Fourfront, page 14
“Don’t moan,” Aunty said, but not severely. “Moaning never stopped the rain. Did you never hear that?”
We didn’t answer as we didn’t want another long gabble about the weather. It amazed me how grown-ups could go on and on and on about the weather as if it really mattered. My motto was if you didn’t like the weather just wait a while and it would change.
“I think I’ll catch ladybirds,” I said after we had put our dishes in the basin, but I didn’t get any great response from Martin.
He came with me none the less. We went through the Potter’s field and up past the Bracken Glen and round by Maggie Maurice’s old house which was now deserted since she was taken away and out as far as Aughinish. We could see the sea from there sucking the gentle heat from the sun and rolling round the rocks to the shore. I hadn’t caught any ladybirds yet but I still had my jamjar.
A fly went by with a hum in it but who wants to catch a fly? Martin said,“This is boring.”
I didn’t think so because I liked the sea and the sky and the green fields that were everywhere and laid themselves out in all directions. Sometimes I wished I could just run and run and run away over the horizon and throw kisses at the wheat and the corn and smell everything as it is first thing in the morning. There were times when I would love to be a scarecrow but that was a secret I would never tell anybody.
“Look, look at them,” Martin said, grabbing me by the arm and pointing my eyes towards Muckers’ Acre.
I didn’t see anything unusual but Martin seemed intent on showing me anyway. There was the field and some haystacks and a man and another person near the gate. He was wearing a bright red and yellow anorak which reminded me of fried eggs and tomato ketchup. His size shadowed the other person and it wasn’t until they began to climb over the gate that I saw it was a woman. She wore a green headscarf the colour of cooking apples of the kind that are too bitter for even Aunty’s tarts.
“Come on, let’s follow them,” Martin said.
“What for?”
“It might be fun.”
“I want to collect ladybirds.”
“You’re a sissy.”
“You’re silly.”
“Maybe they’re spies.”
“There’s nothing round here to spy on.”
“O yes there is. The Relihan’s house was broken into last week and they know it was sussed out first. I bet you that’s what they’re up to. Why else would they be going through the fields and not round by the road?”
I couldn’t answer that so I tagged on behind. Martin kicked the thistles as if they were footballs but I preferred to leave them standing. Anyway, most of them just jumped back up as if he was wasting his time. I thought time was there to be wasted but Martin was the one who always wanted to be doing something. We stayed at least a field behind and they were making very slow progress. Maybe they were noticing everything like Martin said as spies and robbers have to notice everything. We also had to stay out of sight and picked and ate some blackberries from the bushes. I wouldn’t let him use my jar to collect them as I detested blackberry jam and I knew what I wanted it for.
“Think Aunty will kill us if we come home with our feet wet?” I asked, as we were going through a soggy dip towards a stream.
“Who cares?” Martin said. “We’re going home tomorrow. Ma won’t mind. She’ll be washing all our clothes anyhow.”
“I like it here,” I said. “I think I’d like to live in the country when I grow up. It’s big. It’s wild.”
“It’s boring.”
Martin thought everything was boring a part from his crummy records. He’d listen to the same song for hours and discuss it with his pals. I think Ma sent him down the country just for a bit of peace.
We were trailing along beside the stream on the way to Berwick’s Wood when I saw it.
It floated out from underneath a tall fern and moved on to a ray of sunlight. It had the most beautiful black wings I had ever seen and they were tinged with red like jam through a doughnut.
I could not tell one kind of butterfly from another but I knew that this one was special. It flitted in and out of the sunlight as if it was preening itself and more than anything else in the world I just wanted to stay in that spot and admire it.
“Look, Martin! Look!” I whispered, fearing that any loud voice would frighten it away.
Martin looked back and cast one eye on it. “Yes, it’s a butterfly or a moth or something. It’s lovely. Now come on.”
“Just a minute,” I said, “I want to look at it.”
It moved across the stream as if on a ferry of sundust and just as I was about to wave it goodbye it alighted on a thin reed which jutted out from the bank. It appeared even more beautiful when at rest and I stepped out onto the stones to get a closer look.
I could not believe my luck when it didn’t fly away. I stretched out my hand breathlessly and yet it did not move. The black was lovely, lovely like the mouth of a cave and the red was as the dawn coming through it. I could have prayed that it would never move and that I could stay there watching it more beautiful than all its surroundings for ever.
I heard Martin shouting at me from up the stream. He seemed miles away but somehow I didn’t care. He shouted again more angrily this time and I knew I would have to leave. Quickly, without thinking I stretched out the jamjar and enclosed my butterfly under the lid. Thankfully he could make no sound as I did not wish to hurt it in any way and I knew that I would soon let it go.
“Hurry up! What’s keeping you? We’ve lost them.”
I tried to show him my black beauty but he wasn’t interested. He just kept pushing ahead through the scrub and yapping at me to move it.
“Damn it,” he said as our rough path forked out from the edge of the stream towards the wood. “Because of you we’ll never know which way they went. You’ve blown it.”
“Maybe they left a clue,” I said, hoping I might have said the right thing. “Maybe we’ll find a piece of cloth on a bush.”
“Rubbish,” he said, pushing ahead. “We’ll just have to go one way and take a chance we’re right.”
I followed him faithfully through the wood even pretending to hide behind the same trees as he did. Every so often I got a chance to look at my butterfly and he would gently flit his wings at me. The brambles that coiled out to ambush us didn’t seem to bother Martin and I wouldn’t have minded if he didn’t let them snap back on me. I don’t think he even noticed.
We had been walking up a hill for some time when the trees began to thin out. We came to a barbed wire fence but the path turned and ran along beside it. There were very few trees on the other side of the fence and Martin said we should go through as we would get a better view and might spot them. We moved further along the path to try to find an opening when I saw the green scarf caught on the wire.
“Come on,” Martin urged, and I went through first and then held the wire up for him as he was bigger.
We ran along the grass margin of the trees and then up the hill again as if we were on a murder hunt. I’m not sure where we went after that as I just followed Martin as he ran and crouched and zigzagged and ducked through ferns and bushes until we came to the lane.
“I hope this leads on to the road,” I said. “I’m tired.”
“Come on,” he said, and I followed.
The lane ran right up to a high wall with a big wooden door cold in the middle. It was closed. We pushed but it would not open.
“What do we do now,” I said, “go all the way back?”
“Give me a leg up,” Martin said, as he tried to get a foothold in the wall. I helped him and he managed to hoist himself up far enough to see over.
“What is it?” I asked, “what’s there?”
“Nothing much only another big field.”
“Well come on then.”
“Just a minute. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Give me a hand up so.”
“There’s no need. It’s nothing. Just a field.”
“Must be a great view if you ask me.”
When he did come down I thought he was angry with me. He said nothing for a while but just strode away back towards the hill which seemed much higher now. I found it more difficult to keep up with him this time and I knew it was a long way home.
“What’s that you have in the jar?” he asked, suddenly.
“It’s my butterfly,” I said. “Don’t you remember?”
“Show it to me.”
He glanced at it briefly and what looked like a smile appeared on his lips.
“Silly girlish stuff,” he sneered, as he opened the jamjar and rolled my beautiful black butterfly between the palms of his hands.
All I ever remembered then was the black powder falling and the fleck of red on his fingernails.
translated by the author
Fables
THE TROUBLESOME YOUNG WOMAN
There was once a troublesome young woman whom her parents called a little bitch. Others called her other things but as her parents loved her dearly it was enough to call her a little bitch. And because they loved her dearly they did not throw her on the street even when she constantly stole their credit cards, crashed her mother’s car, ripped her father’s clothes, called them stupid fucking wrinklies and acted the general, well, bitch. But because they loved her dearly they would do anything to help her and even went so far as to bring her to a psychiatrist.
“It’s penis-envy,” he said, “no doubt about it. I’ve seen it many times before. Young women her age all suffer from it even if they don’t admit it. And just because they don’t admit it doesn’t mean they don’t suffer from it. Nothing here that a good man and a good bit of bonking will not cure.”
Because they loved her and because they were paying good money to the psychiatrist they let her out about the town with as much money to visit the best night-clubs and stay in the best hotels as she wanted. Not that she needed any urging nor advice about where to go. But it was nice to be able to do it with her parents’ (and the psychiatrist’s) permission.
She had a ball of a time with big hunky macho muscular types and long wiry athletic fit-freaks and flashy moneyed long-practised swingers for as long as she could and wanted. After that she came home and put the cat in the microwave oven, cut the heads off all the roses, gouged the tyres of her daddy’s car, pissed in her mother’s swimming pool and generally acted the, well, bitch.
Because they loved her and were paying good money they brought her back to the psychiatrist.
“It wasn’t penis-envy,” said her father without going into much detail, “of that we can be absolutely sure.”
“Well if it wasn’t penis-envy,” said the psychiatrist, “it must be something else. Wait till I see.”
And he took a big leatherbound book down from the shelf.
WHAT IS TO BE DONE?
[from the play Tagann Godot/Godot Turns Up]
There was this man once upon a time and he was very confused.
He searched through the libraries of the world and the scrolls of the scribes but he got no answer. And he studied with the wise professors of learning in the best institutions of knowledge and got no answer. And he starved himself for forty days and nights and even took little pinches of mescaline to open the doors of perception but still he did not get the answer he desired.
So he decided to go on his way and walk from the top of the world to the bottom of the world in order to see could he meet anyone who might answer his question.
And on his way he met an important rich man with money-bags under his eyes and with golden threads through his hair. And he asked of him gently and with proper manners, “Kind sir”, he said, “you are a man of the world. You go here, there, and everywhere. You breakfast in London and dine in Montevideo. You have enough money to break the bank at Monte Carlo or to play footsie with the stock exchange. Would you mind telling me, please, what this is all about, what is the meaning of life?”
And he looked into the eyes of the rich man and he saw the money dancing in them.
And the rich man said to him as he might say to his underlings: “Sorry boy. Go away. I am too busy. I have to buy another bank. And anyway, it’s a stupid question.”
And when he left the place he heard the rich man laugh, and his laugh shook the ground beneath his feet.
And after that he went to the palace of the King. The King was within perusing a map under eyebrows that looked like moving forests. His fingernails curled like dragons on his abacus as he counted his soldiers. And as he perused with pleasure his forehead took on the contours of an unconquered country and his teeth glistened like burnished shields.
And the man asked him with suitable obsequiousness but in all honesty, “Your most worthy and inestimable excellency,” he said, “you are the ruler of many kingdoms. You say to men come and they come, and go to war and they go to war. There is nobody but that does not bow down before your might and majesty and do your bidding. Please, please tell me, what this is all about, what is the meaning of life?”
And he looked into the depths of the eyes of the king and he saw power dancing within.
And the King said to him with suitable royal impatience: “Begone from here, you fool, before I chop off your head. Don’t you see that I am too busy erecting monuments and defeating knavish enemies? And anyway, it is a stupid question.”
And when he left that place he could hear the King and his courtiers laughing and their laughs echoed like trampling hooves on the flagstones of the road.
And after that he went to the Temple. The Chief Priest was within praying on his bended knees. And the man spoke to him and said: “Your most benign grace and utmost holiness,” he said, “you have read all the books of theology and the scrolls of scripture. You know the lives of the saints and the prognostications of the prophets. You offer sacrifices and make obeisances daily. You fast and abstain. You keep the ten commandments and possess the seven gifts of the holy ghost and practise the cardinal virtues. Can you please, please, tell me what this is all about, what is the meaning of life?”
And he peered down deeply into the eyes of the Chief Priest and he saw sanctity and holiness dancing madly in them.
And the Chief Priest said to him with authority: “Depart from me before I set the faithful upon you. Dost thou not see that I am too busy adoring God? I have to make reparations for the sins of the world. And anyway, it is a stupid question.”
And when he left that place with a troubled heart he heard the Chief Priest laughing, and his laugh drew echoes down from the speedwell blue of the sky.
And outside of the Temple he saw a small boy begging.
“Help me,” said the boy, “I have had nothing to drink for three days and I am dying of thirst.”
And when the man saw the wretchedness of the boy he cried bitterly. And he filled a cup with his tears and he gave it to the boy and the boy drank it and was grateful.
And now I ask you, which of these people did most good, the men who laughed, or the man who cried?
THE STORY-TELLER
Once upon a time and a very long time ago there was a story-teller who came from out of the east telling stories. He would stop people in the street, grab them by the sleeve and whisper coarsely in their ear, “Hey, did you hear the one about . . .?”
They didn’t take much notice of him at first because they thought him odd, and peculiar, and even a little queer. He also had a rough country accent as if he hadn’t quite taken the potato out of his mouth. In truth, he was a bit of a hayseed. How could anyone who told stories on street corners or in the fields or in the back rooms of pubs be taken seriously?
But gradually he became a bit of a cult figure. Among a minority of like-minded bumpkins at first, people who enjoyed tales about country life, and sowing seeds, and harvesting apples and going to school through the fields. But when he then started on the stories about whores and prostitutes more of the spivs and the slickers pricked up their ears. He had some pretty good yarns about youths getting pissed and indulging in great bouts of debauchery in the big city as soon as they escaped from the farm.
He also said some weird things that didn’t make much sense but people remembered them because they were catchy and way-out. “If you ever throw a party,” he said once at the end of a story, as these bits were often attached to the main telling, “if you ever throw a party like the fat capitalist in my tale, remember to invite everybody – the poor, the hoboes, the junkies, the scumbags on the streets, god-dam filthy immigrants, crapartists of every colour, journalists, hustlers, the blind, the lame and the maimed. Do it this way ‘cause they can never invite you back.”
He was quick with the paradox and the quip when people tried to heckle him although he did lose his cool once or twice and fell back on calling people who didn’t fancy his stories “hypocrites” and “shitehawks.” Maybe it was because of this that people began to get a bit cheesed off. Or maybe it was the sheer banality of weighty statements like “Look, peace is inside you and peace is outside you” or stories that said you should be happy with whatever miserable pittance a boss gave you. More than that, however, it was maybe just that fashions change and maybe he began to run out of stories.
In his latter years when he would start on some yarn some wag would shout “Heard it before!” from the street corner, or murmurs of “Boring, boring,” would come from those who expected more, or “Why don’t you tell us a true story, about real life?” from those who didn’t like folklore. There was also a rumour that all the story-tellers were to be banished as they were not conducive to good citizenship and that society needed skills that were really useful and practical and economically relevant and market-driven.
Nobody was too surprised when his body was discovered in the hills above the city. It only made a brief mention in the evening papers because of the grass and pebbles that were stuffed in his mouth as if somebody was making the point that he should be shut up.
