to learn that our luggage had reached 20,000 feet and was travelling at an average speed of 500 miles per hour. They had delayed departure, apparently, and, unable to contact us while we were faffing around at British Airways, had given away our seats and the plane had taken off.
Daunted, yet unbowed, the four writers made their way back to British Airways to see if there might be a plane leaving Spain within a week or so. The lady behind the desk feigned excitement: ‘Good news, there are two seats available on the flight leaving in twenty minutes.’
Adrian and I did what any Scouser would do in those circumstances and chorused, ‘Salman, you and Marianne must take the seats, for you have an important engagement this evening at the Japanese Embassy, whereas we are just poor poets with the evening spread out before us like a patient etherised upon a table.’
As Marianne smiled and turned to vault over the desk and run through passport control, Salman held up a hand and, to his eternal credit, said: ‘No, that’s not cricket, it just wouldn’t be fair. We must toss a coin for it.’ He produced a peseta and tossed it in the air.
I cried ‘Heads’ and it came down ‘Tails’. ‘Off you go, then, you two, and don’t eat too much sushi.’
But as the pair moved forward, tickets and passports in hand, the lady behind the desk suddenly looked up from her computer: ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry, there’s only one seat available. Sorry.’
Salman muttered what can only be described as a swear word before helping Marianne to her feet. ‘It’s between the two of you now, obviously my wife and I can’t be separated.’ Adrian and I shrugged apologetically as Salman spun the peseta once more. ‘Tails,’ I cried, as it came down ‘Heads’. Adrian shook hands with us all, checked in and giggled through passport control.
We stood watching him disappear and were on the point of moving in search of another airline when the lady behind the desk looked up from her computer: ‘Oh no, it’s done it again. Computers, honestly! There were two seats after all. And now there’s still one available. Which of you will be travelling?’ We looked at each other, but there was nothing to be said. No toss of a coin would get Mr and Mrs Rushdie on BA flight 906 from Madrid to London. Laden with unreasonable guilt, but relieved to be on my way, I muttered adios and disappeared, leaving my ex-travelling companions etherised upon the concourse.
In the years that followed, whenever I met Salman – and very often it was at a publisher’s party or some awards ceremony – he would greet me and then turn to the crowd: ‘Be warned, everybody, never toss a coin with a Liverpool poet.’