Fourfront, page 10
I miss her touch.
But, says I. Nothing. But I didn’t say it. Another but. Why is every woman so soft, so loving! So melodious, desirous, generous with me tonight.
Because we like you a lot, tonight.
Can’t be. I don’t remember anything like this before. I remember nothing. I know nothing. Says I, says he.
We like you – because women like men, I think. Law of nature, I think.
Old men, too.
Sure, old men.
That’s not right. That can’t be right.
Keep it under your hat so, says she. She wasn’t laughing.
And her face disappeared among a sea of bright faces.
Then, pain. The stab of emptiness.
The crowd began to lose all contour. He took a drink. He knew he’d be better for it. And another delicious sip. Soon he’ll be in heaven again. We’ll call it heaven. Says he. He was laughing.
Generosity, he said. Maybe like a present on one’s birthday. It must be somebody’s birthday.
Present. Christmas present. That’s what it’s all about. It’s Christmas. Do you think?
Is it Christmas?
Christmas, said a big, plump, rosy-cheeked bespectacled gentleman. Christmas. Ha, ha, ha! Merry Christmas everybody. Ho, ho, ho! You never lost it, he said. Placing his hand on his shoulder. Why would you, he said. You’re a great man.
You’re as good, say she, as any man I’ve ever seen. Good many ourself.
The big burly man lifted a bottle and poured another drop into the glass.
Knock that back, old son. You well deserve it . . . you deserve a woman, said the big fellow staring lustfully across at two lovely knees, bare and elegantly parted, making themselves known. Ha ha. It’s many a good deed I’ve done. My list of accomplishments is endless.
If I’d the time I’d tell you how good I was. There’s nothing I like better, said he in the silent, secretive tongue of the mind, than performing feats. What a pity I haven’t the time. But talk isn’t what’s on my mind at the moment . . . ha, ha, says he, making his way over towards the superattractive knees.
He left me there, he said.
But he wasn’t alone quite yet. Another face lit up in his presence. More honest, he thought, than the rest. Not as virtuous. That’s the way he read her physiognomy. But she was friendly with him. Against her will, he thought. Maybe the happy atmosphere here tonight caused her to be friendly.
But, she says.
Yes.
A little laugh. I’ve something to tell you. You shouldn’t be here.
Why is that?
It was wrong of you to come.
I didn’t come.
Oh, and to be sure you did. The big man got the better of you. He hoodwinked you. It’s a game he plays. He’ll be able to say you came to him. That you were happy. That you participated in his festivities. Alas.
I don’t get it.
It’s not easy. You’ll never find out now. I know the law. Long days of misfortune stretch before you. He has you by the short and curlies.
The big burly friendly fellow.
He can be friendly. But that’s no use to you. You’ll have to wait. You shouldn’t have come.
I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know a thing. I don’t know who I am myself.
You’ve been cheated, I think, she said, with a sympathetic smile. But maybe the fault was partly your own.
I was very happy tonight until you arrived.
Be happy, she said, angrily. I’m off.
Don’t go. I prefer you.
But I’m not a member. I wouldn’t be allowed on much longer. You should never have come at all. But you’ll be happy enough.
She lifted the bottle and poured a drink in his glass.
That’s a powerful drink, isn’t it, she said, smiling nervously. She was uncertain about something.
There’s no love in this place, she said, I have to go. There’s no place for me here. Not that I would want that there should be.
He lowered his head. He didn’t want to be watching her leaving him.
translated by Gabriel Rosenstock
Someone Else
How oft, oft, often I’ve traipsed up and down that street. How often? And still I didn’t know all that was going on. That’s a great thing about a street; you’ll never know the half of it.
In the end I came to live there, having spent the best part of my life going through it and who knows how many shoes it has worn out. I thought I knew it like the back of my hand and could sail through it with my two eyes closed. But whatever I thought, the street was a street. It was as streetly as you’d find anywhere, streetlier if the truth be told. I was to find that out, later.
Memories returned of days long gone. I thought of a friend who lived on that street. I remembered his name. I remembered the house. Though I was never inside, I recalled the door. The posh varnish on it. A fashionable design at the time, imitation Chinese calligraphy. My friend was terribly proud of it.
The door is no more. Nor my friend, nor his people. Nor the records he lent me and that I had little interest in. Nor the records I gave him and that he had little interest in.
Isn’t that youth for you. And doesn’t it be in an awful hurry to go. Zip!
When I came to live on the street, the sister-in-law began to get interested in this area of the city. Whatever it was came over her. I suppose it had something to do with the stories I had of the place. You know the way one sheep follows another.
She thought the street had some magic or other. She couldn’t praise it highly enough. She wanted to settle down there. It appears she believes in destiny because she announced that the street was linked to her karma. Nothing would deter her, man or God.
And it happened, as though arranged by heavenly influence, that a house on the street came on the market. The paint on the for sale sign was hardly dry and the sister-in-law haggling. And then she discovered a few things that weren’t to her liking.
The crowd that were selling the house were leaving because of the next-door neighbour. Not that there was anything untoward, you understand, it’s just that they weren’t too happy. It was hard to pin down. They were selling at a ridiculously low price and no more was to be said. The sister-in-law didn’t know if she was delighted or horrified. She was between two minds and vacillated thus for a spell.
She had big plans, of course. The type of plans that get into people’s heads every seven years. Total renewal! It was more than a dose of the fidgets, you understand. But the plans had to be momentarily stalled in the light of this new intelligence. She was to be pitied, yes.
She’s a broad-minded one. You have to say that about her. There’s nothing sanctimonious about her. Nor is she uppity.
She’ll tell you so herself. Sure, she says, it’s too much like hard work keeping your nose in the air all the time. She doesn’t believe in unnecessary drudgery.
One night there was a few of us sitting in the corner of the bar. Chinwagging, rehydrating ourselves and letting the world drift idly by, you understand. And we started – or one of us – talking about houses; we were half-gone, but we were still all there. An artist, I think it was, who set the ball rolling. He hadn’t been a resident all that long but what he didn’t know you could write on the back of a stamp. You know the kind of chap. What he didn’t know wasn’t worth talking about.
Life is pretence, nothing else, that’s what he said. Look at the house below that’s for sale. Nobody’s buying it because the house next door is a shambles and the tatterdemalion that’s in it. You’d think the poor old man was some kind of an ogre or something the way they’re talking. Sure he’s as perfectly harmless as a lamb in April.
Not only that – another expert put in his say – sure he hasn’t long to go, the poor craythur, hasn’t he an ailing heart. And we all know the way he looks after himself!
These nuggets of information and theorizing were most interesting. As far as my sister-in-law was concerned, that put a new complexion on matters.
She decided to buy the house. We understood the reasoning behind her decision, though not putting it into so many words.
She’d get the house for a song. After a while, maybe not that long, when God would decide to provide a more spacious mansion in his glorious kingdom for the wretch next door, new owners would move in and put some shape on the shell he left behind. This, of course, would enhance her own house and attract customers to the café she intended to open. Even if God didn’t extend his invitation next week, it would be fine. It would give her the opportunity to start converting the house to her purposes.
She was overjoyed. Now at last her ambitious plans could be realized. She thanked God.
Days followed nights. Birds went nest-building, or renovating. They had plans of their own. Rivers ran.
She fixed up the house. After her own fashion. Putting her stamp on it. The house was her alpha and omega. The core of the universe. Her place.
She smiled incessantly. All her plans were fitting into shape. All the right steps in the right direction.
She thought it was time to give it the appearance of a café. She acquired all the necessary thingamabobs. She asked for help and advice. She got it. It was plain sailing.
At last, everything was ready for the opening. She was advised to bide her time for a while, until after Christmas maybe. Do you think? she said.
Well now, all her advisers and ready hands declared, we don’t want to discourage you or anything, but the house next door is as ramshackled as ever and the broken door gaping out at your own and the raggedy fellow talking to himself and giving out to himself most of the time. It wouldn’t be right or proper having a café next to that. Leave it be a while, girl.
Fair enough. She’d stick it out another while. What harm. Time enough. Anyway, wasn’t Christmas coming. Busy days ahead. Yes siree and nights of festive revelry. Ah well, that’s the way it is.
Rivers ran and ran.
Christmas was over and the new year getting on its feet and the world was progressing. Some, however, could not continue any more.
We had heard that the old man had taken a weakness. He was out in the cold in the other end of town on some errand or other and he caught a bad chill. Real bad.
Next thing we know, the funeral arrangements are being made. Poor man.
The sister-in-law was quite shook, really. She’s a sensitive soul behind it all. A Christian.
She said nothing. Nothing was said. The days went by, days of wine, days of vinegar.
The street’s the same as ever. Noisy. Bustling. Hithering and thithering. What does that street care who’s alive or dead, who walks, who paces, who rushes, who crawls, come rain, hail or sunshine?
My sister-in-law was thinking of her own affairs. It’s an ill wind, as they say, and it had blown.
She began preparing for the day. The café would soon be open. Her dream was coming true and she’d be awake for it!
I don’t know what my circle of acquaintances is up to, what they do with their lives. Even if they told me, I’d probably forget. But I do notice the odd thing, microscopically.
I was somewhat astounded that the café hadn’t opened. Nothing was said. The house next door didn’t have the for sale sign up, as predicted.
It wasn’t my business but I made it my business and went in search of the sister-in-law. I’d ferret out the low-down on the situation.
If there was anything to know. There was. She didn’t know what was happening next door. People were coming and going for a month and the house hadn’t gone on the market yet. You have to be patient. These things always take time.
She said she was content to wait. So it goes.
I took giant strides up the street, something I often do. What should I see but the for sale sign. But I had to look twice. I had to clean my glasses. I had to cross the street, with all the traffic and all, to see if my eyes were deceiving me.
I was right first time round. I saw something that wouldn’t please the sister-in-law. The for sale sign had been erected over her own door. The auctioneers had blundered, seemingly. The twits. Wait till she sees it. She’ll tongue-lash them to kingdom-come. I’ll say that much about her. She’s particular and any kind of codology rouses her something terrible.
I knocked on the door to give her the news, if she was in. She wasn’t.
I headed off. Yerra, I went into the bar.
In the door and who should I see but the artist. Oddly enough, I got the distinct impression that he was trying to avoid me, like maybe he owed me money or something like that. I went up to him because it didn’t matter to me at that moment whether he owed me a few bob or not. I cornered him.
I put the question to him, eye to eye, he being the authoritative source of all local news. What’s this about the for sale sign or what’s going on at all? Oh! The sign above the door?
He told me to sit down and take it easy. It had nothing to do with him. Who said it had? I’m not blaming you for anything, my good man.
This for sale sign was correctly positioned, he informed me. It’s not so! It is. She’s selling. She’d getting rid of the house as soon as ever possible. Moving out.
Why this sudden change of heart? Well, there’s are a son, a good reason. That’s what he said, and he knows what’s going on down around here.
I had to polish my spectacles again. I felt like having an ear-wash as well, to make sure I was hearing what I heard.
Do you know what happened, says he. When the old fella croaked it they found out – and very few knew about this – that there was someone else in the house. Someone who never went out. A younger brother, a proper lout. The old man was his slave. You know they way it is. He has no intention of selling the house or giving it a lick. You understand.
I did.
I was thinking of the sister-in-law. I wouldn’t be seeing her in these parts again very often.
She wouldn’t be too keen to see any of us, he said. I wouldn’t like to meet her now, he said.
To tell you the truth, neither would I; not for a good while yet.
translated by Gabriel Rosenstock
ALAN TITLEY
Corkonian, educated in Coláiste Chríost Rí in Cork city. Later trained as a primary-school teacher in Coláiste Phádraig, Drumcondra, Dublin, where he now runs the Irish Department. Taught for some time in Africa and in a school for deaf boys in Dublin. He is best known as a novelist, but is also an acclaimed short-story writer, playwright and critic.
The Judgement
Adam heard the music first. I thought it was a ghetto-blaster or some music store trying to flog their latest wares.
“Listen!” said Adam. “I think he’s out of tune.”
“Bloody sure he’s not bloody Eddie Calvert,” said I, plucking a name out of the past. “He wouldn’t get a job with a bloody bad brass band.”
I had to admit I didn’t feel that well since early morning. A shiver down my backbone and a quiver up my thigh-bone told me it wasn’t going to be a lucky or a sunshiny day. The alarm clock failed to go off, Docila slept through, the children were late for school and a molar started acting up. The last time I felt as lousy as this the boss called me in and gave me a rise. This only went to prove I couldn’t believe either my hunches or my bones.
Adam and myself were hoping to have a quiet lunch in the restaurant on the corner of the street but when he heard the music he gave me a dig in the ribs. There were others who noticed it also. Some grinned, some grimaced, all turned around looking for the music. I saw two guys starting to dance on the street but the rhythm screwed them up and they shagged off. I saw an old fellow scrunching the butt of a fag and hiding it under his coat despite the heat of the day.
Even though we were both starving we had to stop and listen. We thought the music was coming from the next street but when we went looking for it we always discovered it was still just one street away.
“Listen to that,” said a stranger next to me. “You’d think we had enough electioneering by now. Lies and promises, promises and lies! What more are they good for?”
“Election, my arse,” said someone else, “stay where you are and you’ll see the greatest show on earth. Didn’t you hear that the circus is coming to town?”
“It’s all one big circus anyway,” said Adam, not entirely seriously. He was like that when he wanted to. We gave as good as we got when we needed to, but for some reason I felt a big grey lump growing quietly in my gut.
White fluffs of cloud dabbed the sky but they didn’t cross the sun. I looked up to see two helicopters like fireflies racing above the city. I imagined by their frenzy that a bank had been robbed or terrorists had escaped from some prison and were now on the run. And then they vanished as if they had never fluttered above the roofs of the houses.
“Come on,” said Adam, grabbing me by the elbow. “Let’s split. We can’t spend the day staring at the sky. Fuck ‘em all. Let’s stuff our guts and let them all piss off.”
I was a bit reluctant to leave as long as there was a hullabaloo in the streets but hunger and convention won out. We sat down at the table where we had our lunch for nearly twenty years. We had a good view of the streets in case it was a coup d’état or the boys were back in town.
“Just imagine the tanks rolling by,” said Adam, his mouth watering while he enjoyed and took pleasure from the thought. “I’d give anything just for ten minutes of absolute power. Just ten minutes.”
“What would you do?” I asked, wondering about his grasp of the conditionall mood.
“I have a little list,” he said, speaking in a conspiratorial hush in case anyone with big ears was listening. “I have been compiling it for years. Every politician, every journalist, every sports commentator who has been a pain in the ass, they’re all on the list.”
“It must be quite long so,” I said.
“As long as a wet day in County Mayo,” he said. “I’d put them all into one big enormous tub. A huge transparent vat with a hole at the top just big enough for one person to go through simultaneously and at the same time.”
