My own name, Veronica — an ugly enough thing I had always thought, it sounded like either the ointment or the disease — was one her great favourites. St Veronica wiped the face of Christ on the road to Calvary and He left His face on her tea towel. Or the picture of His face. It was the first-ever photograph, she said.
A veil that had wiped off the sweat of Christ? Who could possibly believe that? (…) The only true Veronica of this century was the veronica of the matador – the classic slow swing of the cape before the bull’s face, imitating that holy wiping, mocking it.
He stepped aside as a fight got going between an attendant and some kid by the Alkool display, hopping backwards in a practised veronica when a bottle broke, fearful for his flares.
He wiped the lady’s martini glass, having had some trouble with a kind of veronica of lipstick, spat in it viciously, then washed it again.